|On their way to Honolulu.|
If you follow me on Twitter you’ll know I’ve plenty to whinge about this week. It would appear that the travel disaster fairies have cast their evil spells over me… again.
After a good start, we left Logan airport in Boston on time, and in flying form. Then we taxied out onto the runway and our engines failed. Yeah! They failed!! So we were stuck on the runway for two hours with no AC and left to fester while they sent for some super-duper engineer who was going to swoop in and fix the engines.
Two hours later the engines fired, and it was with great trepidation that we trundled down the runway, half expecting the engines to explode, but no, we made it and six hours later we touched down in Heathrow, London. But the pain did not end.
|Richard removing the last of the beautiful blondes!|
I had to run with my nine year old and six year old (both of whom were feeling sick and very VERY tired) to Terminal 1 ( a hideous 45 minute run through various security checks and customs desks, body scans, pat downs, retinal scans, and photos) to get to our connecting flight to Ireland. We finally made it to the gate completely exhausted, out of breath with my two poor children trailing behind, crying, only to be told the gate was closed and they were not allowing anyone else on. Those heartless over makeuped, starchy haired cows could have opened the bloody doors, the plane was still connected to the skywalk and bags were still being loaded. Toe rags! TOE RAGS!! What I wanted to shout at them!! But instead I sat down and had a little cry.
I pulled it together walked the three miles back to departures, re-booked our tickets (the next flight was over 4 hours away… excellent), and discovered that a bottle of water had emptied its contents into my favorite Coach handbag, all over my iPhone and my just signed copy of Clarity by Kim Harrington, that I’d got for my sister. Cue another exasperated cry.
We got to Cork in the end and even thought I want to strangle anyone one in a red suit and red high heels at the moment (oh and FYI, the blonde smiling babes that they have the in the Virgin Atlantic commercials do not exist. They’ve all taken their commercial money and moved to Honolulu and left these fourty year old dudes with beer guts to hand out the peanuts), I will get it together to fake a smile for them at check in, in the hope of getting an upgrade (some chance) on the homeward journey.
Anyway, I’m all whinged out now, so here are some pics of necklaces that I found for sale in a gorgeous jewelery shop in Kinsale. Now’s your chance to pick your favorite for the ARC comp. Which one do you want? Let me know in the comments.