The rose-tinted pashmina slips off my shoulders for the umpteenth time. At the very same moment that the Gucci aviators fall off their prime position atop my head. While my oversized Bottega tote droops off my weary arm in silent defiance. But, valiant soldier that I am, I plough on with determined intent, certain in my belief that the Sephora counter at San Francisco Airport will yield a few bottles of precious Benetint, Benefit’s au naturelle cheek blush liquid.

Airport shopping should be recognised as a crucial branch of shopping art; maybe with manuals that offer a listing of stores and their contact numbers across the aerial units around the world along with opening timings (so that you don’t arrive two hours early for check-in, to be faced with closed shutters because it’s only 5 a.m.) and the all-important terminal information.
Knowledge of the latter would have saved me unnecessary brain drain at the Milan Malpensa Airport. Having pre-ordered a much-needed Bvlgari steel and gold watch after a tedious, translator-required conversation with the sales staff at the airport store, I arrived well in time for take-off, but, at the wrong terminal. My ticking beauty was far away, tucked into a corner of another terminal at least a few kilometers walk (or so it seemed) and I was left with a few thousand euros of travellers’ cheques of no use to me.

Luckily, I did find a Ferragamo outlet which relieved me of some of the excess funds that I was just carting off home. The boarding pass I left behind at the wallet counter, however, caused an unreasonable amount of inconvenience – the airline stewards and I spent a merry few minutes locating the little paper scrap so I could board the flight without further delay. This, despite making it for said departure three and half hours before schedule!
Why one can’t simply deposit the cumbersome passport and pass at the boarding counter immediately after security check, I cannot imagine. If all airport officials, terminal planning agents, flight staff and what not, paid heed, it could guarantee lifelong blessings from harried women who curse their way through time-consuming searches of their Birkins and Speedys to present these supposedly vital documents to every demanding and officious check post that comes their way.

Which brings me to beepers…or pagers…or reminder ringers. I elaborate through example. The above flight I took from Milan involved a short stopover at Vienna before I re-boarded for Mumbai. I alighted on Austrian turf with bubbling excitement, impatient to get my hands on the much-heard of Gustav Klimt prints that this airport’s shops are known for.
In all the anticipation, I left behind the Ferra-gamo key chains and scarves, Milka bars and local chilli paste jars that I had snapped up from the no-Bvlgari Milanese terminal. Halfway through another round of Milka buying in Vienna, I had a rush of memory (my wrists were free of weight and shopping baggage - how could that be?). I raced in every direction (remembering where exactly I had alighted would have been a futile effort) before spotting a slow-moving stewardess, bent into submission with two heavy parcels of chocolates, condiments and Salvatore symbols. Now, a beeper on flight to alert me to my stowed-away goodies when I landed in a still-groggy state after a refuelling nap would have saved us both this lost-and-found chase.

Shopping carts should be added to this list of prerequisite flight paraphernalia. Lugging bottles of Glenfiddich 18 while jostling through M.A.C counters for tinted lip conditioners some-how blemishes the therapeutic process of pre-flight shopping. This very experience caused me regrettable setbacks at Bangkok’s Suvarnabhumi Airport. Writhing in pain with a sprained neck and ankle thanks to a trip-up with the alcohol package, I had to pause for a brief hiatus at the foot massage section and then the pasta station for an energy boost. All of which plummeted to nil when I had to sprint eight minutes in the opposite direction to make it in the nick of time for boarding. A mini-tram service, anyone?

At least Thai natives are polite and inclined towards the cause of buying. A fuming Sikh official waiting for me at Singapore’s Changi Airport was not. I free myself from blame though. Having slaved over my itinerary for two hours, I headed to Fendi and Chloé immediately after checking in. My telephonically reserved B-buckle wedge heels and ivory Bay bag were presented efficiently on request. This time-saving manoeuvre lulled my senses into relaxed mode, leading me to the always covetable Hermès store in tranquil confidence where I was swayed by the range of belt buckles and exotic leather hues on display. So was it my fault for reaching the boarding gate 30 seconds before it was about to shut? My fault again, for pleading to be allowed on the flight and then refusing to board on learning that my luggage may have been offloaded (three days at Ngee Ann City mall; only a deranged or mentally deficient being would have risked leaving that newly bought wardrobe behind just to make a flight!)? I don’t think so.

I will continue to be irreproachable when the two-floor Harrods boutique opens at London’s Heathrow Airport and envelops me in its plush environs for hours on end. 5.30 a.m. store openings and VAT refunds (the British know the way to a shopper’s heart – irresistible discount offers and tax reimbursements; it’s shop-addict heaven) will only make matters worse (or better, depending which side of the buying binge fence one is on). Nevertheless, I will be guilt-free, knowing that I made the most of my last few moments within Al-Fayed’s hallowed halls.

Maybe one of these sojourns will lead me to the deal of a lifetime. I still recall, with great remorse, my think-and-miss error at Dubai International Airport, arrivals terminal. Heading to Paris on an onward journey, I hesitated over a bargain offer of buy-one-get-one-free Cavalli shades. My foolish notion of postponed fulfillment (thoughts of Rue Saint- Honoré and Avenue Montaigne affected my concentration at the time) cost me a gloat-worthy freebie and is still the cause of a few sweaty nightmares.

Which is why, I now leave no stone unturned in my quest for the ultimate airport acquisition. Bedouin tent beds at Bahrain’s business lounge be damned, there’s no rest for those on a mission. So when Chanel’s camellias and Shanghai Tang’s cheongsams at Hong Kong International Airport make flirty eyes at you, you go. You buy. And whet the raging appetite for still-to-come in-flight shopping.