The Christmas miracle
A belated merry Christmas/secular gorging and happy new year to you all.
I’ve been on the road again, and suffering from a basic melancholic writer’s block, so have been fairly lax in blogging. My wifi connection is also bollocks, so my usual insomniac driven spurts of creativity have been somewhat hampered.
Which is a relatively clumsy segue to Christmas in London. As some of you may have read or heard, a fog of Victorian proportions descended on London about 5 days before Christmas which sent Londoners into complete panic as planes were grounded right, left and centre.
As a somewhat tentative flier, when planes are grounded I invariably believe that the pilot/company is erring on the side of caution. As this erring results in me not plummeting into the ground like a dart flung at concrete, I’m ok with it. Quite honestly, if my plane was careering towards the earth from 50 000 feet I suspect that no amount of blowing my life jacket whistle and flashing my life jacket torch would distract me from my inevitable demise.
However, as I had booked a flight and accommodation in Edinburgh for Christmas, that flights were grounded was not something that would bring my usual sigh of relief.
Indeed, it presented me with the very real situation that I would be spending Christmas in London… alone. Members of the Klan teased me about the fact that I was clearly going to either be grounded in London, or spending Christmas Day in the makeshift tents erected at Heathrow to accommodate the thousands of travellers with stuffed holiday plans as a direct result of a weather condition usually described in the writings of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
Every train out of London was jam packed, rental car companies ran out of cars, holiday plans generally went phut. All because of an emulsion. Surely to Christ fog can’t be foreign to London?
Rant aside, so on the Friday before Christmas I left the cubicle farm at lunch time, bid them all adieu and merry tidings, went home, jammed my bag with various clothes, books, mp3 players and my camera, leaving myself plenty of time to make it through the chaos that had become Heathrow by this stage.
My flight out was about 8pm, but I arrived about 4, feeling smug in the knowledge that I would be well ahead of the “get out of London for Christmas” madness, should my flight actually get off the ground.
The airport was a sea of discontent, with people wandering around in a daze of sleepless confusion, all looking vaguely homeless and bitter. I, on the other hand, was brimming with confidence and excitement about my soon to be had adventure in Edinburgh. While the fog was still thick, my confidence reigned supreme and I knew without a doubt that I would soon be jetting my way into one of the world’s most beautiful cities.
As I arrived and started the self check in process, a problem arrived. My flight details could not be found. This was not a good sign and my indignation about my flight details being lost began to find form. I immediately stormed to the customer service desk to commence what would be a sound serve of haughty and righteous annoyance.
As I handed over my wad of documentation, including e-ticket summary and passport and commenced my spiel of “flight details lost” my sweet but slightly battered customer service officer said very quietly and politely “ahh, your flight was last night.”
I stood gaping like a clown from side show alley for a split second and then tried “no… definitely booked for today…”. Then he circled the date on my e-ticket which clearly showed my flight was 6pm the day earlier.
Those of you reading this who know me, know I am largely innumerate. I can complete mathematical equations without too much difficulty, but I simply cannot remember numbers. I am the veritable gold fish of PINs, birthdays and phone numbers, but also supremely confident that my recall of numbers is correct, when it never is. I make up statistics on the spot and will defend them to the nth degree, no matter how ludicrous they actually are, or how much evidence is presented to me that I’ve gotten it wrong again.
So, there I was, in Heathrow, with a useless ticket and bag packed for colder climes, with literally thousands of people all desperately trying to get on any flight out of the capital 3 days before Christmas.
I maintain that my life is nothing if not melodramatic.
My lovely customer service boy directed me to the new ticket sales desk and wished me good luck as I dragged my now slightly defeated and dejected self and bag out of the customer service line. Hope was leaching from me faster than the ALP.
As I stood in the ticket sales line I considered my options. I could still try for Edinburgh, I could just hop on any flight out, I could probably get on a train or I could go back home, rent a swathe of DVDs and spend Christmas in bed, which quite frankly was gaining pace as my preferred option.
However, as I fronted the desk I began channelling someone desperate to get the hell out of London! The conversation went something like this:
Me: I booked a flight on line several months ago and it was meant to fly out last night, but because of the fog and the news reports I thought it was grounded… I did ring the airport to check if flights were going and they were all grounded and I don’t travel much and my only family is in Edinburgh and I don’t want to spend Christmas in London… and then I promptly started crying. Howling in fact. That kind of body wracking crying that involves involuntary hiccoughs and stuttering. I managed to stammer out Edinburgh, family, and no cash for new flight in amidst the sobs and hiccoughs.
Him: Hmm. We’ll we’re not complete bastards so I’ll put you on standby for the next flight to Edinburgh.
Me: (miraculously composed at this point) Really? That’s great. Thanks.
Him: Look, you really didn’t need to make such an effort as we’re trying to get everyone on flights out to repair a bit of good will, but I do appreciate it. And I’ll upgrade you for it.
So, the moral to the story, if in doubt cry. Cry shamelessly and loudly. Not only did I get a free flight, but I also got upgraded!
Admittedly the flight didn’t actually leave for another 5 hours and so didn’t get into Edinburgh until about 1am, but I was no longer in London and so didn’t really care. The stewards loved me on the flight, as while everyone else was twisted with bitter contempt about their flights being so substantially delayed, I was on veritable cloud nine having managed to jag what I can only describe as the Christmas miracle!
I’ve been on the road again, and suffering from a basic melancholic writer’s block, so have been fairly lax in blogging. My wifi connection is also bollocks, so my usual insomniac driven spurts of creativity have been somewhat hampered.
Which is a relatively clumsy segue to Christmas in London. As some of you may have read or heard, a fog of Victorian proportions descended on London about 5 days before Christmas which sent Londoners into complete panic as planes were grounded right, left and centre.
As a somewhat tentative flier, when planes are grounded I invariably believe that the pilot/company is erring on the side of caution. As this erring results in me not plummeting into the ground like a dart flung at concrete, I’m ok with it. Quite honestly, if my plane was careering towards the earth from 50 000 feet I suspect that no amount of blowing my life jacket whistle and flashing my life jacket torch would distract me from my inevitable demise.
However, as I had booked a flight and accommodation in Edinburgh for Christmas, that flights were grounded was not something that would bring my usual sigh of relief.
Sir Walter Scott monument, Princes St, Edinburgh
Every train out of London was jam packed, rental car companies ran out of cars, holiday plans generally went phut. All because of an emulsion. Surely to Christ fog can’t be foreign to London?
Rant aside, so on the Friday before Christmas I left the cubicle farm at lunch time, bid them all adieu and merry tidings, went home, jammed my bag with various clothes, books, mp3 players and my camera, leaving myself plenty of time to make it through the chaos that had become Heathrow by this stage.
My flight out was about 8pm, but I arrived about 4, feeling smug in the knowledge that I would be well ahead of the “get out of London for Christmas” madness, should my flight actually get off the ground.
The airport was a sea of discontent, with people wandering around in a daze of sleepless confusion, all looking vaguely homeless and bitter. I, on the other hand, was brimming with confidence and excitement about my soon to be had adventure in Edinburgh. While the fog was still thick, my confidence reigned supreme and I knew without a doubt that I would soon be jetting my way into one of the world’s most beautiful cities.
As I arrived and started the self check in process, a problem arrived. My flight details could not be found. This was not a good sign and my indignation about my flight details being lost began to find form. I immediately stormed to the customer service desk to commence what would be a sound serve of haughty and righteous annoyance.
As I handed over my wad of documentation, including e-ticket summary and passport and commenced my spiel of “flight details lost” my sweet but slightly battered customer service officer said very quietly and politely “ahh, your flight was last night.”
I stood gaping like a clown from side show alley for a split second and then tried “no… definitely booked for today…”. Then he circled the date on my e-ticket which clearly showed my flight was 6pm the day earlier.
Those of you reading this who know me, know I am largely innumerate. I can complete mathematical equations without too much difficulty, but I simply cannot remember numbers. I am the veritable gold fish of PINs, birthdays and phone numbers, but also supremely confident that my recall of numbers is correct, when it never is. I make up statistics on the spot and will defend them to the nth degree, no matter how ludicrous they actually are, or how much evidence is presented to me that I’ve gotten it wrong again.
So, there I was, in Heathrow, with a useless ticket and bag packed for colder climes, with literally thousands of people all desperately trying to get on any flight out of the capital 3 days before Christmas.
I maintain that my life is nothing if not melodramatic.
My lovely customer service boy directed me to the new ticket sales desk and wished me good luck as I dragged my now slightly defeated and dejected self and bag out of the customer service line. Hope was leaching from me faster than the ALP.
As I stood in the ticket sales line I considered my options. I could still try for Edinburgh, I could just hop on any flight out, I could probably get on a train or I could go back home, rent a swathe of DVDs and spend Christmas in bed, which quite frankly was gaining pace as my preferred option.
However, as I fronted the desk I began channelling someone desperate to get the hell out of London! The conversation went something like this:
Me: I booked a flight on line several months ago and it was meant to fly out last night, but because of the fog and the news reports I thought it was grounded… I did ring the airport to check if flights were going and they were all grounded and I don’t travel much and my only family is in Edinburgh and I don’t want to spend Christmas in London… and then I promptly started crying. Howling in fact. That kind of body wracking crying that involves involuntary hiccoughs and stuttering. I managed to stammer out Edinburgh, family, and no cash for new flight in amidst the sobs and hiccoughs.
Him: Hmm. We’ll we’re not complete bastards so I’ll put you on standby for the next flight to Edinburgh.
Me: (miraculously composed at this point) Really? That’s great. Thanks.
Him: Look, you really didn’t need to make such an effort as we’re trying to get everyone on flights out to repair a bit of good will, but I do appreciate it. And I’ll upgrade you for it.
So, the moral to the story, if in doubt cry. Cry shamelessly and loudly. Not only did I get a free flight, but I also got upgraded!
Admittedly the flight didn’t actually leave for another 5 hours and so didn’t get into Edinburgh until about 1am, but I was no longer in London and so didn’t really care. The stewards loved me on the flight, as while everyone else was twisted with bitter contempt about their flights being so substantially delayed, I was on veritable cloud nine having managed to jag what I can only describe as the Christmas miracle!
Edinburgh
