I dislike Christmas, and this year was no exception. Due to a continued misunderstanding I would not be able to have Griselda post on frequent flyer news pages of my contempt for Qantas’ inability to deliver, in a timely manner, an expensive bottle of champagne to me. This was one of the few pleasures I had at Christmas.
Qantas and I, well Griselda, had reached a point of impasse. It appeared that Qantas was not budging in its failure to recognise me as a Platinum One (Is that a thing?), this despite me earning as much as 250 something or others last year, according to Griselda.
As I dictate this to Griselda, on a reverse charge telephone call from the Executive Lounge at the London Heathrow Terminal 4 Hilton Hotel, I am reflecting on my year of travel. (Reflecting is the new big business thing apparently and Griselda has ordered several mirrors so that I will be well prepared.)
The flights to London had followed a well practised pattern, Melbourne to Singapore and 5 hours in the Concorde Bar. Singapore to London, Heathrow and a traditional English breakfast in the Concorde Room. Then to finish a baffling jaunt up to Norway and back. It appeared, much like Fred Perry’s day menu into Asia I was stuck in a time warp. (There are only so many occasions one can consume crumbed pork on an aeroplane, although the Penfold’s Bin 28 was quite acceptable.)
This trip was a little longer than most and included four days in Berlin - pork, sauerkraut and mashed potato. Those German chaps know how to do proper food and in the sort of quantities that put all of those peddlers of nouveau cuisine to shame. The “Sausage Parade” delivered to my table by a grown man in shorts was nothing short of spectacular, if not a little odd.
I still didn't really understand why I had to keep flying to Stavanger, Oslo and Bergen.
Griselda had booked me into the Hilton in Berlin and standards had dropped. There was a time in the not too distant past when “happy hour” delivered tiny pizzas and mini hamburgers, but not now. Mozzerella sticks and soup did not cut it, although the spirits selection was more than adequate. The breakfasts were OK although the scrambled eggs verged on the stodgy.
“Miss Pugh” I was breathless. “My meeting has finished early and I need you to get me on an earlier flight please.”
“...but...but it is 10 PM here Mr Hancock” She spat the words out.
“mmmm then you need to get a move on if I am going to get the next flight.” I thought, but was not brave enough to say.
I waited for what seemed an eternity for Griselda to call back, but she had been able to change my flight. The bad news was that it was to cost me 60 Pounds.
“Mr Hancock it is should have cost over 200 pounds but because you are a GGL British Airways made an exception.” …….was the excuse she came up with.
I didn’t say anything and resolved to deduct the 60 pounds from her Christmas Bonus. I am not sure what had come over me and it took me 24 hours to realise that I didn’t pay her a Christmas Bonus.
My colleagues were not so fortunate and I left them in the British Airways Lounge partaking of the curled up sandwiches drinking flat Coca Cola.
The inflight Cabernet Sauvignon improved with each small bottle to the point that bottle number five reminded me of a Wolf Blass Yellow Label.
I was a dab hand at the old Bergen run now. Exit the plane, head left and wait. Usually boarding commenced within a few minutes. This time something was not quite right, a rather dapper chap in a cap came from the plane and took over the microphone.
“Due to heavy fog at Heathrow the flight will be delayed by four hours. Our best opportunity for an earlier departure is to board now and hope the weather improves” He explained.
Well to say I was miffed was an understatement. Had I realised it was an open microphone I would have grabbed my opportunity much earlier than the chap in the cap. I would have been a much better act than this amateur. Obviously I made a reverse charge call to Griselda and instructed her to raise a letter of complaint about the microphone and also ensure a martini would be awaiting me in the Concorde Room when I finally arrived.
My view for three hours at Bergen.
I had no idea why so many passengers on the aeroplane were complaining. At first I thought I had been booked onto a Qantas Platinum type charter flight. I settled into seat 1A and set my little TV up on the centre console. BA’s Gold Guest List team takes a different approach, to the Qantas Platinum One team and try to block seats next to me. For this flight seat 1C was suitably empty. It was all rather civilised once the wine arrived, although the constant whinging from the rear of the cabin was annoying, although not quite as annoying as the stream of economy passengers trampling through the business section heading to the business class toilet. This is one area of common ground for me with the Qantas Platinum types who are keenly opposed to this.
It was almost cozy being on the ground for three hours.
Lucilla was on top form in the Concorde Room and mixed me three rather decent dry martinis before I headed off to board my flight to Hong Kong.
“You are very lucky tonight.” the chappie scanning boarding passes said as he handed me a new boarding pass.
I resisted the temptation to advise him that it was my importance, rather than luck, that had led to a seat reassignment of 3A and my rightful place in the First Class cabin.
BA Knows Who I Am
Earlier in the year Griselda had tried to explain the British Airways cabin crew setup. If the air hostesses were wearing hats I could expect enthusiastic but relatively poor service, and if they weren’t it would be grumpy but professional service. She had wittered on about that not working on the A380 where everyone wore hats. As I boarded I noticed a distinct lack of air hostess headgear so braced myself for the worst. Surprisingly the crew members were quite chirpy and not at all grumpy, in fact they were quite excellent.. Something else Griselda had got wrong.
We were over an hour late departing Heathrow airport thanks to two passengers who had not boarded. Now I can be forgetful occasionally but I am relatively confident that once at an airport I would be unlikely to forget I was flying somewhere. Even after six small bottles of Chilean Claret and half a bottle of gin I managed to get to the correct gate on time. (hic)
Thanks to the missing passengers we arrived over an hour late at Hong Kong Airport and this put my next flight at risk. Griselda had sent a telex, or whatever the new fangled equivalent is, showing that the Gold Guest List team had been busy and already had me on standby for three other flights, although one was, worryingly, in economy with Qantas. I can only shudder at the thought of the Fred Perry economy supper menu. :shock:
As I departed the plane I was greeted by a young lady who was to guide me to my connecting Cathay Pacific flight to Melbourne. What I didn’t realise is that she had the capabilities of an Olympic sprinter. There is nothing less dignified than running through an airport, particularly one as large as Hong Kong. I tried to explain that I was important and that the captain would wait but she was having none of it as she practically dragged me through security and onto the train.
As predicted the captain had decided to delay boarding until my arrival so at least I did not have to run down the aerobridge.
I lose track of who’s who when I fly with Cathay Pacific, the cabin crew wear so many different uniforms it is difficult to know who is the senior person that should be dealing with me. I was, however, so pleased not to be flying Qantas because I had skipped breakfast on the inbound flight, so a Fred Perry “supper” would just no cut it at all. Cathay did not disappoint and the chicken was very good, washed down with the full-bodied Rockbare McLaren Vale Shiraz. The cheese selection needed a mature cheddar but on the whole Griselda’s selection of Cathay over Qantas was the correct decision.
The rock bare shiraz was actually rather spiffing.
After a 95 minute battle with the Melbourne traffic I was finally home and my year of hell was at an end. Next year will be no where near as hectic as 2016, although Griselda has booked three trips to the UK already and will add a fourth in a weeks or so. I am also supposed to be heading to San Diego, which I assume is somewhere in South America, unless I can avoid it.
Griselda is attempting to put some statistics together but this is taking longer than usual because of the complex calculations surrounding self-funded travel. Apparently according to the Qantas Platinum brigade a mile flown that is not self-funded is significantly shorter than one that is self-funded, as much as 99% shorter, so it is looking like I have only flown 8 miles this year. It is strange because it has felt as though it was much further.
TTFN
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