Here's something I wrote a while back in my blog, about my wife and I. It seems relevant to the current discussion.
Every now and then Kerri flies to Sydney or Melbourne for a day's meeting. She hires a room at the Qantas Club at the domestic terminal and folk from all over OZ fly in, discuss stuff and then go home again.
This usually means she has to get up early and I drop her off at the airport at about seven, and she calls me when she wants to be picked up around five or six, depending on flights.
So Friday, I set the alarm for six and she gets up, gets prettified, has a quick breakfast and browse of the paper, while I make a cuppa and check my email.
Ten to seven I haul her briefcase out to the car, she gets in and we go out to the airport. I's only a couple of kilometres away, but there's half a dozen roundabouts on the way. Anyone flying in is going to think Canberra is the city of roundabouts on the way to their hotel. And they aren't too far wrong.
Anyway, I drop her off at the kerb outside Departures. The checkin desks are only ten metres away or something, Canberra isn't what you'd call a huge airport. As we kiss, a spark of static jumps between our lips, as it so often does in the car - we sort of approach nervously like teenagers instead of old marriedies - and then we jump a bit and smile at each other. She gets her briefcase, waves and goodbye.
I pull out and I've got one eye on the glimpses of runway just in case something interesting pulls in, but no, and as I get out and am negotiating the first roundabout I realise that I've still got my phone in my pocket. Yes, we share a mobile phone. It's the one she'll need to call me to be picked up. Blast. So I get to the next roundabout, do a 180 and head back. Get a good park just across from the entrance and head inside.
Now, at this point you've got to realise that while Kerri is going to a business meeting in Sydney, my part in the transaction is to roll out of bed, drive her to the airport and go back home. So I'm wearing slip on sandals, my comfy old round the house shorts (and my concession to the outside world is that I'm wearing undies as well), the polo shirt I've slept in (an old geeky thing that's covered in fluff and cat hair showing up in brilliant highlight against the black), I haven't shaved and my hair is unbrushed and unloved.
I'm hoping she's in the checkin lines, but no, the place is all but deserted. So I head to the security gates to go for the lounge upstairs. The lady at the far end takes one look at me and motions me aside for the explosives sniffer.
Upstairs she's not visible in the gate area, so she must be inside the Qantas Club. I go to the young women on the counter, smile unshavenly at them, hoping they'll ignore the trail of cinnamon-coloured cat hairs I'm leaving on their nice carpet, and ask if I can give my wife her mobile phone. They check a list and say that's OK.
Now, I'm looking like I've just rolled out of bed, and all around me are people dressed up to the nines in business suits and the like. Honestly, I'm the only person on the premises with sandals. I have to walk all the way through before I find Kerri, and my heart soars when I see her. There she is, immaculately dressed, perfectly co-ordinated, sipping from a fresh cappuccino and browsing the morning paper.
"Your phone, dear!", I say, pulling it out of my pocket.
She looks up at me and smiles, "I'm surprised they let you in!" she says.
She can read my mind!