Minnie’s Musings

Wakey, wakey, saga not finished yet…

Breakfast at Pret accompanied by two very noisy small children and one harassed mother loudly declaring that if they didn’t pack it in everyone who was staring would think they were naughty and they were not naughty children.

I think she thought I was staring at them in horror which I wasn’t. I was doing that thing of starring at something random while vigorously jigging my bag up and down in the hope that the washbag I was trying to squidge into it would sink to the bottom. She and her family happened to be in my line of sight.

I rarely condemn mothers with noisy, disruptive children (having a particularly noisy, disruptive brood myself) and if I do it is usually when their little poppet(s) is disturbing my conversation with a good friend over a pot of tea and we are being looked at expectantly as though we should automatically admire the precocious brat who cannot sit in a chair and draw quietly but must race up and down between tables demanding attention from any adult within the vaccinity.

Anyway, back to my central point: the wonders of modern technology.

We ventured out to find a train and found one which only involved a single change from National Rail to the Tube. The only glitch being the need to tap into the TFL system which required finding a tapping in thingy, at which point we got separated and I landed up on the wrong platform (I blame poor signage) so we missed the first direct train home. I was forgiven and we sat in exhausted but companionable silence until our train arrived.

Anyway, again, back to my central point: the actual wonders of modern technology.

The suitcase was in Toronto so we headed home – me composing my righteous correspondence to the airline in my head, my best beloved doing the crossword.

“Have you got the key?” asked Best Beloved one stop before home.

“Look in the pockets of your jeans” I proffered, knowing full well that I had deliberately left them in there knowing he would wear said jeans on the plane and would therefore have them to hand.

He grunted and proceeded to rifle through the various back packs and carrier bags, and then the washbag from which spilled my abundant supply of feminine hygiene products (those designed for menopausal women who have experienced ‘natural’ births… ladies you know of which I speak…). At least he had the good sense to shield the evidence from the remaining passengers as the toothpaste and brushes also fell onto the floor.

He searched in vain and then he checked the pockets of his jeans. Gotta love him…

We got home, had a cup of tea with no milk and crashed out for a couple of hours. To be woken by a call to say that the case would be delivered in the next half hour.

“Wow!” we done did gasp in awe at the rapidity with which our suitcase had been found and would be delivered. I sent my righteous complaint to the recycle bin in my head and we waited in breathless anticipation for our case of smalls, all ready for the wash.

Unfortunately for the delivery man, when he hauled said suitcase out of the van, he announced, “It was over weight.”

“No. It. Was. Not.” I growled as I seized the handle and rolled the suitcase back to the house.

He did offer to help me and I did remember not to shoot the messenger in time to say thank you , as he recognised the wrath of middle aged woman on the war path and beat a hasty retreat.