Simon the plumber arrived at quarter to eight. Slightly earlier than expected occasioning a mad dash (well sort of) to don tee shirt and trousers and get the hell out of the bedroom. We are having one of the radiators removed prior to redecorating. We’ve arrived at that part of the Forth Bridge whose turn it is to be painted again. If they ever take the Forth Bridge down, and it won’t happen in my lifetime, “we” will no longer be able to use that analogy.
Some excellent sourdough toast has been consumed and I have repaired to the conservatoire where I shall shortly take a second cup of tea.
Today our fourth born, John, is heading back to Berlin. It’s been good having him home for a few days. We’ve had a few laughs, been to a wedding, done a few jobs, watched a couple of footie games and today I’ll set off with him to Nottingham East Midlands International Airport whereupon he will be dropped off and left in the care of Ryanair for onward transportation. I have a corporate policy of not flying Ryanair but for John it makes sense. Convenient.
Otherwise, and apart from my usual midday swim, today will be devoted to seeing what jobs THG has in mind for me. See what’s on the jobslist. Maybe nothing. Le weekend is, after all, not so far away. Not that I do jobs on the weekend in particular. Certainly not on the sabbath which is both Saturday and Sunday depending on your perspective on these things. In any case this Saturday is a big day of sport wot with the Liverpool derby at twelve thirty and the England laydees v French demoiselles rugby at three thirty, both of which THG is particularly keen to watch.
A gentle rain has started. With the chance of precipitation at only 30% this must be a good day to get a bet on. At least Dean the window cleaner did some gutter clearing and drainpipe unblocking yesterday. There will be no spectacular waterfalls descending onto the conservatory roof today and in reality the rain is only a few measly drops. In walking to the shed I’d be able to sidestep the raindrops, probs. The humidity detecting extractor fan in the workshop is spinning away. As I speak the few drops have turned into a steady, relaxing light drumming.
Simon the plumber has just appeared in the garden with a yellow hosepipe. He is just about to drain the system. The name Simon the plumber sounds like the English equivalent of Maxim le Forestier. Completely different I know but the thought just came to me.
Years ago when we only had two small kids we were staying with friends Sarah and Didier in Paris. I had been on tour to Le Mans with Lincoln RFC and joined the family in Paris by train after that leaving the lads to slum it on coach and ferry.
That first night in Paris I asked whether they had any Maxim le Forestier records they could play. They did not but they did put on Ne Me Quittez pas by Jacques Brell which has since made me a lifelong fan. Just playing a bit of Maxim right now.
On the way home we got to CDG an hour before the flight only to find a huge queue at check in. When we got to the front they told me that the flight was full and that I should have checked in on time. “We would have to catch the next flight at four pm”. I pointed out that we had arrived at the required time but their queue was mahoosive. The reason we wanted the lunchtime flight was in order to get the kids home at a sensible time and that they should bump someone else. They had clearly given our seats away. The attendant totes understood, disappeared behind a screen and returned saying we could go in business class where not everyone had turned up yet. She then spent the next half an hour trying to get us checked in but the “line to London” was down. More likely the BA system.
Anyway after this it was too late for us to board and she offered us £25 per adult compensation to catch the next flight. I declined this less than generous offer and settled for one hundred and fifty GBP in used notes plus a restaurant voucher with no upper limit. This cheered THG up no end (she wasn’t known as THG in those days) and we spent two out of the four hours we had to wait feeding on fifty quids worth of pizza and orange juice. Remember this was about thirty years ago. Fifty pounds was a fair old wodge at the time.
When we arrived in Manchester my name was called out and Tom and I were met by a member of the BA staff who took us to the office to hand us a brown envelope full of the aforementioned moolah. I trained Tom to respond “take the money” when I said “open the box”.
The delay was not a killer and the compensation was well received especially taking into consideration the fact that the flights had all been booked using air miles.
Right, tea consumed, Simon le plombier has finished and it is time to get on with le jour.