Monday

It started after a flight back from Florence. Ooh! What a week! I’m only black plastic, a bit battered. Most of the time I’m up in an attic in Croydon with that mouldy teddy and that tedious old pram. But not this week. This week I’ve seen the world.

The flight back was nothing special. I was on top of this dignified old gent, a prewar Samsonite with a strap. Been around the block. He was telling me about seaplanes. Time was, apparently, you used to get a bit damp. Think he was showing off, to be honest. There were a couple of sweet young wholesale Italian cake boxes next to us in the hold. They were totally listening. Little tarts.

When we landed, that was when it all went strange. They came at us on the runway, like they always do, but this time they didn’t seem to know what they were doing. Hands everywhere. All of us bustled along on shoulders. Loads of shouting. I’m off one way, the tarts another, and that proud old Samsonite a third.

“Tell my matching hatbox I love her!” he cried, and then he was gone. I never did see him again.

Tuesday

By now, I knew something was wrong. I was still in the airport. I was in this weird storage warehouse with a grumpy-looking bag of skis.

“Why the long face?” I said to him, as a bit of a joke.

He didn’t get it. In a right mood, actually. Poor bloke was only from Putney, just down the road. Me, I reckoned I was on an extended holiday. Him, he was on his way out. Furious skis inside him, who had reckoned they were going to be on the slopes by now. Still, he was one of the lucky ones. There was a little red trolley bag next to us, stuck midway from Marseilles to Manhattan. He didn’t look well at all. Turned out he was full of Brie.

Wednesday

And suddenly, we’re on a truck to Milan. Why Milan? Don’t you pass Croydon, on the way to Milan? Wrong direction entirely for the Brie trolley bag. Makes more sense for the ski bag, I suppose.

I was buzzing. Literally, buzzing. Somebody dropped me. Always embarrassing. Nobody ever believes it’s just an electric razor.

Mind you, there’s worse things than buzzing. Stinky trolley had little rancid guffs coming out of his vents. Even sports bags were edging away. There was this locked medical icebox, which was totally panicked because it was worried it might have somebody’s lung. And this young rucksack over from South America in the corner, all fretful and mysteriously quiet.

Thursday

And the next day, back to London. This time, I was on a FedEx plane. Back in my warehouse, I found myself stacked beside a very snooty Gucci suitcase, who was saying nothing to anybody. Apparently it belonged to Naomi Campbell, who was on her way to Los Angeles.

Nobody is thinking straight. Somebody should have asked her to take the cheese.

Friday

Today I’m being sent to Manchester. Which is nice. Never been to Manchester before. I don’t think it’s on the way to Croydon, but I’m beyond caring. Buzzing stopped.

Battery must be dead.

No idea what happened to the others. According to rumours, ski bag is still in Milan, organ box was being taken south by a Beduin camel train, and Naomi’s suitcase is being carried around the world at random in the belly of giant whale. These celebrities, eh?

Always with the special treatment. “It’s ridiculous,” says a mail order short plank, who is strapped to another short plank. “Why do we have to go to Milan? Why can’t we just stay here, until somebody comes to get us?” The other plank agrees. I do, too. It’s funny. I always assumed that the bosses of BAA were cleverer than two short planks. But maybe not.

Times recommends

• Dubai cheaper than Doncaster as room rates tumble
• World Cup 2010 - how to follow England
• Copenhagen: Europe's greenest city