I have time on my fingers this Monday morn because I am no longer required to collect my husband and V……., his long time buddy, from Luton Airport.
Why? Because they missed their flight home from the Alps and are now flying, later today, into Gatwick. Gatwick Airport is about as distant, and just a tad further, than we like to fly from/into because it’s so bloody far from Casa Carmichael. Luckily for V…… his home is near by. Unluckily for V…… his car is here.
This missing of the return flight does not come as any surprise to Yours Truly. In fact with a prescience born from years of experience, I predicted the very event to Daughter #1 in a phone chat yesterday evening.
So, when my cell phone woke me early doors with hubby’s ringtone I began to laugh before I said “Morning”. And continued to laugh through the, albeit brief, conversation.
These things are funny when you’re not directly involved.
I was involved in their departure which I did not find quite as funny. Again, it was very early and because of this and the lack of proximity, for V……., of home to airport we had a guest the night before, enjoyed a convivial evening and a libation or three.
And it must be said that Mr Carmichael, who packed après supper, rose at 5.00 am, showered, dressed and disappeared downstairs in accordance with all departing on time etiquette. A rare but intensely gratifying occurrence. Not so V……..
I did mention at 5.15 that Hubby might like to give him a rouse but in the macho world they were entering this type of interference is apparently verboten. With the taxi already in the drive I woke him at 5.25.
Downstairs I could hear Mr C making tea in the kitchen. Nice, you say but by now ETD was -5.00 minutes and although I hadn’t asked I know that the taxi would have been booked for later than sensible. It’s that macho again.
Obviously they would forego the cuppa and head straight out now that V…… was alive and kicking. They had tea. I was in dire need of rescue remedy or something stronger and began to pace the landing, hoping the taxi didn’t leave without them. I heard footsteps heading towards the front door. I started to breath again. My husband came upstairs. This, my daughters and I know, is both a frequent and disastrous turn of events in the getting away in any semblance of on timeness stakes in the Carmichael homestead.
I needed to lie down.
He eschewed the bedroom and headed for his study. ETD at -12.00 minutes I leapt from my bed of pain and followed him down the landing.
“Have you got your driving licence?” I asked sweetly.
Mr Carmichael was sitting at his desk flicking through papers. My stomach clenched.
“You know the taxi’s here don’t you?” Again saccharine loaded.
“Oh great, ” says he. “V…….,” he calls as he saunters down the stairs. “Taxi’s here.”
Hardly a surprise at ETD -16.00.
“Brilliant,” chirrups V……. from the kitchen where he proceeds to finish his cup of tea and toast.
I stood at the top of the stairs, watched them load the bags, waited for Hubby to ring the bell for whatever he’d forgotten, watched the taxi exit the drive and stood for moments longer awaiting its frenzied return before I went back to bed. It was just before 6.00am.
I couldn’t get back to sleep.
In times of yore I have travelled home from Brisbane alone while Mr C, with the help of Aussie’s finest, found his missing passport.
I have run, in Malaga, shouting and gesticulating like a mad woman to stop BA closing its checkin counter while Mr C hunted for a way into the car Rental Returns.
I have discovered that when he said he’d ‘parked’ the car at Luton he’d, in reality, driven it twenty yards down the road and and left it on a yellow line so late were we arriving at the airport. This was the 80’s and it was still there a week later!
I have had to catch the Inter Island Ferry with my daughters and leave husband o’ mine in a car queue in Picton overnight. He had underestimated the girth of that one spectacularly.
I have been forced to wear a sludge coloured tee shirt on an achievers’ trip to Magnum P.I’s ranch, Hawaii. We were so late exiting our hotel room that the only bus left was for waifs, strays and the Carmichaels and the only tee shirt hue, sludge. Said waifs and strays turned out to be our ‘team’ for the whole day in Hawaii 5.0 like competitions and it has to be said I ‘packed a sad’* on arrival. The discovery of stunning pink, blue, purple, lime and tangerine tees on full bus loads tipped me over the, tolerating my then boyfriend’s peccadilloes, mercury count. Suffice it to note our team came last and I refused to engage or let him drive me on a jet ski.
I have risen at the crack of sparrows’ to drive the love o’ my life to Heathrow only to discover he’s not checked which terminal his flight departs from but ‘he’s pretty certain it’s Terminal Three’.
I have been phoned, whilst navigating the inner Heathrow ring road, to come back to Terminal Three and take him to Terminal One (where I told him we should go in the first place) and to do it as quickly as I can because he’s now running late.
Dear readers, all in all, it’s been, and will continue to be, hell. No ifs, and or buts.
I do however hope they’ve had a super ski and the small but perfectly formed macho chicane is but the stuff that tales are made. From where I sit, awaiting their arrival, it most certainly is that.
* ‘packed a sad': had a mini tantrum and sulked.