24th December 2010

I jumped up 6am this morning and did a work out in the room; some push ups, the plank for the abs and a fair few stretches to keep things on track. I gave breakfast a miss and decided to head out to Heathrow and take my chances on an earlier flight. The staff at BMI were helpful enough, but like all airlines their ticketing rules seem to have evolved much like Heathrow itself; without much thought to the effect they have on their passengers, the people who pay their wages. I found out there was an 11am flight to Dublin which had 30 empty seats (another mystery). With the weather as unpredictable as it is, I thought it a good idea to take the 11am flight, rather than wait until the 3pm and the possibility that Dublin airport would again be closed by then. The guy at the counter agreed, but said the only way it could be done was if I went on standby for the 11am flight and gave up my 3pm seat.  This was just a bit too risky.  Their logic was that as I wasn’t on my original flight, I now wasn’t eligible to be both wait-listed and hold the3pm seat, because I hadn’t paid for the 3pm flight. I reminded the guy that it was canceled by BMI, not me and that I was willing to die to get to Dublin and that it was BMI who had whimped out on the deal, not me.) He was unmoved and just stared back.  I imagine he’d already had a few dozen like me, and probably dreaded Xmas time more than most. So I asked to see his supervisor.  My little rule is give it a minimum of 3 goes and then start again. You usually find a way through it. His supervisor asked me to come back at 10.00am and she’d let me know. I went off to a mediocre breakfast, came back and she’d booked me on the 11am flight. I found out later that Angela (in Ireland) had rung Marc and Louise (in London) who had agreed to include me in their Xmas day lunch, if I was still in London on the 25^th. Generosity is without a doubt one of my favourite qualities. These guys have it in truck loads.

That should be the end of the chapter on getting to Ireland if it weren’t for Gene and Ange and Enda and their plans to get us to Mullingar by the day’s end.  Enda had given various instructions to Ange and Gene about collecting the hire car at Avis in Old Killmainham Rd in Dublin. He’d already left to take the bus to Galway and I was to meet Gene and Ange at the car hire and drive to the Hegarty farm outside Mullingar in county Westmeath (pronounced Westmead). That was all good except that the taxi driver I scored at the airport to take me into central Dublin, was a character who drove like Enda, talked like Phil, looked like Dara O’Brian with hair, sounded like Tommy Tiernan on a go slow, and insisted on giving me a lesson on the economic woes of Eire, while he ignored my advice that Avis closed at 3pm, together with my pleas to speed-up so we’d reached the car hire before closing time. Dublin was at a standstill. An hour later we reached Avis, but Eamonn the cabbie, decided it was a bad idea to stop out front in the snow and ice, as we were on a slope and someone might bump into the rear of the taxi.  So he drove on 400 metres down the road. As we sailed past the Avis depot, I noticed the girls sitting in the hire car, waiting in line to drive out. We waved at each other. I pleaded with Eamo to stop the fucking taxi as I didn’t feel like walking half a k back up the hill in the snow dragging two bags.  Not a problem for Eamo!  He drove on and pulled over into the slush about 400 metres down the hill. Of course he didn’t take British pounds or credit cards, only Euros. I reluctantly trudged up the fucking  hill, borrowed €30 from Ange and went back to pay the man. I’m then left with two bags (one large one small) and half a k walk up the hill with the only possible option to walk in the middle of the road, as the footpaths were ankle deep in snow and sludge. Wheelie bags don’t come with skis. The traffic had opened up so I crossed onto the left hand side of the road and started walking. Cars soon started to build up behind me. I was walking in the middle of the only lane, waiting for Ange to reverse down and meet me. Ange didn’t quite see it like that. Each time I looked like getting close to her, she inched forward about 10 metres, worried that the cars behind me would think she was slowing them down. This happened on 4 occasions. It was like the girls were playing the game “here we are – no we’re not – tricked you - only kidding – no we’re not – here we are - tricked you - only kidding – no we’re not;  and having the time of their lives. Suffice to say that by then I was struggling to see the funny side. Finally I stopped, raised both my hands and said (to myself), what the fuck is going on??

I did end up in the car. They were great. Happy to see me and focussed on getting us to the M4 so we could hit the road and get home before dark. I sat in the back and couldn’t even bring myself to say hi for the next 10 minutes as I did my best to calm down and settle back into the trip. Couldn’t even find the manners to say thank you.  Once I managed to get over myself, I gave them both a kiss, said I was sorry and off we went.  Finally in Ireland with Gene and Ange and off to the Hegarty’s. It had taken quite some time to get here and I intended to make the most of it.

That began the latest chapter in my journey to Angela’s wedding. I was beginning to feel like I wasn’t meant to be there. It’s one of those times when the only response is to smile and look on the bright side and then events unfold.  Next installment to follow.