I like to think that I'm a man who deals in solutions. Come to me with a problem, and if you can't explain what it is within 10-30 seconds before moving on to what your possible answers are, I'm afraid I'm just not going to be onboard with assistance. I'm not your doctor.
And so you can imagine my confusion when confronted with this beauty of a line by the lady at the British Airways customer service desk at Heathrow's Terminal 3 on Monday evening: "It appears that your booking has been cancelled."
Sorry. What?
Did you take your earlier flight from Jersey to Gatwick? No. Well, in which case, all subsequent flights on that booking have been instantly void. End of.
Now, as a rule, I don't *do* stress. I know, I know, stress is a real thing, will lead to illness, needs to be managed by medical professionals, etc. But I'm not the sort of person that's going to scream and shout about being "stressed". And yet, when you look me in the eye, and tell me, in all sincerity, that 1000 whole pounds of my money (OK, technically not mine, technically a co-ownership deal between HSBC, NatWest and American Express) has been effectively poured down the drain, I'm going to be wanting to hear what you plan to do about it pretty smartish, or blood pressure is going to be getting pretty high up in here. "I'm sorry, sir, there's nothing I can do", isn't going to cut it. Especially when, just ten minutes ago, you saw fit to blithely crack some shitty Little Britain joke about how the "computer says no".
But there genuinely was nothing she, or Opodo, or Qantas, or BA, or IAG, or Big Willie Walsh, could do about the situation. The terms and conditions of my ticket state that if you miss one flight in your sequence of flights, it's game over. Cheers for the memories, and the mular.
Obviously, this distressed me. I called mother; she could tell that I was distressed (but Pilates, so I'll call you back). I frantically dialled the grandparents (money under the mattress), before realising that's just NOT OK. I called Laura, asked her to rationalise this situation for me (I couldn't, no way. WHAT DO YOU MEAN THERE ISN'T AN ANSWER?).
And then, I did that lovely thing called breathing. Long, deep, intercostal diaphragmatic. Shoulders back, chest out, eyes closed.
Idea. I have 71,000 Airmiles. There is the tiniest of chances that I could get on a flight tonight using those bad boys, and it might not cost £3,200 (BA's quote, which I obviously laughed (cried) out of Town). So I called Keith at the Executive Club. Reward flights to anywhere are pretty rare these days. It's getting to the point where it's practically not worth being a member of the scheme unless you only plan on taking a million flights a year and using your Gold Card for upgrades. Airmiles (sorry, "Avios") for flights? Forget it.
AND YET. And yet, Keith said yes. Computer said no, Keith said yes. Here was a solution, a person I could speak to, a negotiation I could be interested in. The cost? Three hours before BA015 was due to leave London for Sydney? 50,000 of your hitherto worthless Avios, and £360 of your Great British Pounds. Well, Keith, take my Visa Debit, and do your worst. You, Sir, are what I like to call a solution.
And so it is that I'm sat in Singapore Changi airport, taking full use of their complimentary WiFi and penning a few words before jetting to Sydney (just the small matter of another eight hours...). London to Singapore was about as uneventful as could be: I managed a mere two (two!) gin and tonics before passing out for nine hours. Isn't it lovely when you fall asleep on a 12 hour flight and re-awake when there's a mere 121 minutes of flying time remaining? I think so.
The food doesn't get any better, that's for sure. Check out these bad boys:
From the top: some kind of potato salad that had the texture of potato but tasted like off-mackerel, and a repulsive Vietnamese chicken dish. Still, full marks for cracking out the pak choi at 38,000 feet.
Right, it's 19.45 local time (I seem to have missed most of Tuesday), and as such I'm off in search of light refreshments before we continue on our merry way.
Anon x
And so you can imagine my confusion when confronted with this beauty of a line by the lady at the British Airways customer service desk at Heathrow's Terminal 3 on Monday evening: "It appears that your booking has been cancelled."
Sorry. What?
Did you take your earlier flight from Jersey to Gatwick? No. Well, in which case, all subsequent flights on that booking have been instantly void. End of.
Now, as a rule, I don't *do* stress. I know, I know, stress is a real thing, will lead to illness, needs to be managed by medical professionals, etc. But I'm not the sort of person that's going to scream and shout about being "stressed". And yet, when you look me in the eye, and tell me, in all sincerity, that 1000 whole pounds of my money (OK, technically not mine, technically a co-ownership deal between HSBC, NatWest and American Express) has been effectively poured down the drain, I'm going to be wanting to hear what you plan to do about it pretty smartish, or blood pressure is going to be getting pretty high up in here. "I'm sorry, sir, there's nothing I can do", isn't going to cut it. Especially when, just ten minutes ago, you saw fit to blithely crack some shitty Little Britain joke about how the "computer says no".
But there genuinely was nothing she, or Opodo, or Qantas, or BA, or IAG, or Big Willie Walsh, could do about the situation. The terms and conditions of my ticket state that if you miss one flight in your sequence of flights, it's game over. Cheers for the memories, and the mular.
Obviously, this distressed me. I called mother; she could tell that I was distressed (but Pilates, so I'll call you back). I frantically dialled the grandparents (money under the mattress), before realising that's just NOT OK. I called Laura, asked her to rationalise this situation for me (I couldn't, no way. WHAT DO YOU MEAN THERE ISN'T AN ANSWER?).
And then, I did that lovely thing called breathing. Long, deep, intercostal diaphragmatic. Shoulders back, chest out, eyes closed.
Idea. I have 71,000 Airmiles. There is the tiniest of chances that I could get on a flight tonight using those bad boys, and it might not cost £3,200 (BA's quote, which I obviously laughed (cried) out of Town). So I called Keith at the Executive Club. Reward flights to anywhere are pretty rare these days. It's getting to the point where it's practically not worth being a member of the scheme unless you only plan on taking a million flights a year and using your Gold Card for upgrades. Airmiles (sorry, "Avios") for flights? Forget it.
AND YET. And yet, Keith said yes. Computer said no, Keith said yes. Here was a solution, a person I could speak to, a negotiation I could be interested in. The cost? Three hours before BA015 was due to leave London for Sydney? 50,000 of your hitherto worthless Avios, and £360 of your Great British Pounds. Well, Keith, take my Visa Debit, and do your worst. You, Sir, are what I like to call a solution.
And so it is that I'm sat in Singapore Changi airport, taking full use of their complimentary WiFi and penning a few words before jetting to Sydney (just the small matter of another eight hours...). London to Singapore was about as uneventful as could be: I managed a mere two (two!) gin and tonics before passing out for nine hours. Isn't it lovely when you fall asleep on a 12 hour flight and re-awake when there's a mere 121 minutes of flying time remaining? I think so.
The food doesn't get any better, that's for sure. Check out these bad boys:
From the top: some kind of potato salad that had the texture of potato but tasted like off-mackerel, and a repulsive Vietnamese chicken dish. Still, full marks for cracking out the pak choi at 38,000 feet.
Right, it's 19.45 local time (I seem to have missed most of Tuesday), and as such I'm off in search of light refreshments before we continue on our merry way.
Anon x
