Sunday began with the phone silent. There was no call, no text, nothing. I gave thanks for the fact we'd arrived at the outlet before it closed.
You see, I have a store where I buy ordinary undies, but Dh has to go through a certain USA airport and visit a certain underwear store on my behalf for me to be with my favorite knickers. It just so happens that this store didn't have a shop in the town we were staying in. No knicker shop so I had to get substitutes At least I could change clothes, even if it was a case of wear a T-shirt, wash a T-shirt. I made a large mental note never to pack all my knickers in my case again.
Sunday carried on…Dear husband gave in and rang That Airline. He put the phone onto loud speaker. "Oh it went to the courier. They returned it."
Well we knew that. But it seemed it had happened again. Déjà vu?
"We'll ring you by noon, and let you know what's happening."
Dh muttered. After all, it seemed like we were in a Whitehall Farce. Everything up until the enforced separation of the cases from each other had been totally understandable. Okay, my idiocy at not at least clutching one pair of designer knickers to my sticky little mitts—well my carry on bag—was silly, but apart from that, all was reasonable and acceptable. The lady at the Scottish airport had been efficient and pleasant. Most of the That Airline personnel were great but evidently we had to get the one who got out of bed on the wrong side.
Of course noon went by and the phone stayed silent. We went to the pub, via a shop for Dh to buy a razor. Designer stubble doesn't stay designer for long.
The jokes started. 'Thing a brief thong in memoweeey of your knickers'. 'Pants, pants, pants, pants…', 'Y front an airline with an employee who is pants'. 'Knock, knock. Who's there? Nicholas. Knickerless ladies fly with That Airline'. 'Who's made some bloomers?' Argh.
Eventually dear husband crumbled once more and rang them.
"Oh, I was about to ring you. Your luggage is at the airport near you. We flew it via another country to get it there. It's just going through customs. You'll get in within two hours."
Do you know how long two hours is? Longer than the clock says anyway. Several hours later, hubby rang again. Are you beginning to see a pattern emerge there?
Oops, up popped the courier saga again.
"The courier brought them back to the airport."
"I was told they'd arrived via a brief tour of Europe at our nearest airport and would be couriered to us two hours ago," Dh said through gritted teeth. I handed him a Gin and Tonic and crept outside to sit in the sun in my shorts and borrowed vest top.
Half an hour later he emerged with an empty glass. It was refilled post haste. Someone, somewhere wasn't telling the truth. The problem was we had no idea who that someone was. And the male half of the marriage was due to fly down to London the next day—with the same airline, but only hand luggage thankfully—and yours truly would have to sort everything out.
I made copious notes, because let’s face it, it was my knickers’ lives with me at stake. I didn't want a brief encounter or a 'thongs' for the memory, or even 'pants' about knickers. I wanted my nice, lacy undergarments back.
Dh had been assured someone would ring me between eight thirty and nine thirty. Of course they didn't.
I rang them. Forty five minutes of 'please hold', and evidently being rerouted all around the airline, their couriers and for all I know, the sandwich shop on the corner, I got a real live person once more.
He was great. He promised to hunt them down, and asked me to hold for a few minutes. And it was only a few minutes, before he rang me back.
"It's just landed at your nearest airport."
Hold on, hadn’t I heard that before?
"But the man who runs the department is out at the plane so I can't check for you. I'll ring you back in half an hour. Is this the number?" He rattled off Dear husband's phone number, which we had changed to mine the day before. I gave him my number and he hung up.
I went for a walk with my mobile in tow. Of course it remained silent. I took myself into town, and replaced a couple of bikinis and vest tops and trousers. After all, by then I'd given up on getting my suitcase back. My lovely husband was going to have to go through a certain USA Airport before long or I'd get withdrawal symptoms. Maybe I could wear granny pants in protest.
I got back to the house and was handed a glass of Champagne in commiseration.
We were on our second, or was it third glass, when I got a text from Dh. He'd been contacted to say the cases would arrive at four thirty pm....
Love R x
Next week... The Boxers Rebellion...
Love R x
Next week... The Boxers Rebellion...