I was flying to Melbourne at 1.30pm. I took the kids to school then lingered with the four year old at pre-school. By the time I got home it was 9.45am. I decided to print out my itinerary before starting to pack my bags.
I pulled my itinerary up on screen, and nearly vomited on my keyboard.
The flight was at 10.55am. I needed to be at the airport within forty minutes. It was at least a half hour drive.
OH MY GOD. I began shaking. I picked up the phone to call a cab but a) couldn’t remember the number of the taxi service, and b) couldn’t remember how to use a phone.
After a couple of precious, wasted minutes I retrieved my brain, dialled the number, booked the cab, and frantically threw some items in a suitcase. Not, sadly, any pyjamas, or toothpaste, or indeed a top to wear the next day, but ‘items’ nonetheless.
The cab arrived within minutes and I jumped inside, trying to control my breathing.
“What time do you need to be at the airport?” the driver asked.
“10.25am,” I answered him. “If I’m not there by then I won’t be able to check in.”
The driver looked worried. I began to sweat.
We arrived at the airport at 10.20am. I had five minutes to spare. I punched the air with relief and went to the automatic check-in.
YOU CANNOT GET ON THE PLANE it told me (or words to that effect, I began hyperventilating at that point).
“WHY???” I asked it, nearly sobbing.
BECAUSE I AM CRUEL AND WISH TO MAKE YOU SUFFER it said. (I may be making this part up.)
I went to the counter, sobbing for real now.
“I can’t check in,” I told the lady. She looked kind and I knew she would help me.
“That’s because you’re late,” she said coldly. I realised she was an evil ice queen and my tears turned to hatred.
“But I’m on time,” I said. “The flight is at 10.55!”
“It was changed to 10.50,” she told me. “The notification was sent to the person who booked the flight.”
“But that wasn’t me!” I cried.
“That’s protocol,” said the Ice Queen. She made my tears run cold.
I paid $100 and got on the next flight, a mere ninety-minutes of mindless hell later. I bought myself an egg sandwich to eat on board, and killed time by reading about celebrity cellulite.
We boarded the plane, and I began eating my sandwich, only to choke on it about four bites in. I tried to cough it up but my eyes started watering and I couldn’t catch my breath. I was dying! I was dying!
|Artist's (pretty accurate except for Spongebob) impression of me|
So I got out of my seat and ran up to the front of the plane, shouting “Hit me! Hit me!” to the flight attendants.
They did, and I survived. I also scored the entire front row all to myself. Extra leg room and all. I think the crew wanted to keep me away from the other passengers.
Air travel is so tiresome.