- The case of luckless flight schedules and 15 lost hours -
A week on the road culminated in a rather curious occurrence Saturday, when 15 hours mysteriously disappeared.
By association, or at least acquaintance, regular readers to this column would be aware that I spent 6 days of last week in the unfamiliar waters of Prague and Krakow ( in light of the torrid weather conditions in the latter city, I'm not using 'waters' lightly here ).
I was almost destined to an eternity of mediaeval castles and absent dragons ( Dragon's Den exhibition on Wawel Hill, the expected highlight of my Krakow trip, closed till April 2006 ) in Poland when my flight back to London's Stansted airport was delayed seemingly indefinitely due to inclement weather. When we did finally take off, my arrival in London was 2 hours later than anticipated and as a result I missed my return bus trip on Terravision which I'd already paid for. Persons familiar with me would probably have guessed that I spent the greater part of my National Express bus ride back to Central London contemplating how to make either Ryanair or Terravision (or better yet - both) compensate me for the mental and emotional trauma I was put through, as well as my pecuniary loss.
I reached my apartment at 3am, and spent the next 4 hours unpacking and repacking my suitcase in anticipation of my connecting flight to Singapore. I left the house at 7.30 am, having had a rushed breakfast and no sleep whatsoever.
Before we continue, a point of clarifiction is in order here. Now, I must admit that it appears that I regularly take it upon myself to inform nigh on every person I meet in London that my father is a pilot, and as a result, am entitled to a free ticket on Singapore Airlines every year; subsequent tickets cost me 10% of the counter prices, but these tickets do not come with guaranteed seats, and are subject to availiabilty of places on the flight.
It was one of these ten-percenters that I purchased for my trip this time, and was listed for the 11am flight this very day. I arrived at Heathrow airport at 9am to be greeted by a queue in front of the SIA check-in desk that could rival the one that regularly forms in front of the Vatican museum. I'd finally found the missing Polish dragon, it seemed. After waiting in line for about an hour, I was told that there was absolutely no space on the morning flight, and would have to wait and take my chances with the later ones that day. Little did I know that I was to embark on an adventure most dangerous and frightful, and one requiring no less than great skill and cunning. I was to bravely go where no man had gone before. I was to spend the next 13 hours of my life at Heathrow Airport.
To the unintiated, Heathrow Airport is to international airports what Manchester United is to football; it is extremely famous and regularly attracts large crowds, but is disappointing and is run by management that is past its prime. The haven (and heaven) of purveyors of bad and astonishingly overpriced food (1.50 pounds is the amout I'm prepared to pay for a cornish pasty, or perhaps a Big Mac, but it is a
ludicrous price for a bottle of water), the airport is severly lacking in seating space. I found myself wedged between crying families not willing to let the eldest son in the family take the leap of faith to the great Western unknown that is supposed to portend opportunities to riches the family had never before dreamed of, or Asian tourists who seemed more than keen to waste the remaining 50 pictures they had on their digital cameras on plastic chairs, fellow travellers (sadly in my case they were wrong), their fingernails, and suchlike. At Heathrow airport, perils and pitfalls lurk in wait at every corner for all the family - the parsimonious father, the claustrophobic mother, the clean-freak daughter and the attention-span-deficit-disorder son.
So there I was, foolishly hanging on to the faith that some places would open up on the two later flights that day, and completely knackered from not having slept a wink the previous night. I proceeded to fight through the throng to reach the (have I meantioned pitifully tiny?) seating area where some very civic travellers were lolling about taking up more than their fair share of seats (that's ONE! ONE! ONE!). I finally managed to find a seat, where, paranoid and remembering the myriad horror stories I've been treated to of thefts at airports in Europe, I clung on to my laptop and wrapped my legs around my suitcase, while I tried to catch up on some sleep. Sure, I looked foolish, but I was prepared to guard my Sainsbury's cookies and stack of WSJ newspapers with my life.
When I finally came to, I approached the SIA desk for the 2nd flight of the day, but inevitably met with rejection again. I was approaching the end of my tether, but against my better I instincts I decided to stay on at Heathrow. Incidentally, there must have been 30 billion foreign citizens at the airport that day, half of whom seemed to be Singapore-bound, as I found to my consternation.
Later that night, after splurging on a slice of Starbucks Chocolate Decadence cake (don't give me grief - those down on their luck deserve a little indulgence), I went to one of the counters under SIA again, this one quite inappropriately named Customer Service.
There was a lady there, and I started with what I thought to be a very innocuous "hello, I'm with staff travel today...". Innocent, it seems, but she didn't quite think so.
She stared at me in stony silence for an exceedingly long time, a grim look plastered across her face. All of a sudden, that look morphed into one of disgust and contempt. And then it faded, just as quickly as it had come, giving way instead to a twisted smile as she peered up at me over her horn-rimmed glasses, malice gleaming in her rodent eyes. The rest of the conversation consisted of me trying desperately hard to get on the flight, and her giving me brusque, unhelpful comments accompanied by perfunctory shrugs.
I'm not sure which part of my sentence it was that triggered her off. I should probably give her the benefit of the doubt though. She was probably tormented by pilots as a child. Or she may have tried out for a job as a stewardess, but didn't make the cut when she was told she was not pretty enough. Or tall enough. Or female enough.
I thought the Grinch was supposed to be green.
So congratulations to you, for you have achieved something few ever have: you have garnered this ode to you, a special mention on this column. I'm not going to shame you by naming you (she's called
DEB, and works for SIA's Customer Service at Heathrow Airport). And no, you're not going to ruin my Christmas because I still have the comfort of the knowledge that it could always be worse, Deb: I could be you.
