The lack of recent blogging is due to the fact that I've been on my travels, largely to North Wales, Bridlington, back to North Wales and Gatwick Airport.
The airport jaunt, as seasoned withdewrespect readers will know, is a thrice annual affair. Well, actually I head down six times, three sad trips three happy trips, which alternate. (If you've no idea what I'm on about, please refer to previous blog editions and all will become clear.)
My recent outward trip to the South Terminal was, undoubtedly and predictably sad, but also slightly more traumatic than usual.
Here is my original schedule (I like schedules)
Schedule
06:30:00 Leave house, walk to local train station with one child
06:37:00 Catch trains / buses to Gatwick (via Wakefield Westgate, Kings Cross and Victoria - dodging the tube strike which ironically turned out to be the least of our worries)
11:30:00 Put child on flight to Portugal
11:45:00 Catch trains / buses home (via Victoria, Kings Cross & Wakefield Westgate, blah, blah, blah)
17:30:00 Arrive home, put kettle on
Simples.
Here is what actually happened
Schedule (revised, re-revised and then torn into little pieces)
06:29:00 Put on shoes, open door
06:29:01 Give negative response to husband's question as to whether I've got child's passport
06:29:02 Commence house-ransacking when aforementioned passport not in its usual place
06:34:00 Leave house in a blind panic, dragging dazed, bed-head child and suitcase, sprint to local train station (minus passport)
06:37:00 Catch train to Wakefield Westgate - sit in a complete daze with head in hands wondering what the fuck to do - swear under breath a lot
06:50:00 Arrive Wakefield Westgate, text husband, text ex-husband, text son's football manager, text friend who works at Manchester Airport - all seeming very logical at the time, still swearing
07:10:00 With a range of helpful / unhelpful responses to my texts, we board the London-bound train and I spend the next two hours ringing airlines, airports, embassies, passport offices, consulates and the Samaritans just for good measure, child sleeps
09:20:00 Arrive Kings Cross, mentally exhausted and once again, excuse my French, still wondering what the fuck to do. Courses of action open to me; ex-husband posts son's Portuguese ID card (valid for Europe-wide travel) - however, we don't have a secure address in London and it might not arrive on time; keep wracking brain about where British passport is hiding; go to Portuguese Consulate and beg for temporary travel documentation.
09:30:00 We decide to do the latter and, with tube strike laughing at our predicament, we jump on a bus
09:59:00 Bus moves at snail's pace due to strike-induced gridlock on London streets, pedestrians walk past us
09:59:01 Get off bus and set off walking to Portuguese Consulate, battling our way along packed pavements, yes, I'm now adding drama to a story that really needs no adverbial additions
Approx 11am - the schedule has gone so far out of the window, it's unreachable, and I've now lost all track of time, the flight has been missed and a new flight booked for tomorrow evening, the race is on....
The rest of the day was spent mainly at the Portuguese Consulate, a little pocket of Portuguese blandness, baffling bureaucracy, bolshiness and, for the masses in the waiting room, boredom.
At around 4pm, we are just minutes from collecting the documentation when I have a flash of inspiration and text my husband telling him to check under the photocopier lid in the kitchen.
My phone rings: "You're a bloody numpty." (passport located: check)
It is a special day in my life, my husband and ex-husband are in total agreement - united in the accurate realisation that I am indeed a numpty, having left passport on photocopier around a month previously.
Happily armed with a five-day licence to leave the country (somewhat ironically when the news is full of the truly tragic chaos at Calais as people clamour to enter the country) we bade a cheery farewell to the Consulate, at which point Teddy reverted to form and asked: "Will we need to go back to the Consulty place?", and we head to an over-priced hotel room near Kings Cross and proceed to haemorrhage money in various restaurants and an extortionate tour of Wembley.
The truth is we both thoroughly enjoy some rare mum and son time and I, for one, am bloody delighted that I'm a right numpty!
The flight is duly caught at 9.30pm the following day and my lovely husband drives five hours to bring the contentious passport and makes it with (literally) seconds to spare due to static traffic on the M25.
Teddy arrives safely in Portugal and we arrive safely home in the early hours of the morning and I put the kettle on, just 32.5 hours behind schedule. (I need to stress that an extra 30 minutes was added to the return leg of our journey by my husband who managed to take a wrong turn on the M1 (wtf!!) and head on the M6 to Birmingham!! Clearly numptiness is infectious.
I have to say, my boy was an absolute superstar throughout the whole scenario (as were aforementioned ex and current husbands) and we all learned a valuable lesson in, well, remembering to remove items from under the photocopier lid.
