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....
Happy Reading,
Love R x
Next week... The Boxers Rebellion...
Happy Reading,
Love R x
Next week... The Boxers Rebellion...
Lordy me. Just as well you had sense of humour about all this! :-)
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