Sunday, 25 October 2009

Never Take an Evening Flight

And then there was the journey home.

I probably shouldn't begin a post with 'and', but really the whole sorry saga is not out of my system yet, and I feel that I must just carry on talking about it. The flight out to Gibraltar last week was mostly about Daddy getting wet. But the flight home was just, well, chaos, with nothing serene about it.

We had the classic 'check-out of the hotel a mere seven hours prior to needing to be at the airport' situation. This is a fundamental error, and one which I intend to never knowingly repeat.

We should have made a plan, but we didn't actually do anything with this supposed extra day, apart from finding a nice spot in the marina for lunch. It was a nice spot, until almost-but-not-quite-potty-trained-Gertie decided to wee on my lap, soaking both of us. Of course I had a change of clothes for the culprit, but not one for me, which prompted a friend who we had met for lunch to look sympathetically at my newborn and then nod sagely at me, muttering about reduced pelvic floor capacity.

Daddy, noticing my gritted teeth and the fact that I was barely able to control my rage, offered to jog back to the hotel, locate the luggage and find an alternative pair of jeans for me to wear. Meanwhile a further axe-dident occurred at the restuarant. It seems that it doesn't rain but it pours. I was not amused.

The flight home was delayed by nearly three hours, and I didn't have that many activities stashed in my hand luggage to entertain a toddler - whilst Daddy decided that the best thing to do would be to take a leap into cider-space. I would have joined him, but as I am still breast-feeding Gilby it didn't seem like a good idea.

Gertie decided not to sleep on the flight until about forty minutes before we were due to land. By this time it was getting on for midnight. When we woke her up, she screamed, fairly consistently, until we got off the plane. Concerned (and obviously childless) passengers around us enquired as to what was what was wrong. "She's just knackered, as am I!" I wanted to scream back, but refrained from doing so. I charged through the airport with Gilby now screaming his head off, having also woken up and due a feed. I started feeding him while Daddy calmed Gertie and collected the luggage. I continued, on the move, through customs, not caring that my breast was on display for all to see. Dignity had been lost from the morning wee wee and never quite regained.

Oh - and the trip itself? Dominated by the fact that a barbary ape jumped on Gertie's head.

1 comment:

  1. Who forbade you to name your children Gertie and Gilbert? I have an overwhelming desire to buy them a serious drink

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