Sir Richard Branson Owes Me
Nerves? No. He's the man for me, and my mother had done a beautiful job planning the weekend, with my sister in law and an old family friend bending over backwards to help her make sure that everything was perfect. And it was. People who had nothing in common except the two of us came together and became instant friends. The Morrison House was beautiful, and the food and drink superb. Even the Goat's young nephews were angelic and fun to be with, jetlagged and overwhelmed as they were. Perfect. Except that we arrived on Thursday, got married on Sunday, and it is now Tuesday and no one has any idea where our luggage is.
I spent my wedding weekend frantically trying to get some truth, and my bags, out of Virgin Atlantic Airline instead of tending to my guests. At least I had had the foresight to pack my dress and jewellery and his dinner jacket in our carry-ons, but cabin bag size and content limitations are such that, other than the computer and camera, nothing else would fit. So I haunted the airport (because the airline's phone number left us on hold indefinitely) while the poor Goat and my 72 year old father entertained everyone. Saturday afternoon I was told that a message had come from London that our bags were on the flight that would arrive at 2055, so I relaxed a bit and finally got to spend some quality time with my guests at a huge pre-wedding BBQ my brother and his wife were throwing at their house. I even started to enjoy myself. After all, even though three flights had come from Heathrow between mine and this one, my luggage was still going to be there in time for the wedding and I could still give everyone the gifts I'd brought them from my overseas travels -- you know, the Persian rug I'd bought for my brother's wedding present (missed that event last year), the Indonesian batik for my sister in law, the Thai and Chinese silks I'd bought for various people on the Big Trip, the t-shits and tschotkes I'd picked up for the kids in my travels. These would be there along with everything else, and we would not have to get married in Alexandria's finest hotel barefoot in four-day old shorts and whiffy t-shirts. More fool me.
When I arrived at the airport Saturday night to get my bags (I was not trusting to having them delivered), I was told that they were NOT on the flight after all, and then had to spend the morning of my wedding day (and several hundred dollars) chasing around the shops buying shirt studs, shoes, underwear, a full face of makeup (no liquids in carry on!). place cards, etc etc instead of spending the morning of my wedding day having a massage and mani/pedicure with my girlfriends.
Sir Richard Branson and his bloody airline have a lot to answer for.