I didn’t want to take the larger suitcase but my mother had insisted that I take it. Larger suitcases only cause trouble and make you bring more things. My suitcase was packed to the brim. Being on a budget, and wishing to explore more of the London Tube system I loved so much, I opted to take the metro from Heathrow airport to my hotel in Russel Square. From the car’s exit, there were only stairs, no elevators, that led to the outside. My suitcase was murderously heavy. I began to drag it up the polished staircase, warped from years upon years of trudging feet. It was a small staircase. People milled about me.
“Do you need some help love?” an old lady, not more than 60 but not younger than 50, offered in a sweet, accented voice.
“Oh no, really, I’m alright,” of all the people to accept help from, she wasn’t going to be the one I’d take advantage of.
“Nonsense, that thing is bigger than you are. We can certainly help, can’t we Marjorie?”
A friend equal in age, with a bright red hat, nodded and agreed.
“No, really, thank you ladies, but -“
Despite my protestations, they took the rear of my suitcase, and helped carry it to the top of the landing.
