Thongs for the Memory
The lady at the lost baggage desk was lovely. She explained one case was coming up on one flight and the other two on a later one. No one, including her could fathom that out, but anyway they were due to get to the Scottish Airport later that evening, and would be couriered to us. The only problem was we weren't going home. Dh explained that to her, but did she truly get it?
"Don't worry, we'll get them to you overnight." She took up a pen and proceeded to write our home address on the destination sheet. "Now will you be there?"
I swear I saw smoke coming out of Dh's ears at this pint, as he patiently went through the whole rigmarole again. Oh and again.
Eventually the lovely lady understood, took down all the—correct—details and began to sort out the best way to get three cases (well we had been away three weeks) to our destination.
Sadly the missing knickers—oh and the rest of the luggage of course— weren't due to arrive until later that evening. Much later. Like two hours after the only plane scheduled to fly to the airport nearest to where we were going had departed. Evidently, there were no flights there the following day. She explained she didn't want to send the luggage to the large hub airport around an hour away from our destination, because "it's a black hole, and you might never see your knickers again."
Noooo. I agreed with her. I was having very negative thoughts regarding the reunion of me and my knickers. (Notice how unbothered I was about dresses, bra's and assorted male items of apparel. It was my posh knickers/pants/whatever you chose to call them that mattered.)
Eventually after several phone calls a lot of head scratching and two large cups of coffee fetched by me, it was decided the luggage would be couriered down overnight by road.
Lovely hubby and I set off to drive the two hundred or so miles to our destination. We did our math and realized we would pass a handy shopping outlet just in time for me to buy underwear before it closed. Once we got there, two hours later, I had twenty minutes to go in and hope they had something not hideous or granny pantie-ish in my size. I might be a granny, but my granny panties are not typical granny panties, if you get my meaning.
Ten minutes later I heaved a sigh of relief.
Phew. I was officially no longer a one pair of knickers person. I dashed into another store for a t-shirt, and that was it — time was up. We'd made it with minutes to spare and then, with another mug of coffee, one gluten free brownie and a muffin, off we went again. A couple hours later, we arrived at our destination, and were met with, "where's your cases?"
Yes, well...We had a very large glass of wine—French of course—and discussed Le Tour.
Dh's phone made silly noises. He woke up with a muttered rude word. There was a text to say the courier had picked up our cases, and he'd get a phone call between 8.30 and 9.30 in the morning (oh good) to say when they would arrive.
We went back to sleep.
The next morning, we waited. And waited. Hubby's phone was on loud, and even as we wandered into town, he checked it — no messages, and no missed calls. It stayed stubbornly silent.
It was a lovely hot day, and we sweltered in trousers and T-shirts. Our hostess opened a brand new strappy top and handed it to me. Great when you're the same size. I gave in and found a pair of shorts, and bought them, using the buy now tell later technique.
There was still no phone call. My poor undies. They must have wondered what was happening.
By lunchtime, you could see the smoke coming out of Dh's ears. He was due to travel once more on the Monday (it was Saturday) and he needed his luggage. Yes he had his works clothes with him, but no extra underwear.
This is getting a bit too much information-like now isn’t it? Sorry, but believe me, it is relevant.
He reached for his phone to make yet another call to whomever, and that’s when I heard…"That is outrageous. Why hasn't anyone told us? So what now?" Several more minutes along those lines, the call ended. It seemed the courier decided it was too far to drive to where we were, and returned our cases to the airport.
We were back to square one. They'd ring us in the morning.
My husband had explained he had to have his luggage by Sunday night. As far as I could gather, the person at the other end of the phone needed a lesson in customer care and service. They were uncaring, uninterested, and not helpful. Meanwhile, we just had to get on with it. Our hosts put the day before clothes into the washing machine, and we went off to watch Le Tour— with wine...lots of it.
It was a lovely hot day, and we took chairs to sit on and a cool bag for the wine and olives. You could almost imagine you weren't sitting on the verge of the by-pass. Perhaps lazing on the grassy edge of a lake or…no, actually you couldn't, hot tarmac has a smell all of its own. However, it didn't matter. There was a great atmosphere; people had radios on to follow the race, and lovely hubby had it on his phone so we could see what was going on. The wine and olives disappeared rapidly. We were about to draw straws—okay pieces of grass—to decide who nipped home for another bottle and box when a roar went up from somewhere down the road. Everyone craned forward.
False alarm. A bobby (copper/policeman) rode past on a bike. His cheeks were red, but whether it was from exertion or the comments shouted to him I have no idea.
Then, once more the tarmac shimmered in the heat, but no hot-bods on bikes, indeed no hot-bods at all appeared through the sun haze. The only sound was beer cans being popped, bottles glugging, and radios making rude muttering noises as the signal faded in and out.
"I wonder what happens next?" I asked as I alternated between sipping wine and looking at the road to see if any fit cyclists were on their way. "I bet the airline didn't loose their knickers."
"They don't wear any," my helpful husband said.
Yuck, too much information.
I wondered how he knew, but a roar from down the road got louder, I didn't think it was the time to ask.
Once more most of the crowd surged to their feet. We didn't bother, there was plenty of…hold on, no get up keep your glass safe and oh my… hot-bod alert. Within seconds a sea of color approached and then the pack swept past us. How on earth they all just didn’t crash into each other, I had no idea. Their wheels were only inches away from another bike, and they pedalled so fast the bikes wobbled. You had a hard time distinguishing one person from another. It was definitely something not to be missed. Even though you knew you'd need to watch the race on TV later to make any sense of it.
The rainbow of colours merged and separated and then all there was in front of us was tarmac.
Two stragglers, who got a bigger cheer than the pack, cycled furiously along the road, followed by the safely car. Then, once more the road was deserted, apart from three men picking up litter, and a stray dog. People began to pack up and make their way home, or to the pub. That was it?
Le Tour de Yorkshire was over for that town.
Now all I had to worry about was my missing knickers.
More next week,
Love R x