This weekend I fulfilled a lifelong #SQUADGOAL and went to Disneyland with my sisters.
We met Minnie and co, ate a – quite frankly ridiculous – number of ice creams, cooed at the Magical Parade of Dead-Eyed Extras and just generally had the most wonderful time at the third happiest place on earth (it was Disneyland Paris).
We put our ears on from the moment we woke at 6.50am
The trip – however – obviously brought to mind the last time I was in Paris, and the grande disaster that je created on that trip. A disaster in which poor old put-upon Tony Baggins was the victim.
To cut a very long story short, Tony and I had been given free airline vouchers after a flight connection in which we’d all been held in what can only be described as a cattle pen at Lusaka Airport for hours without water. Babies cried, people moaned, one guy threw up right by Baggins’ shoes. I saw the chance and went for it, channelling my mum’s A* complaining skills into my first proper middle-aged, middle-class, oh-so-angry-don’t-you-know, complaint letter.
And I was rewarded for my time and self-righteous anger with €100 airline vouchers.
So Tony and I, in our long-distance relationship, decided to use these vouchers to meet up for a weekend break in the city of lurrrve.
I’m not great at travelling admin – “Travmin” – but as the vouchers were in my name I booked our flights: me flying from London and Baggins flying there and back from Newcastle.
The weekend came and we had a très fabulous time en Paris, living up to every tourist stereotype we could think of…
We posed with ice creams and got photobombed by a giant fly (top right)
I forced T to kiss me while a Chinese man third-wheeled it as photographer
On the Sunday morning with only a few hours left in Paris I thought I should check us in on my phone before we headed on for more touristy fun. What I saw when I opened my emails left me cold. I threw my phone on the hotel bed and just yelled “Nooooo!”.
“What??” asked Tony, emerging from the salle de bain, toothbrush in mouth.
I flung myself face down into a pillow and just let out a muffled “I can’t tell youuuuuuuuu…”
“Your flight home isn’t tonight. I’ve accidentally booked your flight for the end of next month. The 28th of AUGUST rather than July.”
I slowly and sheepishly lifted my face to see his reaction.
He burst out laughing.
“I KNEW when you threw your phone that it was something to do with my flight!! How did you even manage that?!”
“I don’t knooooooow!” I wailed.
With just one precious morning left in the city we cancelled our plans to mooch Frenchly around town, sampling cheese and crepes and posing for more cringe tourist shots, and instead Tony spent the next three hours on the phone trying to change his flight while I sat like a spare part on the bed feeling like une grande plonker.
The airline wouldn’t allow him to just switch his flight – saying your girlfriend screwed up the booking is not a valid excuse apparently – and every direct flight for that evening was fully booked.
In the end he managed – for just a few HUNDRED quid – to get a flight from Paris to Bristol (the entirely wrong side of England)…a few hours’ wait…then a flight from Bristol to Newcastle.
So in the end our Parisien jaunt – that was planned solely to benefit from free vouchers after a disasterous flight experience ended up BEING a disasterous flight experience of its own.
All patient Tony had to say about the whole shambles was: “Let’s leave the bookings to me from now on, shall we pet?”
And we have.