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Posts tagged ‘flight’

Sobriety: elusive

We flew to South Island yesterday, which explains the dearth of blog posts – not being in South Island so much as the volume and quantity of Stepfather-In-Law’s G&Ts. It is also the occasion of Sister-In-Law’s 40th birthday. Realistically, I aim to be vaguely sober again by Tuesday.

At Auckland Airport, about to board the airplane:

Husband: What seat numbers are we?

Me: 29 E and F.

Husband: So do we board through the front or rear door?

Me: Well, I suppose there must be no more than forty, forty five rows on the plane. So the back.

Husband: Let’s board at the front.

Me: Why did you ask my opinion if you are just going to ignore it?

Husband: There’s less people boarding at the front.

Me: So what-

Husband: And the check-in attendant said rows one to thirty board through the front door.

Me <doubtfully>: She did?

Husband: Yes, definitely.

So we boarded through the front door, whereupon we spent the next 20 minutes fighting through swarms of passengers to get to the SECOND LAST ROW OF THE PLANE.

Husband <collapsing in seat>: Maybe she said, rows one to THIRTEEN board through front gate-

Me: Gah!

Stale hand towels

Am on my way to Heathrow. When I say ‘on my way’, technically I’m charging around Roisin and Tim‘s house swearing at my suitcase (it appears to have shrunk – most likely all the Irish rain). When not unleashing invective at inert pieces of luggage, I’m updating my blog and fretting about whether I’ll catch my flight to Dubai. Personally, I consider catching flights to be a concept similar to lotto scratch cards, although with marginally better odds.

Can’t wait to see Husband again. I will test his devotion by arriving in Dubai at silly o’clock tomorrow morning, smelling like stale hand towels and featuring a bad case of cabin fever – although happily, rather less exploding snot since the last update

Gotta dash

Five minutes before we leave for the airport and I’m posting in my blog. Husband thinks I’m charging my phone. I’m off to Sydney for a week to catch up with friends and enjoy a big cup of chill time, so I’m not sure when I will post next. Until whenever, take care and lots of love xxx

Learning from past mistakes

Previously, my average public transport success rate was inching up to around 80%, but it took a bit of a knock on the Irish trip. Of course, there was the disaster at Stansted when I missed my flight to Ireland after standing in the wrong queue for an hour.  

Then I caught the wrong train to Dublin, where I was admittedly over-confident. After all, trains are much easier than airplanes. There’s less mucking about: no check-in, no baggage check, no cavity search. Often, you don’t even need a passport, which considerably reduces my potential margin for error.


And of course, I had LEARNED from past mistakes.  


Unfortunately, not enough . . . because we come to my return flight to Dubai. Again – and I appreciate that you might find this hard to believe given the incidents above – there was a surfeit of confidence happening. After all, I was equipped with a library of Hard Lessons, including:-

(1) Make sure you double-check the flight date/time, preferably prior to the flight;

(2) A driving licence is not accepted as a substitute for a passport;

(3) Get to the airport before the flight;

(4) Stand in the right queue; and/or

(5) Read the ticket;

(6) Bring the ticket;

(7) And don’t leave it in a phone booth;

(8) Or anywhere else (I haven’t actually LEARNED this; it falls more under the category ‘Near Misses’)

(9) Make sure your residency visa hasn’t expired

In fact, I figured the only lesson left is to ensure I have a visa for countries requiring one, and there’s plenty of time for that one.

That morning, I was up at 06:45hrs, packed some final bits and pieces and bade farewell to Róisín’s boyfriend, whose flat we were staying in. It was around about then that I checked my bag for passport presence and . . . it wasn’t there. You might say the presence was poor to non-existent.

Hard Lesson #10: relative proximity of passport. (Ok, so I actually learned that on a business trip, but it was over 10 years ago so it was about time for a refresher course.)

We guessed that the most likely location of the passport was Róisín’s flat, at which point I spent five minutes running around in circles screaming, which gave Róisín an opportunity to waterproof her new Ugg Boots. Seriously. I was wearing a hole in Tim’s welcome mat, going: ‘We might be able to make it to the airport via your house in time if we leave now, I mean NOW in the immediate sense of the word,’ while Róisín sprayed her Ugg Boots: ‘Just a second, I need to do the heel’.

Then we exited the door at a gallop. Róisín’s sense of time is rather Irish; she was confident we’d make the trip from Clapham South to Walthamstow Central in twenty minutes, including a stop-off for coffee.

An hour and 3 litres of cold sweat later, we arrived at Walthamstow Central and charged a taxi.

“You forgot your passport?” said our driver, slapping the steering wheel. “That’s a joke. Ha ha! Very funny.”

“You know, firstly,” I said, chillingly, “I’m not finding it all that funny, joke-wise. Secondly, I think it’s technically more a cliché than a joke.”

“Why didn’t you check your bag before you left the house?” enquired our driver.

“Good question,” said Róisín. “Niamh?”

“You should always check your bag before leaving the house,” advised our driver.

“Thanks for the tip,” I said. “<mutter: Don’t count on getting one yourself>”

“Once I picked up a woman. She was all excited. Going on holiday, you know? I brought her all the way to Heathrow. Then remembered she left her passport at home. I had to drive her back.”

“And?” said Róisín, ever idealistically yearning for the happy ending.

“She missed her flight.”

My passport was on Róisín’s living room sofa underneath a duvet.

On our way back to Walthamstow Central, Róisín rang Tim, who had checked the Emirates flights from London and established that there were seats free on the 14:15 flight. I am strongly encouraging Róisín to marry the man. One second after it opened, I rang the Emirates Service Desk and booked myself onto the afternoon flight.

Róisín didn’t slag me off once. Either the woman can’t recognise an opportunity, or she’s a saint.

The following text exchange with Andrew reminds me why I am blessed to be with him:- 

Me: Missed flight 😦


Andrew: Bugger. What happened? 


Me: Which would you believe? (a) The flight was cancelled (b) A flock of rogue sheep took over Heathrow (c) The wing fell off the airplane (d) I forgot my passport 


Andrew: Those dam sheep 🙂

I like to think Husband was so thrilled to see me he didn’t mind my arriving at 01:00hrs

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