Dashing out the door a few days ago – I snatched our older Canon Ixus to download photos I had taken on the weekend. The Artist shouted after me that I should take care downloading off that camera at work as it had those nudies of me. What??? What????
And then I remembered about this one time, not at band camp (I had you at band camp, didn’t I?) but in Brisbane……………
Like any good South African we went to watch the Springboks play the Wallabies. We have never been to a game in Sydney but once they were playing in Brisbane, we had to go.
As a rule I am an anal retentive pain in the bum when it comes to travel, packing, logistics etc.
There must be different air up there near the Gold Coast.
On arrival, my worries evaporated, I didn’t unpack anything and four of us “lived” out of the one suitcase. Bearing in mind that my children have no issue with burrowing in their cupboards like moles, this was not a problem for them. It was all going swimmingly. After the game, it was late. I was tired. We had an 8am flight back to Sydney the next morning. Like my responsible self I put everyone’s clothes including my own on the relevant beds for the morning. So we could just jump into them and go.
Except I forgot to take out clean underwear for me. And as I said, the air up there.
I fart-arsed around that morning. Not a rush in sight.
Way late, I realised the underwear problem. I made like the children and started burrowing like a mad mole.
I came up empty, so I climbed [naked] into the suitcase and burrowed some more. Nothing. The Artist came to see what the commotion is about, with camera in hand. In an effort to protect my dignity I started laughing like a loon, naked in the suitcase. You can imagine how dignified that was.
Click, click, click. I was helpless with my own amusement. He was feeling like some photographer from Zoo and kept going.
I must just add at this point that I was still completely un-phased about the lateness of the hour and the 8am flight. The camera was a mere distraction. The hunt for underwear continued.
Eventual success, underwear in tact, we headed off, still stopped at a garage, filled up the rental car, helped a stranger locate his gas tank. Un-phased I tell you. The minor wrong turn at the airport adding a few minutes onto the journey didn’t even cause me to breathe heavier. It was good. All good.
Swanning in to the Brisbane Airport and trying to check in at the Jetstar terminal raised the first red flag. Apparently once a flight is ‘closed’ it’s no can do.
Someone had tickets to the opening night of Wicked.
Jetstar naturally are not a cultured bunch and didn’t give flying kangaroo about my theatre tickets. Why, oh why didn’t I book with those Qantas people?
The madness glinting in my eye caused The Artist to get the last rental car at Brisbane airport (a V8 supercar Ford type) and hotfoot it to Coolangatta to fly home from there.
With the help of my parents who did a snatch and grab at the airport of my children and luggage and a mad arse taxi driver you will be pleased to know that I was in my seats at Wicked by 3pm. (Note to any airline peeps reading this – I can clear passengers out of a medium sized jet in 4 minutes flat – the children died a little when I yelled down the aisle “People, focus and move – I need to be somewhere in half an hour so hustle!”. Apparently that’s not good airline etiquette)
The only downside (apart from having to hire a car and drive 200km to fly home from another airport) was that my outfit was not at all appropriate for an opening night at the theatre (because I was supposed to go home and change – if those bastards at Jetstar would just have let me on my original flight). But I had clean underwear on. Just like my mother told me.
The Artist also adds as I’m running out of the house with the camera that his homie Ray thought the pictures were really funny. What??? What?????
Only joking he says. I am feeling distinctly nervous. That is all.