When I pitched up with my newly wed at Heathrow airport one sweet morning in May 2002 for our honeymoon in Marrakech, I really felt I was able to start relaxing after months of stressful build up to our wedding.
But when I flourished my passport at Terminal Two check-in everything started to go wrong. "Is that your only passport, sir?" was the unexpected response. The BA functionary was looking down bemusedly at the sweet but useless passport picture of my 18 month old toddler son.
I was given an hour to get home to Hammersmith, grab the right passport, get back to Heathrow and get on that plane to Morocco. I hoped for sympathy and understanding but none was forthcoming. Sonia made it chillingly clear that if I missed the deadline she would be starting her honeymoon, quite happily, on her own at the gorgeous Riad we were booked into.
The cabbie I grabbed seemed delighted to be involved in such a comically cliched adventure. Why, then, I thought to myself, did his cab appear to be speed limited at 30mph. But at least we were moving. Thanks to "Prescott's folly" we were able to progress into London reasonably quickly, unlike the lines of stationary traffic on our left.
Now read on
No comments:
Post a Comment