In which our frequent traveller discovers miracles aren’t just for Christmas…
This story starts a few days before Christmas. I am in Doha, a pleasant enough place for several months of the year, but not particularly festive. The hotels make an effort, and several of the malls have references to Santa Claus, but the only noticeable concession to the season, once I walk away from places trying to sell me things, are some truly strange turkey menu options.
This is the last leg of a Middle East tour which followed quickly on from dashes around Europe and Asia. I no longer know if I am ill with this lingering cold I can’t kick, or if this is the new state of my health. Perhaps I grew old during the year and this is the new me, sniffing, slightly limping from the bad back, and trying to imagine having the energy for the New Year’s resolutions I most definitely need to make.
Then I’m home, and looking forward to a fortnight without travelling. We gather around the tree, I put out a carrot for the reindeer, mince pie and whisky for Father Christmas, and by the time I’ve finished wrapping the presents it’s almost midnight. As I tuck into Santa’s gifts (and Rudolf’s for good measure), it’s about 1am, everyone has gone to bed and, for the first time in days – weeks – I’m alone in the house. It’s quiet, truly quiet. I sit and listen to the rain fall on the roof. I hope he’s careful on those treacherous tiles. And as for the reindeer… but they are light-footed creatures… And off I nod.
I wake to find the children around me. It is 5am, and Christmas has begun. The holiday is slightly foreshortened, however. An email arrives. The first trip of 2013 is definitely going ahead, probably because the company mandates that I book non-refundable tickets. This one I had bought with United the last time I was in the US. Since the company thinks that East Coast America is short-haul, I also have to fly at the back of the plane.
Not a great start to the year, and it has been rankling with me for a few months, so I decide to try using miles to upgrade. Perhaps because of the season, or because someone is looking kindly on me, I succeed.
Two days later, I’m on my way to the airport, slightly refreshed, five pounds heavier, and not quite in the swing of things. I have a feeling I’ve forgotten something, but all seems to be okay. It’s January 7 and we have said goodbye to the Christmas decorations. Twelfth Night was celebrated with old friends and went on way past 12, when I should have gone to bed.
As a result, I have failed to complete online check-in and am stuck on the M25 in a cab fighting the traffic to get to Terminal 4. My 40-minute journey takes 90 minutes. I get to the airport very late. They could easily refuse me at check-in – probably should, in fact. I hand over my passport, and it’s clear that it’s going to happen – a refusal, an ignominious start to the year. I wait for the dreaded words, but they aren’t what I’m expecting.
Illustration by Ben Southan
“Sir, you’re not reserved on this flight. Your reservation is for July 1, today is January 7.” I look down at my booking. She is right. I’ve fallen for the oldest trick in the book – the American ordering of dates versus our own. In one place on the reservation it shows 7/1/13, elsewhere it does say 1 July 13. That will teach me for rushing a booking when not in the UK.
A sick feeling washes over me, particularly unwelcome, since I felt pretty sick anyway. I’m going to have to buy another ticket, and there’s no chance of claiming it back. A last-minute ticket, and pay a fortune to fly economy. Nightmare. In a fit of honesty, I apologise to the check-in lady for wasting her time. I tell her I wish I had a secretary to blame, but it’s my mistake. And then I stand there, because I haven’t the energy, the willpower or even the embarrassment to move away to the ticket desk. If anything, I’m thinking about lying down on the seats and never leaving the airport again. Perhaps they’d make a film about me.
The check-in lady picks up her phone, possibly to call security. Within ten minutes she has me booked on the flight. And in business, using my miles. I’m so dazed I manage not to sob, but she knows what it means to me even without the tears. It’s a miracle, as is the rest of the day – the service from the benevolent crew, the clear skies over Manhattan, the smooth run through immigration. All of these are signs from the season just departed. I have been given a new start. I must change my life…
