I should have waited until the dust had settled down from mine and other’s trip reports before such tactics but I was aware of the fact that he and I both had upcoming trips (in different directions and to different continents lest you should think there was any hanky-panky besmirching the hallowed pages of V-Flyer 
) and the thought of pestering for these reports as well was more than I could bear. So here, dear friends for your delight and delectation is my pale shadow of an offering of my recent trip.Now those of you in the know are well aware that I have to fly from Cork to London in order to connect with my Virgin Atlantic flight (although I have been known to take the scenic route and fly to Amsterdam first for the ex-AMS trick, thereby saving a shed-load of euros in the process
) and normally that leg of the journey is usually embedded in the main report. After all, let’s face it - it is bog standard. Got to the airport, had a G&T, got on the plane, took off, had another G&T, landed, got off the plane and went to the hotel/was met by friends for drinks and dinner/went to T3 to the UC check-in* Well except for the flight that got me into LHR at 4am but that was a couple of years ago and there have been many more adventures since then.*Delete as appropriate.
Today however, there is a bit of a back story to my trip which led to the new meaning of EI - not Aer Lingus but the Embarrassing Incident!!
OK, this flight was to connect the following day to the VS flight to Vancouver with an onward connection to Seattle - all fairly straightforward, it would seem, until my friend, whose middle (and I suspect, favourite) son had decamped to Seattle, asked me if I would bring a duvet over for him. The dear boy had already sent her and her husband air tickets for them to go there for Christmas but the thought of him having cold tootsies until then was more than she could bear. In any case, he’s a thoroughly nice lad and so I agreed. Now you all realise that that’s one of the security questions that gets asked at check-in so to ensure I wouldn’t be lying through my teeth, it was decided that the said duvet would be packed by me.
I know that all of you who have ever tried to pack a duvet are beginning to giggle as you have an idea of what’s coming! It was removed from its wrapping and ensconced in a brand new cover and then came the task of getting it into one of those plastic bags that you can vacuum the air out of. It was gently folded along the fold lines it acquired in the factory; the plastic bag was opened and then…….!!!!! What had started life as a soft, fluffy, snuggly piece of material designed to cosset and comfort you, suddenly reared into life and started spitting and snarling as it fought and struggled with vigour worthy of a better cause! 
It would have been easier to get a recalcitrant cat into a cat carrier! Eventually it surrendered and sulkily admitted defeat but it knew it had annoyed me intensely. Oh, and I should add that two pillows (complete with pillowcases), some sweets and a couple of tubes of Pringles were added to the mix. Mum was going to get her bob’s worth of the luggage allowance, happy in the knowledge that she wasn’t the one carting it across a continent. There was a skirmish when the time came to put it into the duffel bag and when the pillows were added when the duvet looked like it might make a break for it but was quickly subdued once more. I felt I had done ten rounds with Muhammed Ali in his prime. 
All this happened about three weeks before my departure as my friends had then decamped to their apartment in Spain and so the bag with the malevolent duvet inside took up residence in my hall where it continued to irk me as it just lay there like the lazy lump it was, sniggering at me every time I went past. I wouldn’t have minded so much if it had done something useful, like a spot of dusting or hoovering the stairs, but no! Life was much more entertaining in annoying me. And annoy me it did and over the weeks that feeling turned to dislike and then to loathing and finally to a hatred so visceral I could cheerfully have committed murder.
Oh, I did give it the odd kick in passing but it seemed to laugh even more! What was really getting to me was the thought of wrestling with it, my suitcase, carry-on and handbag from the long-stay car park in Cork where the baggage trolleys are few and far between as are the shuttle buses and then in London, from LHR to my hotel and back again in the morning! A few days before my departure something waggled in that mushy collection of cells that I call a brain. 
The Left Luggage place in LHR. A quick check on the website - RESULT! Not for that duvet the luxury of a comfy hotel room. Oh no, it was going to be relegated to the place where the other unwanted luggage reposed - exactly where it belonged! Now all I had to contend with was the trek from the long-stay car park in Cork and that could be manageable at a pinch.As it happened, I need not have worried. The night before I was due to leave another friend phoned me. She was off work for the week and would take me to the airport. YAY! We arrived in good time and at the drop-off area was a goodly selection of trolleys and within minutes the stroppy duvet had been delivered into the custody of Aer Lingus for the next couple of hours or so. After that the trip morphed into the usual bog standard flight until our arrival in LHR and the Embarrassing Incident.
The walk from the gates where the ROI flights land is rather a trek (OMIGOD, autocorrect changed that to ‘twerk”. I promise, I didn’t twerk!!
) via the corrugated tubes seen around T1. As I was seated in 3A (with 3B vacant - thank you Aer John) I was one of the first into the baggage hall where I made my way straight to the Ladies, courtesy of the G&Ts. The carousel was heard to start while I was there but I still had time to grab a trolley before the bags appeared. As they started to arrive, I quickly realised that, in spite of the fact that that d*mn duvet and its bag had lain for over 3 weeks in my hall, I hadn’t a clue of what it looked like! Not for it brightly coloured ribbons, luggage tags, snappy stickers - no, it was as plain as the day it was sold, along with half of the other bits of luggage trundling around the carousel. So, positioning my trolley strategically to hoist the bags thereon and placing my carry-on alongside it and then hooking my handbag on to the trolley handle, I poised ready to grab my stuff as it passed me by. I waited and waited and waited as others collected their bags, getting very near that point where you begin to wonder if they have actually made it on to the plane. However just before that agonising point, my beloved case plopped out and was hoisted on to the trolley and minutes later, a bag that could have been the dreaded duvet appeared. It was grabbed off the carousel and I scrutinised the baggage tag as well as I could minus my glasses. Yes, it had my name on it and the number was sequential to the one on my tag so it too, was hoisted on to the trolley and I made my way out of the area and took the lift down to the Excess Baggage Company on the floor below. Once down there I was met by a surly creature but, I suppose being on the graveyard shift would make anyone surly. He wanted to know what time I would be collecting my bag. Resisting the temptation to say “Never”, I gathered my wits and said it would be the following morning and when pressed, probably by 11am. Why he needed to know that last bit when I was told I would pay on collection beats me. I could understand if it was going to be for a few days but….. *shakes head in bewilderment* While this transaction was in progress, my phone rang. It was an 0840 number. Quite puzzled I answered it.
“Mrs honey lamb, Aer Lingus security here. Have you all your bags?”
*Bewildered and looking at the trolley* “Yes, I have”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, definitely”
“Are you sure you’re sure? We have a bag here belonging to you”
*Still bewildered and counting the bags on the trolley* “Yes I’m sure. Can you describe it?”
“It’s……”
“Omigod! My carry-on!!!! Yes, it’s mine!”
The guy behind the counter rolled his eyes upwards at the stupidity of the lady in front of him, while the guy in Aer Lingus security ascertained I was still in the airport albeit a floor below him and arranged to be at the door of security for me to collect it from him. My transaction completed with still more eye-rolling from the guy in the Excess Baggage place, I made my way upstairs once more. The dear security guy brought out my case, complimenting me on the ease he had in tracing me. The method? I would like to say the V-Flyer luggage tag which did have my mobile number on but that got stolen yonkety-yonks ago and I never bothered to replace it. No, it was my VS Flying Club tags. A quick phone call over T3 with my FC number had released my phone number and restored my bag with the minimum of fuss. Indeed he was full of praise for me having such identifying information but to me it was still an Embarrassing Incident - especially as this was the third time I had left this particular bag in an airport - once in Tel Aviv and once at the VS check-in in EWR.
Please don’t tell Aer John. He’ll have me in a home before you can say “London Heathrow Clubhouse”
