Small Gestures

Along with many other people, I always say that you should never look a gift horse in the mouth. But as with so many wise sayings I have never had the opportunity to put this little nugget of sensible advice into action. No one has ever given me a horse as a gift, so I don't know what unearthly temptation there might be to peer down its throat. Come to think of it, if your mortal frame is racked with paroxysms of curiosity, you might as well just wait until the giver of the gift horse has gone home, and then you can look into the horse's mouth all you like.
It would seem that as with so much in life, patience is paramount when it comes to discreet equine dental assessments.

Krissa and I checked our travel details on Friday morning, to find that our New York-London flight had been cancelled. I spent two hours on hold with British Airways (dadadadada, dadadum, dadadadada, dadadum) and the icy tones of the woman whose recorded voice was meant to pacify on-hold souls such as myself, and then the system hung up on me. I was desperate to get through to a human being so when I redialed I deliberately chose the wrong option and the sales department answered immediately. I was painfully polite, understanding and empathetic with the Indian gentleman who answered, and I like to think that he was so taken aback by this approach (which surely must have been an unusual one in the midst of the strikes at Heathrow) that he actually helped me.

I was transferred telephonically from Mumbai to Toronto, where, after 45 minutes of route-hunting, some marvellous hero at a call desk found us our alternative route, taking in the delights of Detroit International and Schipol airports. This is where the earlier wittering on about horses and mouths comes in. We were given our miraculous second shot at getting to London, and we took it, packing our bags and setting off to Newark airport inside of forty minutes.

Detroit airport was a veritable oasis, and Schipol was just a little too far away from its mother town of Amsterdam for Krissa and I to do anything exciting with our three hour layover. I can honestly say that it has been a long time since I have unexpectedly ended up in Holland.

The final leg of our journey was actually with British Airways. As we boarded each of the passengers was given a small cardboard box containing a tiny tub of orange juice, a miniature fruit cake, and a pepperami.

It had taken us three hours on hold, madcap packing and a rushed taxi to Newark airport, two hours to Detroit, four hours in Detroit, seven hours to Amsterdam, three hours in Amsterdam, and we had hours and hours of travel to go before reaching our destination, but after all that international confusion there could be absolutely no doubt which country we were heading for as I prodded about in my little cardboard box of snacks and the pilot's voice came over the tannoy.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, we would very much like to thank you for your continued understanding and support through this little patch of unpleasantness we have been having with our caterers, and hope you will accept this small gesture of sustenance."