This is a Trip Report from the Upper Class cabin
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And then as if from an impossibly long way away you hear a sound; a voice. You stir from your reverie and realise that the voice is closer than you think, calling you, anxious in some way, imploring; but where can it be coming from? Who can it be?
Are you going to help with this last suitcase or are you going to sit out there on your fat arse and let me do all the packing as usual?!. The dulcet tones of the-now Mrs mdvipond come into stark aural focus and you realise that its over. The holiday will soon become a mere memory, no more than a pinch of stray grains of sand left in your shoes, a glossy brochure photograph complete with its clinical, glossy brochure smell. For today, you fly home, and the very best you can hope for is a good flight and a well behaved toddler.
It had been, yet again, another sterling two weeks in Barbados. This had been our fourth time at the Treasure Beach Hotel and whilst I no longer post reviews of this gem of a hotel on TripAdvisor for fear of making it too popular and spoiling it for us regulars I will, dear reader, share the attributes of this smashing little spot with you. With only 30-some suites set in a horseshoe-shape around a small (but perfectly formed) swimming pool, this is the kind of hotel that was boutique before the phrase was ever really coined. One of the finest beaches on the west coast, Paynes Bay, is only a matter of feet from the hotel. From the terrace of our suite, at the very end of the horseshoe, it was 22 steps to the Caribbean. Yes, I counted them and, yes, I know, I should get out more.
A little slice of paradise and one which most regrettably we were now preparing to leave. Our flight was scheduled for about 5:30 with a car due to collect us from the hotel at around half 2. The hotel manager, Hamish, had caught us over breakfast that morning to wish us a pleasant trip home and to let us know there was no need to rush out of the room before we needed to (they normally turf you out at 12). So we managed a relaxing morning by the pool knowing we could shower and change at the last minute to maximise holiday time. Well, one of us could anyway
The car or minibus in this case, as we pre-warned them of our luggage situation arrived more-or-less on time, and we said our goodbyes to staff and guests alike. Just as we were climbing into the minibus, one of the maids came hurtling up to us, waving her arms in the air. She told us rather breathlessly that she always does a quick check of a suite as soon as a guest leaves in case theyve left something behind. And I had my mobile phone. If my head wasnt screwed on well, you know the rest. Little were we to know, however, that this wasn't going to be the last incidence of 'Lost Property' on our trip home. Oh no.
Offering her my eternal thanks, we clambered back into the minibus and tried to get comfortable for the half hour or so drive down to the airport. The problem was, our luggage had taken all but the three seats directly behind the driver and the middle seat traditionally mdvipond jr.s didnt have a seat belt. Now, weve learnt, on occasion, to look the other way when it comes to child seats when travelling abroad as some countries just arent into them all that much, but expecting her to travel sans seatbelt is a risk that not even bad parents like us are willing to take. So, showing a complete disregard for Jimmy Savilles Clunk, Click Every Trip campaign, I took the Death Seat, with nothing between me and the windscreen but humid Caribbean air, with the dear ladies in my life sat either side of me, safely buckled in.
It wouldnt have been too bad had the driver shown any signs of actually having passed a driving test at any point in his life. He swerved, careered, stamped at his brakes and generally drove in the most unsettling fashion. If that wasnt bad enough, he decided whilst travelling at not inconsiderable speed to retrieve his mobile phone from the glove compartment and proceed to try and make a call. As if this wasn't bad enough, it quickly transpired that he couldnt remember the 'phone number of whoever it was he was trying to call, so he then used his other hand you know, the one that should be on the steering wheel to leaf through his dog-eared address book. I was petrified and, to add insult to injury, he then turned around in his seat (whilst still propelling us along at a good 50 mph), gave me his address book and asked if I could find the number for him as he was finding it a bit difficult whilst driving.
Between us we finally managed to successfully get a call through to his friend. What message was so important we had to risk life and limb to relay it? What missive could it be that the prospect of yours truly laying prone on the rough Barbadian tarmac picking bits of windscreen out of his face could be classed as acceptable 'collateral damage'?
Hello John? It's me. Im on my way to the airport. Well, that was worth it then.
We pulled up outside BGI physically intact but mentally shaken. So much so that I'm almost certain that I forgot to tip the driver. A Red Cap came scooting up to us, stacked our luggage mountain and took us straight up to UC check-in. Wed done online check-in the night before and were once again in 6A, 6K, 7K. As there was a large group checking-in in front of us (golf clubs, Louis Vuitton luggage, high maintenance wives - you know the type so let's not even start to discuss which salubrious/infamous hotel they'd most likely been staying at) so a friendly enough VS bod came out to ask, in the interests of expediency, if we wouldn't mind checking in at the free economy desk next to ours. Now, I imagine there are some out there who would rather stand in an hour long queue than use economy check-in (the group who were in front of us for starters, I would imagine) but for me the main benefit of checking as an UC passenger is so as get to the Clubhouse/lounge as quickly as possible, so Y check-in it was.
This was to be a first for me - I'm yet to sample Virgin's economy product - but, you know, other than the lack of red carpet - it's exactly the same as Upper Class check-in! Stunned by this turn of events and so charmed was I by the pleasant young man dealing with the formalities that I hardly realised all was done and dusted until we were swiftly heading, boarding cards and lounge invites in hand, towards security.
But not until we experienced Lost Item No. 2 - Fifi. She isn't, for the uninitiated, a high class Parisian hooker, but is in fact a game little character from children's TV who hangs out with her 'flowertots', a wasp and something that I think is meant to be a slug. Anyway, mdvipond jr. adores her, and it was at this point that the-now Mrs suddenly asked, 'Where's Fifi?'. I backtracked to the check-in desk (where, incidentally, the Golfing Group were still heaving their overpriced luggage about) and even went back to where the Minibus of Death had dropped us off, but Fifi was nowhere to be seen. Never mind, we thought, write it off, put it down to experience. We still had Munki (another cuddly toy) on the subs' bench, so we thought it best to head to the lounge for a well deserved chill.
The executive lounge at BGI has moved recently from land to airside, which can only be a good thing, especially after the experience we had last year. Security was the usual Barbadian affair that leaves you wondering why Al Q'aeda don't concentrate their efforts via lax Caribbean airports instead of getting caught out trying to get through LHR. Still, it was quick and painless enough (and I realised later I'd managed to get my lighter through) and we only had one more task to complete before we could relax in the lounge, and that was to collect our duty free from the chamber of commerce desk. We find it easier to buy cigs 'n' rum early on in the holiday from one of the duty free shops on the west coast , who then parcel it all up for us to collect at the airport on production of the receipt. Guess what? Enter stage left, Lost Item No. 3 - the receipt. Well, I say lost; it wasn't lost, we knew exactly where it was - packed beneath several layers of rank beach towels in one of the cases.
Well, words were exchanged, shall we say, but once we'd calmed down and the-now Mrs mdvipond had accepted full responsibility for the situation ('Well maybe it would be better if YOU packed next time!') we tried our hand at collecting our fags and booze without the receipt. The girl on the desk smiled a brave smile and shook her head woefully. It wasn't going to be our lucky day. the-now Mrs pointed out to her that we do have quite a distinctive surname and that we could show her our passports to prove it. So, with a sigh of resigntion and a cursory glance at our hastily proffered passports she began to leaf through a ream of copy receipts, still smiling and shaking her head. Then she stopped; where had we been staying? 'Treasure Beach', we retorted. 'Then it looks like you're in luck', she replied, dutifully retrieving our duty free and ensuring our campaign to develop emphysemia and cirrhosis before we're 40 remains on track.
Finally, finally, we made our way to the lounge. Which is nice - much bigger than the previous one with views of the runway - but is was packed with (predominantly) BA passengers who'd taken all the space on the comfy sofas, which meant that the only place to sit was at the array of cafeteria style tables and chairs in front of the self-service bar. Still, it could've been worse, and I quickly sorted myself out with a G&T and a plate of cheese and biscuits. It wasn't too long before the BA crowd went on their merry way, after which there was acres of space in the lounge, so a quick top up of the G (no need for further T) and we enjoyed a quiet 10 minutes of reflection before our flight was called too.
A short trek back downstairs, thence through a clearly marked priority boarding lane and we were strolling across the tarmac, relishing the last rays of Caribbean sunshine, towards English Rose. You can't beat getting onto a 747 from the ground up can you? You really appreciate the size of the darned things and there's something almost retro about boarding a plane via a set of steps nowadays (and it's especially nice when one set of steps is just for those of us in the pointy bit!). I always feel like turning at the top of the steps and waving to the (imaginary) waiting crowds and photographers before stepping on board but so far - much to the relief of my family, I would've thought - I have resisted the urge.
We were welcomed warmly on board and quickly made our way to our suites. All three were clean enough but 7K is particular was in a pretty sad state of repair with the 'soft-touch' trim literally hanging off the dividing wall in places, revealing the GRP behind it. A decent tidy-up of the LGW grande dames can't come soon enough...
As we were hoping that mdvipond jr. would be sleeping for the majority of the flight we didn't bother with the child-seat this time. A really nice FA - who I'm pretty sure was on our BGI-MAN flight last year - came over to let us know that they had a child's meal loaded for jr - spaghetti and meatballs - and asked if we'd like it served served straight after take-off. Knowing that this would mean we could settle jr. down to sleep all the sooner we eagerly accepted. We taxied out toward the runway and, thankfully, jr. was more than happy with Munki tucked under one arm and a fist full of stickers, and she remained so throughout an on-time take-off, meaning that - unlike when we took off from SYD last year - I was able to keep my M&M stash to myself.
Once the crew were allowed to get up and go about their business, the nice FA came back again to tell us that jr.'s dinner would be ready in exactly 9 minutes. Ah, the magic of microwave cookery! I have to say it was a nice, common-sense touch sorting jr. so quickly that would hopefully result in her - and consequently the rest of the cabin - having a much more restful flight. However, the same common sense clearly hadn't been applied by whoever designs the children's meals, as they've obviously never had to sit next to a two-and-a-half year old shoveling tomato sauce laden pasta down herself. Still, she seemed to really enjoy it, even though I think her face, T-shirt, the carpet, the cocktail tray and the TV screen will be, for evermore, ever so slightly orange.
In the meantime, the FA in charge of my side of the cabin had taken my drink and dinner orders. My requested drink - Tanqueray 10, tonic, ice, lime (wedge of) - arrived exactly as ordered. Oh happy day! This was a rare occurrence indeed and certainly boded well for a tip-top flight. I was even supplied with not one but two replenishments of crisps. It actually turned out that the FA who was looking after me in such outstanding fashion remembered us - well, remembered mdvipond jr. - from a flight we took to LAX back in 2006. She'd recognised her name from the passenger manifest apparently. I was mightily impressed by her stunning memory when mine kicked in and reminded me that she must have been the poor unfortunate soul who helped the-now Mrs when jr. decided to part company with her milk an hour into the flight. She'd only qualified that month, and I guess that's the sort of experience that stays with you. Still, she was good enough not to mention it (though I did notice her giving jr. a particularly wide berth on this flight).
For dinner both the-now Mrs and I ordered the warm 'n' gloopy option of the day, followed by some sort of braised beef dish. My good lady wife accepted the kind suggestion to delay hers for half an hour or so to give her a chance to settle jr. down for the night.
The films had just started and, as if by magic, my second Perfect Gin & Tonic arrived. I settled down to watch 'Enchanted' (as did jr.), the story of an animated fairytale Princess who suddenly turns to real flesh and blood after finding herself transported to modern day New York, followed by her Prince Charming and a talking chipmunk. Perhaps I'm a sentimental fool, perhaps the film tapped into my 'inner child', or perhaps having four G&Ts before dinner had affected me in some way, but it was a thoroughly enjoyable romp (as the film reviewers are wont to say). jr. loved it too, until she was rudely plucked from her suite by her mother to go and get ready for bed.
The soup du jour arrived and was as temperate and glutenous as one could hope for. The braised beef was pretty good; being the sort of thing which generally gets better the longer it's cooked it makes for the kind of dish that even VS would be hard pressed to bugger up. It was complemented by a glass or three of a very pleasant red wine - an Australian Shiraz I think - and was followed by a decent selection of cheese and a glass of port.
The film came to it's rather surprising conclusion (Princess dumps Charming and shacks up with a divorce lawyer) and I went over to join the-now Mrs who, having lulled jr. into a peaceful sleep in 6K, was tucking into her braised beef, which she rated as 'average' (hard one to please, my missus). A delightful FA, who told us earlier that he only just missed out on a place in the finals of 'X Factor' (or one of the profusion of other, similar, awful ITV 'talent' shows), came across to see if my good lady wanted desert. She didn't, but she did rather fancy a bit of cheese. 'No cheese left, I'm afraid', she was told. Shame; you'd think the least they could do was load enough cheese for 14 passengers.
the-now Mrs, made of stern stuff, took it on the chin and was about to indulge in another glass of the red, when we were approached by the exceptionally pleasant and capable FSM from our outbound flight. Once again, he introduced himself and asked if everything on the flight was to our liking. Of course, we immediately made him aware of the appalling on-board cheese drought - though in fairness we weren't all that bothered and we really just half-joking with him - but he leapt to his feet, disappeared into the galley and returned seconds later with a plate that was positively groaning with cheese. Admittedly nearly all of it was Stilton, but as the-now Mrs generally likes her cheese bluer than a stand-up comedian at a Northern working men's club, this suited her down to a tee. He apologised profusely for the mix up, and for the lack of cheesy variety (bless him). Then the wanna-be-pop-star came over and apologised too. Rather bemused by this point we assured them if was fine. Really fine. No problem. Honestly.
Our kindly FSM then asked if there was anything else he could get for us, when a grumpy old man hunkered up in 7A retorted:
'Yes. A bit of piece and quiet if that's quite alright with you!', before getting up and stomping off to the loo. Well, for starters, we really had been talking in quite hushed tones, and a good 4 or 5 passengers were still sat up indulging in coffees and liqueurs. And forgive if I'm wrong here, but whilst the amenity packs aren't bulging with goodies in the way the used to, there are still a pair of earplugs in there to used, one assumes, to block out the low level murmer that one finds on a plane which might otherwise cause one to go off in a bit of a strop. Nice FSM smiled a professional smile and asked us if he could get us another glass of wine, which we duly accepted, and he duly delivered. Grumpy Old Man came sulking out of the toilets five minutes later and tucked himself back into bed without any supper.
I stretched my legs and had a little walk down to the back of the plane, once again finding Y particularly quiet with most people getting at least two seats to themselves. I returned to a cabin that Grumpy Old Man would have been proud of, with everyone strapped to their beds either asleep on laying awake, too scared to move in case they woke him up again. I changed into my nice, cool, clean cotton PJs (you may already be aware, dear reader, of my aversion to the clingy, unreliably laundered polyester abomination which is the Sleep Suit), grabbed myself another small glass of wine from the bar, and retired to my suite with the intention of a quick, quiet nightcap, then sleep.
Problem was, they'd stuck 'The Golden Compass' on and, being a huge fan of the whole Dark Materials trilogy, I found myself getting drawn into it. The books are stunning with a fascinating concept at the heart of them, and the film version was turning out to be really pretty compelling stuff. Not so compelling, however, that it could counter the effects of a long day, a little too much gin, a hefty dose of red wine and a sprinkling of port, and I woke up just long enough to see that the credits were rolling, remove my headphones turn my screen off and go back to a deep and restful slumber.
I awoke, as those of us lucky enough to get a few hours kip in their suite often do, to the smell of bacon and other breakfast sundries wafting around the cabin. the-now Mrs mdvipond was already awake - as she had been for most of the flight, apparently - and was tucking into a croissant. mdvipond jr. was still far away in the Land of Nod, and who were we to disturb her? I don't really do solids for breakfast (or at least I don't when I've not long since had braised beef and the best part of a bottle of red) so opted for a large espresso and some orange juice before nipping to the loo to change into something a little less comfortable, but much more in-keeping for LGW on an early spring morn.
We were soon making our final descent (I sometimes wish they could think of another, less 'terminal' term), but jr. was still showing no signs of stirring. With a long trek through LGW, another flight up to MAN and and hour's drive back to Leeds ahead of us we were in no mood to curtail her sleep any more than was absolutely necessary, so managed to pick her up long enough to convert her bed back to a seat, before securing her in, still out for the count.
In fact, she didn't wake until we'd landed, the seat belt sign had gone off, and everyone was hoiking their luggage out of the overheads, and she seemed quite happy to be 'back in the room' so to speak, which was good. And then a revelation: thanks to its compact - not to say selfless - nature, bijou-push-chair had actually been allowed on board with us (and it has to be said, had behaved in an exemplary fashion throughout the flight). One of the crew asked if we'd like to pop jr. straight into it, which we thought was a capital idea, so they brought it through and we unfolded it, stowed some hand luggage in the bag underneath and strapped jr. into place. Things were going swimmingly until the doors opened, the passengers began to move down the plane, and bijou-push-chair stubbornly wedged itself between two seats in PE. The swine! It was in league with the unruly hang-glider! This act of apparent subservience was a mere ruse, weedling its way into our trust, waiting for the perfect moment to rebel.
So, once again removing our bag and daughter and collapsing the treasonous push-chair, we staggered off the plane. But not before thanking the FSM and the crew, who were probably one of the very best we've encountered in nearly 10 years of flying with VS.
Immigration was a breeze, our bags were one of the first off the carousel and the rest of our journey back to to MAN and eventually Leeds was tiring but pretty straightforward, helped in no small measure by the 7 hours or so sleep the mdvipond jr. had managed. OK, so we may have to pay three-quarters of and adult fare for her nowadays, but it's got to be worth every penny if it can keep an otherwise loud and energetic two year old happy.
No big flights 'til November now, more's the pity. Guess we'll just have to go back to watching repeats of 'Airport' instead.
Apologies for (a) the delay in posting and (b) the length of the Drivel Report - I write them over the period of a week or so (on and off) and does tend to make them slightly over-long. Will self-edit better in future.
Oh, one last thing - Lost Item No. 4: Munki, who in the whole bijou-push-chair fiasco got left on the plane. We've contacted VS lost property, but to no avail. I like to think that he's still lying undiscovered in UC somewhere, silently flying to-and-fro across the Atlantic. By my reckoning, he should be Au about four times over by now.
