Why we aren't going to Lisbon
This post is partly so that I can keep straight what happens for the massive complaint letter that is going to happen, partly so I don’t have to keep going over what happened, and a little bit so Dave and Serena know that not going to Lisbon wasn’t a decision we undertook lightly.
So, preface:
Tuesday night I came down with mild food poisoning and didn’t get any sleep.
Wednesday: packing for Lisbon and then to be away for Christmas with the in-laws. Harder than it sounds with a baby and a dog. The car was barely tetrissed. I barely touched food, so I was exhausted. Every time I took Nicholas upstairs to change him, I had to stop at the top of the stairs to catch my breath. We drove down to Wigan where we would be dropping off the dog and getting an early lift to the airport on Thursday morning. The rain was bouncing, except where the fog was so thick we couldn’t see the road, only the headlights of the car in front. And to make sure that the loaded luggage didn’t slide into the carseat, Chris had to drive extra extra careful. It was tiring just watching the road. It took 4 hours to get there, and Chris was exhausted. And then we had to take the baby to see the ill aunt next door, fed the baby, ate a tiny bit of dinner... Normally, I go to bed about 9.30 when I’m not shattered, so I can grab a few hours sleep, while Chris cuddles the baby, in case he wakes up all night – it might be my only sleep: finally got to bed about 10.30. Chris brings the baby up at midnight, so I get a little bit of sleep. Luckily, after an hours feed, he sleeps through til the alarm.
5.40, the alarm went off. Got up. Fed baby. Managed some toast. Arrived at airport at 8.15. People with babies get fast-tracked, so we were straight through check in and security (woot!). Sat, drank tea. The perfume and make-up ladies in duty free fussed over Nicholas. Got on the flight. Nicholas falls asleep. So far, so good. We may even get to catch up on some sleep on the plane. We get to take off time (10.45)… we don’t move. After about 20 minutes, the pilot announces that the truck that tows the plane hit the landing gear with the tow bar, and they need an engineer to certify the plane can fly. Only there isn’t one at Manchester currently. So we will all be disembarked, and they’ll give us some hospitality vouchers. Nicholas wakes up hungry. We try and distract him while we wait to be disembarked. And wait. And wait. After 20 minutes, I start feeding him. After another 15 or 20 minutes, we finally get off, waiting til last to give Nicholas as much time as possible: fortunately Nicholas is briefly satisfied. There’s no-one outside the plane to direct us, but an old lady passenger who is sitting resting tells us that everyone went to the departure lounge. No staff, no information, no vouchers. Chris buys us a drink each and I finish feeding Nicholas.
At about 1.30, they announce that they have to fly in an engineer from Lisbon (!), and that someone will be there soon to deliver the promised vouchers. A huge queue promptly forms, and since we can see it from where we’re sat, we stay put. Nicholas is lying on cloth on a table in Burger King, between us, quite happy, watching us and the world, and we occasionally wave his tactile caterpillar to entertain him, passing Ticket to Ride between us on Chris’s tablet, and wishing we’d packed a charger. While we play, my energy levels start to drop, manically. I’m suddenly freezing, in a cardigan, 2 coats, and some heat packs in my clothes, and am shaking rather than shivering. I know it’s lack of food and sleep, coupled with a previously upset stomach, and breastfeeding, and that I have to eat, but food really doesn’t appeal. I get a hot chocolate and hope the sugar helps: I feel marginally better, but not much and I’m starting to want to cry, just because. I start to realise there is no way I am capable of looking after my son, and that the thought of feeding him quite literally feels like he’s going to suck the life out of me (and there isn’t much of that). I go to get the vouchers – the room spins so badly when I stand up a member of staff tries to call a paramedic, but since I know what the problem is, I decline.
The vouchers cover a mighty £10 each. I check, and the man confirms it will cover a bottle so we can feed Nicholas. Trying not to cry, I ask if I can get a blanket or if there is anywhere warm to wait as I don’t feel well at all, but he says (not particularly apologetically) that he can’t help unless I want to call the paramedics, which I don’t. I realise I _need_ food, so Chris goes to buy a bottle and feed Nicholas. The evil Boots woman refuses Chris a bottle on the voucher so a manager has to be called, who does approve it. Chris feeds him, and I go up to the restaurant: the staff are amazing. I nearly burst into tears again, and the lovely woman gets me some simple pasta in tomato sauce. It arrived within 5 minutes, and she brought me a free cup of tea to try and get my temperature up. I really didn’t want it: it was one of the hardest meals I’ve ever eaten. I had to force every mouthful, and I managed maybe a little over a third of it, and half the tea, and some ibuprofen and paracetemol. I’m still trying not to cry, but I am warmer. Suddenly sweating buckets in fact, but I can still feel all my muscles ache.
By now, I’ve realised all I want to do is go home. I’m so tired, I still don’t feel able to look after Nicholas, and sleep lost is not recoverable with a baby, but if I go back to Chris’s parents, they’ll help and I can sleep this off. I’m starting to secretly hope the plane is cancelled and the flight is a good time tomorrow. I go down to customer services and start asking what the options are to rebook, wondering if there is an option tomorrow. The people in front of me are there forever, complaining. I want to scream at them that I’m ill and can’t they complain later, but they don’t even look at me. I finally get to the desk and I’m crying again. Apparently the engineer will arrive at 5, and we should know by 5.15, but I’m not sure I care. The man on the desk tries to call the airline to look at options, but it’s engaged. He takes my boarding pass and suggests I talk to Chris and come back, while he tries to call. Since Chris hasn’t eaten, he gets some Burger King and we discuss our options. While he eats, I start cuddling Nicholas. I don’t know if it’s the oxytocin, or what, but I start feeling a lot better. I’m still not sure if I can fly: by now I’m realising that if we go, by the time we get there, I’ll have lost a large part of my evening’s sleep and Chris is starting to look frazzled.
I take Nicholas and go back to the desk to get my pass back and see what our options are – it’s unmanned so I ring the desk. The man I spoke to has gone, but a woman says she has my pass and will bring it down. She knows nothing about rebooking and will need to come and speak to me. At this point it’s about 3.30. I wait. And wait. I start chatting to the girl opposite me; Nicholas falls asleep. Eventually I ask the girl to get Chris, and he joins us about 4.30. By now I figure we may as well wait til 5.15 and find out about the status of the flight, but Chris is mad about how long I’ve been sat and starts calling the line. Every time they pick up they hang up on him. He’s determined and keep’s trying for at least 15 minutes. Eventually he talks to someone and they hang up mid-conversation. After saying it was my fault I don’t have my pass back and I shouldn’t have given it to the member of staff who asked for it. He goes back to dialling and being hung up on. All the other passengers are starting to gather hopefully now too. Chris is furious. No-one comes to the desk. 5.15 passes. Eventually 2 women appear at about 5.45 and the call goes out that the engineer has arrived, and the next announcement will be at 7.00. They keep repeating this, clearly trying to disperse the increasingly frustrated passengers. So at best an 11pm landing, maybe in bed by midnight, though then I would normally feed Nicholas for an hour. Chris is trying to reason with one of the women, the Deputy Manager, who it turns out I spoke to on the phone. She’s a bitch. Turns out that, apparently, the bloke had no right to take my boarding pass and that not having it for the last few hours was my fault for giving it to him, that rebookings are not handled at this desk, so that hasn’t been looked into at all, and she never told me she would be right down: in fact, she said, she had some other things to do, so she knew she wouldn’t be down quickly. She could have #####-well told me she wouldn’t be right down so I didn’t sit for an age. She asks us what we want to do: to cancel or not. I’m feeling better and I really want to go, but I also know I need sleep, and I could easily relapse. I pause: she tells me to take a moment to decide and moves on to the next customer. Chris is fed up, we’re both shattered, and I know that if we fly, at best, I’m going to get only a few hours sleep and there is no recovery with a baby to look after. And that will write off Friday at least, and Monday is an even earlier trip home. And there’s no guarantee that after a day this long, Nicholas is going to stay this good, surely our luck can’t hold… We decide to cut our losses – the flight will be refunded by the airline due to the delays - and go home for sleep and baby help.
The other woman at the desk is lovely, and agrees to get our bags, is apologetic for the fact that she will need to get staff to get them from the plane and they’re on another job, and that we will need escorts back through security, and is really attentive. She even points out that it will be long enough that we can go and get coffee or whatever and they’ll call us over the announcer. But we’re fed up so we just sit, and wait. 7.00 comes and goes. About 7.10 the lady rushes back to us – the flight is about to be announced - it’s going. Do we still want to fly? We’re so tired we just want to go home. She smiles sympathetically and promises us our bags. They announce the flight, boarding at 7.30. Everyone gets so excited and practically runs to the gate. Nicholas is awake again, but still good as gold. We have a blessedly good baby, who’s been happy and easy all day, if a little heavy by now! At 7.20, the woman comes back, looking awful. The flight isn’t running after all, it’s been cancelled, right after announcing it, as the flight staff have been on the clock so long they aren’t safe to fly. Everyone is going to be put up in hotels and all the luggage can be collected from arrivals. She knows she’s about to have hell that, since she was lovely, she doesn’t deserve. The Deputy Manager bitch is no-where to be seen. The new flight is going to be at 8.55am – I’d have to be up at 4.30… I can’t do it, not knowing I’ll have to be up every morning between 5 and 7 with Nicholas so I can’t lie in to recover. My one last hope vanishes. Lisbon is definitely not happening.
We’re all processed back through security, and collect our luggage. Nicholas does a poosplosion that necessitates a full change – our only problem with him all day (and thank goodness, as we only had one change of clothes, not being prepared for the length of wait), and then we’re out of arrivals and Chris’s dad collects us, just under 12 hours after we arrived. Back in Wigan, his mum cooks me a piece of baked white fish and a small jacket potato – the first food I’ve actually wanted in 2 days, we bath Nicholas and I finally get to sleep.
So, plane broken due to airport staff error, 12 hours in the airport, £10 to cover the entire day, and appalling customer service. We better get more than just the flight refunded…
grateful
sad
thoughtful
annoyed