Suzanne J. Wright's Blog, page 2
June 1, 2015
Hens from Hell
Dragged out of a deep sleep. Bernadette from The Big Bang Theory, the one with the high shrieky voice, was hopping down the aisle like a bunny with a black nose stuck to the middle of her face, a tiara and veil on her head, hands held up like paws. Her voice could have shattered glass. A nightmare? No, just the early morning flight on Monarch airlines from Birmingham to Faro on 29th April.
I closed my eyes again. The shrieks continued. I looked at my watch. It was about four hours since the alarm went off, 2.58am, and about forty minutes since the plane took off at 6.20 am. Sleep on the plane? Forget it. The Hen Party from Hell was just getting into it's swing and it was four rows in front of us.
Why it is necessary to prepare for marriage, which is supposed to be a romantic, meaningful occasion, in which you pledge your true love to the person you have chosen to spend the rest of your life with, by acting like a maniac in public is unfathomable to me.
The tiara and veil were passed round the party, and they all paraded up and down the aisle, convinced that everyone around them was an enthralled by their activities as they were. And it went on and on. Up and down the aisle, playing silly games, shrieking, shouting. The cabin staff brought more champagne. The noise increased.
Eventually I complained to a steward, Michael. He did nothing, and the champagne continued to be supplied. It was like travelling in a badly run pub.
The Captain made an announcement. He could have been telling us that the engines were on fire and he was about to ditch in the sea for all I knew. We couldn't hear him.
I would have asked them to shut up and sit down, but confronting about eight drunken people in a confined space didn't seem to be a good idea.
I complained again on the way off the plane. The steward said that conduct on the plane was the responsibility of all the cabin staff, and in their judgement it was acceptable. Well, there were well over 200 people on that plane, and I'm guessing that all but eight of them did not agree.
I have travelled by plane on many occasions. I have seen people taken on one side by the Captain before a flight when they had spent the waiting time in the Departure Lounge getting loaded, and then getting on the plane quietly. I have heard of planes being diverted to the nearest airport in order to put drunks off. I have never been on a plane where the behaviour of a number of passengers was so unacceptable, and the cabin staff continued to serve alcohol - in damn great bottles.
The surprising thing is, I gather that my experience was by no means a one off. Hen parties often get early morning flights and begin the process of getting plastered as soon after take-off as possible.
What a lovely, romantic way to mark the start of a special meaningful relationship which is to last the rest of your life.
I closed my eyes again. The shrieks continued. I looked at my watch. It was about four hours since the alarm went off, 2.58am, and about forty minutes since the plane took off at 6.20 am. Sleep on the plane? Forget it. The Hen Party from Hell was just getting into it's swing and it was four rows in front of us.
Why it is necessary to prepare for marriage, which is supposed to be a romantic, meaningful occasion, in which you pledge your true love to the person you have chosen to spend the rest of your life with, by acting like a maniac in public is unfathomable to me.
The tiara and veil were passed round the party, and they all paraded up and down the aisle, convinced that everyone around them was an enthralled by their activities as they were. And it went on and on. Up and down the aisle, playing silly games, shrieking, shouting. The cabin staff brought more champagne. The noise increased.
Eventually I complained to a steward, Michael. He did nothing, and the champagne continued to be supplied. It was like travelling in a badly run pub.
The Captain made an announcement. He could have been telling us that the engines were on fire and he was about to ditch in the sea for all I knew. We couldn't hear him.
I would have asked them to shut up and sit down, but confronting about eight drunken people in a confined space didn't seem to be a good idea.
I complained again on the way off the plane. The steward said that conduct on the plane was the responsibility of all the cabin staff, and in their judgement it was acceptable. Well, there were well over 200 people on that plane, and I'm guessing that all but eight of them did not agree.
I have travelled by plane on many occasions. I have seen people taken on one side by the Captain before a flight when they had spent the waiting time in the Departure Lounge getting loaded, and then getting on the plane quietly. I have heard of planes being diverted to the nearest airport in order to put drunks off. I have never been on a plane where the behaviour of a number of passengers was so unacceptable, and the cabin staff continued to serve alcohol - in damn great bottles.
The surprising thing is, I gather that my experience was by no means a one off. Hen parties often get early morning flights and begin the process of getting plastered as soon after take-off as possible.
What a lovely, romantic way to mark the start of a special meaningful relationship which is to last the rest of your life.
April 11, 2015
book offer
Yesterday three of my books went on offer on Amazon kindle. The Love Child's Mother, Autumn Butterfly and Circles are all 99p for a couple of days, then gradually increase back to the original price by 17th of April. What a bargain!
October 21, 2014
rt.com
Just been watching an interview on Russian television. Breathtaking. The interviewer is a charmless liar, and appears to be off his head, and the interviewer is an unspeakable American. I guess this is what propaganda is. The image of Britain projected by the two of them is totally unrecognisable to me, and I live here.
October 5, 2014
table top sale
What is it? Its a car boot sale indoors, and you rent a table.
It was due to start at 2.0, so we arrived at 1.0 pm. We staggered in with armfuls of G's stuff, and immediately two women shot over and began to turn over the stuff as it was put on the table.
'What's your best price for this?' It's a Radley bag, for only £10. How much better does it get?
Other people are unloading bags, boxes, trays and trolleys onto table tops. A huge variety of ornaments, toys, clothes, and toiletries. G's tends towards high-end names - Aquascutum, per una, Dannimac, Next, M and S, and more Radleys. There are several sweet little evening bags, only £3. I went to get another armful from the car, and as I re-entered the hall I got the impression that nearly everyone there was looking at G's treasures, and the crowd was two or three deep, prominent among them the original two women.
No sentiment, G is putting it all up for sale, clearing the house ready to go and live in Oz. She can't take it all with her, so it has to go.
By the time the event officially opens at 2pm, and the public are allowed in, the best stuff has been bought by the other stall holders. At the last moment, the two womenwho were the first customers bring in some boxes and set up stall next to us. quickly filling it up with large ornaments and a range of candles, small ornaments, toiletries and nick nacks - nothing much above £1. It sold really well.
An old lady entered the arena. Blonde wig, orange lipstick, cream sparkly jumper, low at the back, cream swingy skirt, big cream watch, big sparkly rings, thick black tights and huge black platform shoes. She was not dressing to be overlooked, and strolled around, looking at this and that, chatting to everyone like visiting royalty. Fabulous. Whispers had it hat she 'owned a lot of property'. Which begs the question, why did she get all dolled up to come to a second hand market?
I feel there is a plot for a short story here.
Just wish I could figure it out.
It was due to start at 2.0, so we arrived at 1.0 pm. We staggered in with armfuls of G's stuff, and immediately two women shot over and began to turn over the stuff as it was put on the table.
'What's your best price for this?' It's a Radley bag, for only £10. How much better does it get?
Other people are unloading bags, boxes, trays and trolleys onto table tops. A huge variety of ornaments, toys, clothes, and toiletries. G's tends towards high-end names - Aquascutum, per una, Dannimac, Next, M and S, and more Radleys. There are several sweet little evening bags, only £3. I went to get another armful from the car, and as I re-entered the hall I got the impression that nearly everyone there was looking at G's treasures, and the crowd was two or three deep, prominent among them the original two women.
No sentiment, G is putting it all up for sale, clearing the house ready to go and live in Oz. She can't take it all with her, so it has to go.
By the time the event officially opens at 2pm, and the public are allowed in, the best stuff has been bought by the other stall holders. At the last moment, the two womenwho were the first customers bring in some boxes and set up stall next to us. quickly filling it up with large ornaments and a range of candles, small ornaments, toiletries and nick nacks - nothing much above £1. It sold really well.
An old lady entered the arena. Blonde wig, orange lipstick, cream sparkly jumper, low at the back, cream swingy skirt, big cream watch, big sparkly rings, thick black tights and huge black platform shoes. She was not dressing to be overlooked, and strolled around, looking at this and that, chatting to everyone like visiting royalty. Fabulous. Whispers had it hat she 'owned a lot of property'. Which begs the question, why did she get all dolled up to come to a second hand market?
I feel there is a plot for a short story here.
Just wish I could figure it out.
September 30, 2014
Ten days
At ten days Darcy's coat is beginning to curl a little behind the neck. He is still black with a little white mark on his chest, but that could change. His eyes are still closed, and should open in about a week. Called at the local vets this afternoon to find out what he needs after I pick him up in mid November. He will be wormed and flead (wonder what that involves) and will need to have a jab of some sort. When I looked on the RSPCA site there were some scary videos about parvo virus...sounds like canine ebola. Hard to relate to him at the moment, except that he's so tiny you feel you should put him back in the box with his mum and stop intruding - so I did. What a little sweetie.
Btw - appropo nothing at all, I went to Wolverhampton this afternoon to pick up some panto Tickets from The Grand Theatre. This town seems to be designed to repel visitors. Not a car park to be found anywhere. When I did find one it was in the Mander Centre and the pedestrian exit was so complicated I began to wonder if I would ever find the car again. Eventually found one nearer the theatre, and there was a young lady in the final stage of meltdown, trying to force the machine to accept £4 in change and give her a ticket so she could go for an interview. The machine kept spitting money back at her, and she was late. And the charges go from £4 for 4 hours to £12 for 24 hours.Nothing in between.
Btw - appropo nothing at all, I went to Wolverhampton this afternoon to pick up some panto Tickets from The Grand Theatre. This town seems to be designed to repel visitors. Not a car park to be found anywhere. When I did find one it was in the Mander Centre and the pedestrian exit was so complicated I began to wonder if I would ever find the car again. Eventually found one nearer the theatre, and there was a young lady in the final stage of meltdown, trying to force the machine to accept £4 in change and give her a ticket so she could go for an interview. The machine kept spitting money back at her, and she was late. And the charges go from £4 for 4 hours to £12 for 24 hours.Nothing in between.
Darcy at 10 days 
Darcy's dad, RustySeptember 27, 2014
We are going to be a grandmother
We are going to be a grandmother. Or a mother. Well, ok, the owner of a new puppy. This puppy was born a week last Thursday and I went to see the litter two days later.
Just looking.
I've wanted another dog for ages, and have been seriously daydreaming about it in detail on the internet. I contacted a small dog fostering website, and spoke at length to a nice lady in Manchester. The conclusion was that as I live in an apartment, albeit on the ground floor with grass outside, and as I go visiting a lot, albeit mostly to places where I could take a small dog, I would not be a suitable candidate for fostermothering a small dog.
I could see the sense of this, but it didn't stop me thinking about it.
I looked at dog rescues, and even visited one. Most of the dogs were Staffies, pit bulls, Alsations, Rottweilers, and other large dogs. They all needed love and affection but something told me I wouldn't manage a larger dog. As a past owner, in a previous and much fitter life, of two large and beautiful Gordon Setters, I know my limits. I has to be a teeny, weeny, small, dinky dog, because I can't do the necessary legwork which a large dog requires.
Also, my apartment may be large, but we do have to co-exist.
I had my heart set on a small girl Yorkie. I had the name all picked out. Dorothea, Dotty for short, because I once had a pupil who was the happiest, nicest teenager I ever met, and that was her name. I've been looking a girl Yorkies for sale on the internet for about two years. I could have had a girl Yorkie. But the home with the litter of Yorkie girls also had a litter of Yorkiepoos, all boys, and that was it! Zing. Decision made. I'm having a Yorkiepoo. He's one quarter black standard standard pedigree poodle (sound familiar Pam?),and three quarters bright and lively little Yorkie. I don't know how that worked out at mating time, but clearly it did.
I'm reading up on all the stuff I'm going to need to start from scratch as a dog owner. Beds, playpens, car travelling stuff, brushes, leads. Toothbrushes, would you believe? Not so much as a baby, but more than you'd think.
Then of course, there's the question of names. Well - there's Jack, and Zack and Hugo. My sister thinks Jimmy, my grandson says Don, or, mysteriously, Fat (he's only three). My granddaughter likes Lorenzo. My friend says Aldous - a literary gent. My daughter likes Sebastian, or Theodore, or Keith.
Maybe Felix.
Currently I'm thinking of naming him after the most romantic man in literature How would that go.
'Darcy, come here Darcy.
'Darcy, sit.'
'Darcy, your dinner's ready.'
'Darcy - don't do that.'
'Down Darcy. Get down boy.'
It couldn't be shortened. You can't be shorten Darcy.
But then again, I'm thinking of my brother and his sense of humour, and the possibility of hearing, 'Arseydarcey'.
Maybe it'll just be Jim. Jimmy to persuade him. James for formal occasions. and Jim Jim for cuddles. And maybe Jimmy Riddle for moments of accidents.
Or Felix.
I'm planning on visiting him again soon, so watch out for a photo.
Just looking.
I've wanted another dog for ages, and have been seriously daydreaming about it in detail on the internet. I contacted a small dog fostering website, and spoke at length to a nice lady in Manchester. The conclusion was that as I live in an apartment, albeit on the ground floor with grass outside, and as I go visiting a lot, albeit mostly to places where I could take a small dog, I would not be a suitable candidate for fostermothering a small dog.
I could see the sense of this, but it didn't stop me thinking about it.
I looked at dog rescues, and even visited one. Most of the dogs were Staffies, pit bulls, Alsations, Rottweilers, and other large dogs. They all needed love and affection but something told me I wouldn't manage a larger dog. As a past owner, in a previous and much fitter life, of two large and beautiful Gordon Setters, I know my limits. I has to be a teeny, weeny, small, dinky dog, because I can't do the necessary legwork which a large dog requires.
Also, my apartment may be large, but we do have to co-exist.
I had my heart set on a small girl Yorkie. I had the name all picked out. Dorothea, Dotty for short, because I once had a pupil who was the happiest, nicest teenager I ever met, and that was her name. I've been looking a girl Yorkies for sale on the internet for about two years. I could have had a girl Yorkie. But the home with the litter of Yorkie girls also had a litter of Yorkiepoos, all boys, and that was it! Zing. Decision made. I'm having a Yorkiepoo. He's one quarter black standard standard pedigree poodle (sound familiar Pam?),and three quarters bright and lively little Yorkie. I don't know how that worked out at mating time, but clearly it did.
I'm reading up on all the stuff I'm going to need to start from scratch as a dog owner. Beds, playpens, car travelling stuff, brushes, leads. Toothbrushes, would you believe? Not so much as a baby, but more than you'd think.
Then of course, there's the question of names. Well - there's Jack, and Zack and Hugo. My sister thinks Jimmy, my grandson says Don, or, mysteriously, Fat (he's only three). My granddaughter likes Lorenzo. My friend says Aldous - a literary gent. My daughter likes Sebastian, or Theodore, or Keith.
Maybe Felix.
Currently I'm thinking of naming him after the most romantic man in literature How would that go.
'Darcy, come here Darcy.
'Darcy, sit.'
'Darcy, your dinner's ready.'
'Darcy - don't do that.'
'Down Darcy. Get down boy.'
It couldn't be shortened. You can't be shorten Darcy.
But then again, I'm thinking of my brother and his sense of humour, and the possibility of hearing, 'Arseydarcey'.
Maybe it'll just be Jim. Jimmy to persuade him. James for formal occasions. and Jim Jim for cuddles. And maybe Jimmy Riddle for moments of accidents.
Or Felix.
I'm planning on visiting him again soon, so watch out for a photo.
August 2, 2014
Poem by Isadora May Grasso, age 9, July 2014
Summer in....
The sun sparkles on the waves.
Kids laughing, shouting.
Early morning fresh damp air.
Lemon and chocolate ice-cream.
Warm silky water in the pool.
This is summer in Italy.
The sun sparkles on the waves.
Kids laughing, shouting.
Early morning fresh damp air.
Lemon and chocolate ice-cream.
Warm silky water in the pool.
This is summer in Italy.
July 24, 2014
Stealing your Grandchildren?
Friday 9.30 am Ostia police station passport office. There is a queue already, and one female police officer behind a glass window, like the post office. I'ts hot - obviously, it's Italy. We're here to get the authorisation which allows my 9-year old granddaughter, Isadora, to come to England with me for a week's holiday. We're both looking forward to it. I faxed the necessary paperwork to this office on Tuesday from England so today is a formality, we just have to pick up one piece of paper.
10.15am. We're at the front of the queue. Yes the form is printed but hey, they've spelled my name wrong. It's Johnson, and the form has Johnsn...a spelling of a name which does not exist in any language, certainly not European ones. The policewoman says it will have to be corrected. No she can't just do it with a biro, it has to be re-printed, but she's on her own, there is a queue, so we will have to wait. We sit and wait. The queue moves forward and we sit and watch. More people arrive. It takes ages to deal with each one, so the queue is slow-moving, and is getting longer all the time. People come and go behind the counter, police-persons ambling about with guns on their hips, faffing about, taking no notice of the queue.
Eventually the policewoman calls us over. She suggests we come back tomorrow. Vicky points out that Isadora and I are travelling tomorrow. The plane leaves at 11.30am from Fiumicino, and we don't have time. Also we began this process a week ago, and Vicky's already invested several hours queueing here earlier in the week. She goes away ,disappearing into the inner spaces of the offices; the queue increases. We all wait.
I notice that on a cupboard behind her chair are three stacks of A4 paper, each at least three feet high. On a table behind her are about a dozen A4 lever arch files, in which she rummages every so often. I am afraid that if we haven't sorted this out by lunch-time the 'sportello' or window will shut, the office will close for the day and we're stuffed.
We get cold water from the machine in the hall, San Benedetto, 50cl. The temperature increases as the sun blazes ever hotter through the window at the end of the room.
I go to the loo, which is modern but has no loo paper and stinks.
Isadora brings us coffee from the machine, which is excellent. Lavazzo. One thing they can do in Italy is coffee.
Small children run about, shrieking and playing. Everyone waits patiently except me and I'm ready to eat my head.
11.30 Policewoman returns with the remains of a cup of coffee. She's been on a coffee break. We're in the right office, we've queued, we've been seen. The form is done, but they have made an error. We wait.
We join the queue again, at the front. Vicky talks rapidly in Italian, I hear 'due ora' two hours. The policewoman replies 'due minute' but I don't think she's telling the truth. We stand back in the queue and let two young men go forward. I watch what the policewoman is actually doing. She is MAKING their passports, trimming photographs, sticking them into passports, sticking the pages down. She stamps a form with SIX different stamps, signs it three times. She takes fingerprints, sticks more things down. Refers to a computer which is apparently so slow it must be steam driven. We wait. A policeman with a gun on his hip passes our policewoman and tickles her under the chin sympathetically. She is looking pretty frazzled, and the queue is out into corridor and into the entrance hall. The second guy in front of us takes just as long. Snip. Stick. Stamp. Sign. We wait.
It's us again. We are directed to go to the office in the corridor as she's too busy to see us!
The office door is shut. We knock. No answer. Knock again. Nothing. Eventually after ten minutes I open the door. A woman is sitting behind a desk chatting to another woman sitting in front of the desk; they both look annoyed. The one behind the desk tells us to wait and she will see us in a minute.Ttwenty five minutes later, her mate departs and she lets us in.
A rapid conversation in Italian ensues. My Italian is lousy,so I don't understand most of it, but the tone suggests it's not her fault, and we are somehow to blame, expecting too much. We are given assurances, and leave. Apparently if Vicky returns at 3.0 pm, the form will be ready. The office will be closed, but she can get in, go upstairs and collect it.
She does this, and we have the authorisation. The name has been corrected. We're okay.
Massive, massive sigh of relief. We stagger out into blazing sunshine. Its getting on for 1pm.
The next morning, we are all ready to leave for the airport, me, Vicky, Isadora, and Leo who has his shoes on the wrong feet but insists his feet are the right feet, they're his, how can they be wrong? and no-one has the energy to argue with him; he's happy. We're all happy. I check the paperwork - passports, tickets and police authorisation to take my granddaughter, who was born in New York but is travelling on an Italian passport, out of the country. Check...the destination says....United States.
No way are they going to let us through check-in with this. No way can we get it changed and still catch the plane.
My daughter is a very talented artist. She also has bucketloads of determination. She quickly gets Isadora's dad to sign a copy of his passport with a statement saying he agrees to his daughter leaving the country with her grandmother.
A tense journey to Fiumicino and we are in a queue again, this time at check-in.The airport is heaving with hundreds of teenagers in massive groups, filling all the spaces, sitting on the floor or just loitering about everywhere.We weave through them to find our check in desk, at the far end and round a corner. And of course, we cannot travel with this form. Last year, we didn't have the form, hadn't heard of it, and after a slight altercation we were allowed to travel. Not so this time.
We are directed to a police office, round the corner. Off we go, two adults, two children and a pile of luggage, and knock on another door. No-one there. Fifteen minutes later, we go back to check-in and she suggests we try the next police point, around the other side of a big arm of check-in desks.
This time there is, guess what, no reply. We knock and wait. Knock and wait. Through an adjacent door a security guard is processing staff bags through a scanner, and he listens sympathetically - but then he's not a policeman. He insists there is someone in the office, and says he will tell them we're there.
Eventually a tall policewoman with the obligatory gun in her holster appears. It takes a while for her to grasp the point. She shuts the door on us, and goes to have a think, eventually reappears and tells us why not. She also mentions that Leo's shoes are on the wrong feet. He looks at his feet in puzzlement because they are the right feet to him. It's after 10am, the flight goes at 11.30, and I have never managed to get through Security at Fiumicino in less than 40 minutes. She is not helpful. She bobs in and out a couple more times. Isadora is crying, I'm convinced we're not going to be flying, Vicky is furious...in Italian.
A pleasant looking family with two young children sitting about 50 feet away are watching sympathetically. The daddy comes slowly across holding his son by the hand. the son is holding two little lollipops, and he gives one to Isadora and one to Leo. It is such a lovely gesture on such a horrible day, I could weep.
The policewoman emerges again. Fierce argument ensues, and I hear 'polizia' and 'stupido', which don't need much imagination to understand. The door closes again and I think we've had it, that's it. It opens and a giant policeman, with a gun, looks Vicky in the eye and starts a massive lecture, with expressive hand gestures, stabbing fingers and stern expression. She listens and replies, 'Ho sento.' The door closes, and he's gone.
'What did you say?'
'I said, 'I hear you.''
'What did he say?'
'He says if I call the police stupid one more time he will arrest me and no-one will go anywhere.'
We wait. And wait. The door opens. The policewoman says she will phone Ostia.
We wait. I don't have much faith in phoning the Passport Office in Ostia. I have first hand experience of them.
She returns - WITH A FORM. and IT'S CORRECT. Unfortunately it is now 10.50, and the plane goes at 11.30. The gate will be closing soon. She tells us to check in and come back.
We race round to check-in, which is the first thing in this whole episode which has been done quickly. We race back. Lo and behold, the door is open, the policewoman is there. We can go. I look at my watch. But we have no time to go through Security. She indicates the staff security machine next door. We quickly say our goodbyes, fling out cabin bags on the conveyor belt (no rubbish about separate bags of liquids this time), and we're through. We turn and wave, turn a corner, walk down a corridor, and emerge via a barely noticeable, nondescript door into the Duty Free area, at the far side of the massive queues at Security.
Together we race through Duty Free, finding Gate H, which is at the far end of the airport, and arrive gasping at the Boarding Gate, fully expecting to be denied.
We're on the bus.
We stagger up the plane steps.
We are on the actual plane, sitting in our actual seats.
We take off.
We look at each other, and start laughing.
At Birmingham Airport, I hand the passports to the Passport Control Officer, a very pleasant lady. She asks, 'Do you have a letter for me?' I hand it over.
'I bet I'm the first person to ask you for this,' she observes with a smile.
Words fail me. I have none left.
10.15am. We're at the front of the queue. Yes the form is printed but hey, they've spelled my name wrong. It's Johnson, and the form has Johnsn...a spelling of a name which does not exist in any language, certainly not European ones. The policewoman says it will have to be corrected. No she can't just do it with a biro, it has to be re-printed, but she's on her own, there is a queue, so we will have to wait. We sit and wait. The queue moves forward and we sit and watch. More people arrive. It takes ages to deal with each one, so the queue is slow-moving, and is getting longer all the time. People come and go behind the counter, police-persons ambling about with guns on their hips, faffing about, taking no notice of the queue.
Eventually the policewoman calls us over. She suggests we come back tomorrow. Vicky points out that Isadora and I are travelling tomorrow. The plane leaves at 11.30am from Fiumicino, and we don't have time. Also we began this process a week ago, and Vicky's already invested several hours queueing here earlier in the week. She goes away ,disappearing into the inner spaces of the offices; the queue increases. We all wait.
I notice that on a cupboard behind her chair are three stacks of A4 paper, each at least three feet high. On a table behind her are about a dozen A4 lever arch files, in which she rummages every so often. I am afraid that if we haven't sorted this out by lunch-time the 'sportello' or window will shut, the office will close for the day and we're stuffed.
We get cold water from the machine in the hall, San Benedetto, 50cl. The temperature increases as the sun blazes ever hotter through the window at the end of the room.
I go to the loo, which is modern but has no loo paper and stinks.
Isadora brings us coffee from the machine, which is excellent. Lavazzo. One thing they can do in Italy is coffee.
Small children run about, shrieking and playing. Everyone waits patiently except me and I'm ready to eat my head.
11.30 Policewoman returns with the remains of a cup of coffee. She's been on a coffee break. We're in the right office, we've queued, we've been seen. The form is done, but they have made an error. We wait.
We join the queue again, at the front. Vicky talks rapidly in Italian, I hear 'due ora' two hours. The policewoman replies 'due minute' but I don't think she's telling the truth. We stand back in the queue and let two young men go forward. I watch what the policewoman is actually doing. She is MAKING their passports, trimming photographs, sticking them into passports, sticking the pages down. She stamps a form with SIX different stamps, signs it three times. She takes fingerprints, sticks more things down. Refers to a computer which is apparently so slow it must be steam driven. We wait. A policeman with a gun on his hip passes our policewoman and tickles her under the chin sympathetically. She is looking pretty frazzled, and the queue is out into corridor and into the entrance hall. The second guy in front of us takes just as long. Snip. Stick. Stamp. Sign. We wait.
It's us again. We are directed to go to the office in the corridor as she's too busy to see us!
The office door is shut. We knock. No answer. Knock again. Nothing. Eventually after ten minutes I open the door. A woman is sitting behind a desk chatting to another woman sitting in front of the desk; they both look annoyed. The one behind the desk tells us to wait and she will see us in a minute.Ttwenty five minutes later, her mate departs and she lets us in.
A rapid conversation in Italian ensues. My Italian is lousy,so I don't understand most of it, but the tone suggests it's not her fault, and we are somehow to blame, expecting too much. We are given assurances, and leave. Apparently if Vicky returns at 3.0 pm, the form will be ready. The office will be closed, but she can get in, go upstairs and collect it.
She does this, and we have the authorisation. The name has been corrected. We're okay.
Massive, massive sigh of relief. We stagger out into blazing sunshine. Its getting on for 1pm.
The next morning, we are all ready to leave for the airport, me, Vicky, Isadora, and Leo who has his shoes on the wrong feet but insists his feet are the right feet, they're his, how can they be wrong? and no-one has the energy to argue with him; he's happy. We're all happy. I check the paperwork - passports, tickets and police authorisation to take my granddaughter, who was born in New York but is travelling on an Italian passport, out of the country. Check...the destination says....United States.
No way are they going to let us through check-in with this. No way can we get it changed and still catch the plane.
My daughter is a very talented artist. She also has bucketloads of determination. She quickly gets Isadora's dad to sign a copy of his passport with a statement saying he agrees to his daughter leaving the country with her grandmother.
A tense journey to Fiumicino and we are in a queue again, this time at check-in.The airport is heaving with hundreds of teenagers in massive groups, filling all the spaces, sitting on the floor or just loitering about everywhere.We weave through them to find our check in desk, at the far end and round a corner. And of course, we cannot travel with this form. Last year, we didn't have the form, hadn't heard of it, and after a slight altercation we were allowed to travel. Not so this time.
We are directed to a police office, round the corner. Off we go, two adults, two children and a pile of luggage, and knock on another door. No-one there. Fifteen minutes later, we go back to check-in and she suggests we try the next police point, around the other side of a big arm of check-in desks.
This time there is, guess what, no reply. We knock and wait. Knock and wait. Through an adjacent door a security guard is processing staff bags through a scanner, and he listens sympathetically - but then he's not a policeman. He insists there is someone in the office, and says he will tell them we're there.
Eventually a tall policewoman with the obligatory gun in her holster appears. It takes a while for her to grasp the point. She shuts the door on us, and goes to have a think, eventually reappears and tells us why not. She also mentions that Leo's shoes are on the wrong feet. He looks at his feet in puzzlement because they are the right feet to him. It's after 10am, the flight goes at 11.30, and I have never managed to get through Security at Fiumicino in less than 40 minutes. She is not helpful. She bobs in and out a couple more times. Isadora is crying, I'm convinced we're not going to be flying, Vicky is furious...in Italian.
A pleasant looking family with two young children sitting about 50 feet away are watching sympathetically. The daddy comes slowly across holding his son by the hand. the son is holding two little lollipops, and he gives one to Isadora and one to Leo. It is such a lovely gesture on such a horrible day, I could weep.
The policewoman emerges again. Fierce argument ensues, and I hear 'polizia' and 'stupido', which don't need much imagination to understand. The door closes again and I think we've had it, that's it. It opens and a giant policeman, with a gun, looks Vicky in the eye and starts a massive lecture, with expressive hand gestures, stabbing fingers and stern expression. She listens and replies, 'Ho sento.' The door closes, and he's gone.
'What did you say?'
'I said, 'I hear you.''
'What did he say?'
'He says if I call the police stupid one more time he will arrest me and no-one will go anywhere.'
We wait. And wait. The door opens. The policewoman says she will phone Ostia.
We wait. I don't have much faith in phoning the Passport Office in Ostia. I have first hand experience of them.
She returns - WITH A FORM. and IT'S CORRECT. Unfortunately it is now 10.50, and the plane goes at 11.30. The gate will be closing soon. She tells us to check in and come back.
We race round to check-in, which is the first thing in this whole episode which has been done quickly. We race back. Lo and behold, the door is open, the policewoman is there. We can go. I look at my watch. But we have no time to go through Security. She indicates the staff security machine next door. We quickly say our goodbyes, fling out cabin bags on the conveyor belt (no rubbish about separate bags of liquids this time), and we're through. We turn and wave, turn a corner, walk down a corridor, and emerge via a barely noticeable, nondescript door into the Duty Free area, at the far side of the massive queues at Security.
Together we race through Duty Free, finding Gate H, which is at the far end of the airport, and arrive gasping at the Boarding Gate, fully expecting to be denied.
We're on the bus.
We stagger up the plane steps.
We are on the actual plane, sitting in our actual seats.
We take off.
We look at each other, and start laughing.
At Birmingham Airport, I hand the passports to the Passport Control Officer, a very pleasant lady. She asks, 'Do you have a letter for me?' I hand it over.
'I bet I'm the first person to ask you for this,' she observes with a smile.
Words fail me. I have none left.
July 8, 2014
In Italy
Semi-comatose at breakfast. Leo, age three, is a bit cranky. Comes up to me, 'What do your feet smell of?' in Italian accent.
'Er...don't know.'
Gets annoyed.
'What do your feet smell of Grandma?'
'I don;t know. What do you think?' Lift bare left foot.
He puts his hands behind his back, bends over, and delicately sniffs my foot like a connoisseur. Straightens up and thinks.
'Potato.'
'Potato?' well that's unexpected.
'What about this one?' lift other foot for assessment. He sniffs seriously without touching my foot.
'Soap?' hopefully.
He shakes his head and sniffs again, thinking deeply, seriously.
'Hamburgers and chips.' Quite definite, no argument.
His sister is chicken.
Leo says his left smells of cheese, the right one of fart.
Short discussion of relative smells of poo, fart, wee which I will not record.
Sweet! For a three year old he has a highly developed sense of smell. Or a good imagination. Or a great sense of humour
Yesterday he asked, 'Who made the wind?'
At the swimming pool we were looking into the picnic bag for a snack. I offered him half a ham sandwich. No. A small pizza. No. An Apricot. No.
'I don't have anything else. What do you want?'
Looks me seriously in the eye.
'I want something that's bad for my teeth.
'Er...don't know.'
Gets annoyed.
'What do your feet smell of Grandma?'
'I don;t know. What do you think?' Lift bare left foot.
He puts his hands behind his back, bends over, and delicately sniffs my foot like a connoisseur. Straightens up and thinks.
'Potato.'
'Potato?' well that's unexpected.
'What about this one?' lift other foot for assessment. He sniffs seriously without touching my foot.
'Soap?' hopefully.
He shakes his head and sniffs again, thinking deeply, seriously.
'Hamburgers and chips.' Quite definite, no argument.
His sister is chicken.
Leo says his left smells of cheese, the right one of fart.
Short discussion of relative smells of poo, fart, wee which I will not record.
Sweet! For a three year old he has a highly developed sense of smell. Or a good imagination. Or a great sense of humour
Yesterday he asked, 'Who made the wind?'
At the swimming pool we were looking into the picnic bag for a snack. I offered him half a ham sandwich. No. A small pizza. No. An Apricot. No.
'I don't have anything else. What do you want?'
Looks me seriously in the eye.
'I want something that's bad for my teeth.
