Sunday, 28 March 2010

Crusty Comes Home.

The short stay in Valencia was over and the journey home began. All in all it was smooth sailing except for a slight inconvenience at the soon to be refurbished Terminal 2 at Barcelona airport. Though many flights are now leaving the new and completely stunning Terminal 1, there are still some smaller companies utilising the facilities of the old one.

Upon arrival at the airport, one’s faithful houseboy Chu Me and I made our way to the main building. It seemed almost deserted as the escalatorial mechanism lowered us to the highly polished floor. Chu Me, efficient as ever, walked over to the information screen to find out where we needed to be; Terminal C.

For poppets who may not have travelled to Barcelona Terminal C (in Terminal 2) is a considerable distance to walk from the area of train disembarkment in Terminal B . It is certainly not a journey one can make easyily in Gucci two-piece and matching shoes. So, Chu Me and I stood and pondered our predicament. At the very moment of one’s ponderings, an electric airport buggy approached us. Taking hold of Chu Me’s arm quickly, one flung him in the path of the buggy. The tiny rubber wheels screeched against the polished floor tiles and the young driver – with a name badge identifying him as Juan - screamed.

“Buenos dias. One wonders if you would be able to take us to Terminal C, dear? One asked with a pitiful look on one’s face (One had seen Esther Rantzen use it many times and it seemed to work for her).

“Sí, Dame Crusty (Esther knows what she’s talking about)… but not I am able to take the maletas.” He said, pointing to one’s luggage and still in mild shock after his near collision with Chu Me.

One looked around for a moment and saw a rather attractive, older gentleman speaking English on his mobile phone. I sashayed quickly to his side, removed the phone from his hand and disconnected the call.

“Could you do Crusty a favour, dear? This nice airport employee is taking one to one’s check-in desk. Would you be a kindly poppet and carry one’s luggage for one?” As the unexpected good Samaritan replied, “I …I … well … my telephone …you want me?”

“Yes, dear, you’ve clearly got time on your hands if you’re just standing there chatting.”

“Well, I suppose…”

“Good show, dear!” One cried, applauding his enthusiasm.

“Which desk are you checking in at?” He inquired with an air of bewilderment. Banging one’s foot on the floor of the buggy, Juan began to jerk off slowly and one began to shout the information as our speed increased and we sped off into the distance.

“Terminal C, dear! Oh, and drop them off by Speedy Boarding, there’s a poppet.”

Within minutes, Juan had pulled up outside the entrance of the terminal and, kissing him tenderly in his forehead and patting him softly on the top of his head, one bid him farewell. It was approximately 15 minutes later when a man entered the doors with a face the colour of a ripened plumb. It was one’s sweet and sweaty Samaritan.

Panting heavily, he dropped one’s luggage in front of Chu Me, “I … couldn’t … couldn’t find a trolley.” He stood up and put is hands to the base of his back and pushed to straighten himself, while giving a pained look on his ripened face.

“Never mind, dear. You made it here … eventually!” one replied.

Checking in was very straight forward, however it would appear old Father Fate was waiting for one just past the security section. Chu Me checked the boarding passes and our gate was in … Terminal A!

“Goodness!!! Chu me, dear, if one has to sashay elegantly all the way to the other end of this airport, one fears Gucci heels will become Gucci pumps by the time one reaches the Salvador Dalí lounge! One is not prepared to wear down six inches unnecessarily.”

Dejected, one rested in a chair of a closed down cafeteria until Chu Me turned up with a small trolley designed specifically for hand baggage. One’s eyes widened at our good fortune and immediately mounted the trolley and sat comfortably on the basket section. Once settled, Chu Me pushed me the entire length of the airport. With one’s umbrella in one’s right hand and one’s handbag in one’s left, one felt like Britannia herself as one glided through the airport – passengers gasping as one passed - to the security gates at the other side.

A few hours later and one was back in Her Majesty’s realm. GUSSET 3 pulled into the wide gravel drive of Crusty Hall and, as Chu Me stopped to wait until the gates closed behind us, one saw Crotchet sitting by the old, moss covered bird table. He turned and his little eyes widened when one tapped against the car window. As we crunched along the drive towards the residence, Crotchet bounded likes a gazelle up the lawn and through the shrubbery to the steps outside the main door, where one’s good friend Fanny O’Dour was waiting (Fanny, Landlady of the Badger’s Snatch, always tends to my dear pussy when one is on holiday). Alighting from the GUSSET 3, Fanny ran towards one and we embraced.

“Crusty, I’ve missed you so much.” She said.

“Goodness, poppet, it’s only been a week! Tell me …Crotchet … has he behaved himself?”

“He’s been an absolute joy to look after … as always.”

One turned to look at Crotchet, who was now sitting erect and proud by the large plant pot by the door. The look on his face telling me he thought he was the cat’s whiskers. Indeed he was.

How wonderful it is to be back home.

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