Friday, May 4, 2012

The Axminster Principle

Before I return to the "Musical Time-Line", I just have to do this.

If you read my last post, you'll know I am freshly returned from my native England where I went for my mother's funeral.

Everything from the moment I arrived in Croydon till the moment I left went absolutely perfectly, but a word about "The Axminster Principle" is required.

"Sod's Law" aka "Murphy's Law", originally said, I believe, simply "What Can Go Wrong Will Go Wrong" but is has taken many sub-forms over the years, generally along the lines that things that can go wrong are also smart enough to know exactly WHEN to go wrong for maximum catastrophic effect.

My favourite of these sub-forms is known as the "Axminster Principle". It goes like this:-

"The Chances Of The Toast Landing Jam-Side-Down Are Directly Proportional To The Cost Of The Carpet"

It should be engraved somewhere. If I wanted a tombstone, I'd want it to say that, but I don't, so I don't.

Why am I telling you all this? Well, a trip crossing four time-zones to attend one's mother's funeral and wrap up her affairs in a week is SUCH a prominent, important and inherently stressful event that the Axminster Principle regards it as it would a priceless Persian rug brought directly from Sotheby's in a convoy of Brink's trucks and installed at great expense in your living room. That toast is guaranteed have lots of very bright, sticky jam and to land jam-side-down.

It did.

I had booked on-line with Thomas Cook. I used to work for them. They pay me a pension. They had what I wanted (well, as close as anyone else anyway) for no more money, so why not. They only did one thing wrong as far as I can tell and it's near the end of this story. That ranks them among the stars of the piece.

Outbound Itinerary:

Tuesday April 24th, 4.20pm, fly with United Airlines from Halifax Nova Scotia to Newark, New Jersey, United States of Paranoia.

Same day, 8.30 or so pm, fly United again, from Newark to London Heathrow, arriving 7.40am Wednesday.

Around 9am Wednesday, collect sub-compact, cheap 'n' cheerful rental car from Hertz.

My plan was then to go to my mother's nursing home in Dorking, Surrey, to clear out her room. I wanted to his first so I would have maximum time to dispose of stuff, buy more luggage if necessary, find homes for things, all that. I would then make sure I could find the places I would have to find the next day - cremation day; the Cramatorium and the pub for afterwards.

I was up at 7am. Showered, dressed, final bits of packing, car loaded, cats let out and got back in, I left home with LOADS of time. Drove to the Park 'n' Fly, Parked, got to the terminal with about 4 hours till flight time.

The first sign of trouble was at the United check-in. I had not wanted to go via the USA. Of course, I hadn't wanted to change planes at all but, if I had to, I'd frankly rather do it in the Lebanon than the USA; just too much "stuff" to deal with. Keeping people free with rules and regulations, hmmm. But, being placed as it is and having all the big airports to the right of Montreal, I had little choice.

I was not actually going to enter the US, of course. They would, quite understandably and normally, make sure I stayed airside while in Newark; just a transit passenger but it seems one needs a visa waver to do even that now. Well, at least, a UK passport holder does anyway. $14 poorer, a dozen or more stupid questions on a computer screen and a half hour later, I return to the check in, swap bag for boarding card and head for security.

Security was actually not as bad as it might have been. The line was short, the search cursory, I had no shampoo, explosive or otherwise, I had remembered to junk my stash of Cuban cigars, pack my lighter in my checked bag (naughty, I think, but they ain't my rules) and my name wasn't on anybody's list of undesirables so I was deemed fit to sit in a US airport for a couple of hours.

Once through, of course, there's no going back and I was still super early. I went to the bar, ordered a G & T (the official airport drink of this semi-retired globetrotter) and got my book out. About an hour later, having finished said G&T, I turned around to look at the departure screen to see that my flight was now marked DELAYED in friendly green letters (I thought green meant "go"). Delayed till 6:30 - over two hours. Enough that I would not make my connection.

I walked around looking for a uniform; any uniform - security, airline personnel, anything. Well, not quite. I found Tim Horton's uniforms (a Canadian coffee/donut chain), and bar/restaurant staff, but nobody likely to be up to speed on missed connecting flights. Having spoken to a couple in similar straits trying to get to Edinburgh, I got out my trusty cellphone and started enquiries. I ended up calling the airport. The person I spoke to knew nothing of any problem but promised to arrange for a United agent to be dispatched forthwith. Three arrived in short order, including "Ashley" who could not have been sweeter, more unflappable or more helpful. She rebooked me, and others, on a later flight to London, wrote out a slip of paper to get my bag re-tagged and I went back to the bar.

Another G & T, another hour, I turned around again. DELAYED, said the green letters. 7:40, said the time. Another 80 minutes and another connection missed. By this time, I had struck up a conversation with the theoretically Edinburgh-bound couple. They had heard that "our" plane still had not arrived in Newark; something it apparently had to do before it could come to Halifax. We went back to Ashley who rebooked us again - this time on the last London flight of the day, leaving Newark at just after 10pm.

This time, there were no more delays. The flight left around 7:30, by which time I had been at the airport about seven hours and awake for over twelve. It was a nice little flight. A small plane, two seats either side of a central aisle. I had a lovely conversation with my neighbour, Lena, going home to New York for a couple of weeks, and my spirits lifted no end. That's it, I thought, I'm a few hours behind but all's OK now. WRONG.

The transatlantic leg of the flight was OK - the Axminster principle was probably still looking for me in Halifax, though I did have to walk the entire length of the terminal from one gate to the other. This was probably a good thing - my legs needed to move. I got a coffee and cake from Dunkin' Donuts, boarded the plane and off we went.

So, not at 7:40am, but more like noon, I arrive at my least favourite airport in the world (Dar Es Salaam is better). Because I had a brand-new UK passport, the automated passport reading machine let me through immigration without any of the fuss I was to hear about for the rest of the week. It seems, with the Olympics coming up, there's quite a stink in the UK just now over delays at Heathrow immigration - questions in the house, all that, but not for me.

Off to the baggage reclaim where the carousel was already moving when I got there. Round and round, round and round, less and less bags, no sign of mine. Well, I think, it probably didn't get taken off one of the other flights (I was so tired by this time that I didn't realise how daft a thought that was - if I missed those flights, how could my bag catch them? Oh well), it's probably sitting in a corner somewhere. I walked around the baggage hall but, of course, found nothing.

More valuable minutes were lost trying to find a United person. Eventually I'm told by a floor-sweeper that baggage handling is out-sourced and United use "Compost", or some such (like I say, I was tired - this was now about hour 25 and still no sleep, my ears were blocked and the floor-sweeper person's accent was unfamiliar). I find their booth, or rather, the crowd of people swarming around the lady in a "Compost" uniform who was trying to get back into the booth. When she had dispatched her crowd of pushy bag-less passengers, she turned her attention to me and helped as best she could - granted she didn't have my bag. She traced it. It was still in Newark. It would fly tonight. "We'll deliver it to your home in the morning" she smiled. She gave me some paperwork and a little toilet bag and hoped I had a good day.

Oh well, at least I've got less to carry. Coming out of the terminal to try to find the Hertz shuttle bus stop, I realised I might have another problem. The voucher for the car hire was in my bag - the one that was still in Newark. This thought had barely formed when a Hertz bus went by. I waved frantically at the driver, not so much because I wanted to get ON the bus (though I did), but to ask him whether there was any point me going all the way off-airport to their facility without my voucher or whether I was better of just giving up and taking the Tube. He mouthed and gestured something to the effect that he either couldn't or wouldn't stop, and whizzed (as well as anything can whiz at Heathrow) away.

I headed off to the rental companies' bus stop and waited. 15 or 20 minutes later (it's now about 1pm, hour 26) the Hertz bus comes and we drive around roundabouts, along identical looking bits of airport road, under tunnels and so on for 10 minutes or so and pull into the Hertz facility. I think we were still in England, but greater precision eluded me.

There are three agents inside, a single line up of half a dozen customers behind one of those queue control ropes and some complicated looking computer terminals with phones attached. I take up my place in line and wait. It becomes clear that the agent directly in front of us has a problem customer but the other two seem to be getting along quite quickly, By the time I am next in line, though, all three have hit a snag of some sort and I start to think I could be here a while.

Just then, the agent in front of me - I take him to be in charge - looks around and sees that there's a problem. He beckons to me and suggests I use one of the computer terminals with phones - just touch the screen, he says. I want to tell him about the voucher in the lost bag - sure to need it now - but he turns back to his irate customer, so I go to the terminal. It's a cool fancy-dandy system involving a web-cam, a phone handset, a scanner, a printer and Barry. He's in Dublin - that's right, not London, not even Bangalore, but DUBLIN. Cool.

This works really well. We chat and process. I recognize Barry as a "North-Sider" and we chat about old haunts while waiting for forms to print. I sign, agree, ask about SatNav (15 quid a day, more than the CAR! No thanks). When we're all done, I'm about to say goodbye to Barry when the original agent rushes over and asks if I still have him on the line - he needs a word. I pass over the phone and gather that "agent 1" has just appeased his irate customer by giving him my car. I was so late, they'd given up on me and it was the last "Ford Focus Or Similar" they had. Good news: I get a free double upgrade. Bad news: We have to do the whole reservation thing again. Another 20 minutes.

I eventually leave with the keys to a brand new (800 miles on it), sparkly silver Skoda Yeti - which is much better than it sounds. It's a 2 litre diesel, square like a van, but very comfortable, SIX speed manual gearbox, but very smooth shift. I never quite understood the wiper controls (and it rained all week), the "climate control" or the stereo system, but I liked it. Later that day, out of nowhere, for no discernable reason, it spontaneously started to warm my bum. It wasn't cold out, just wet. I didn't touch anything, though there was a green light that said "DELAYED" - NO, sorry, wrong green light, this one said "AUTO" so maybe it did something. It also, thoughtfully, started to warm up the map book and papers I'd put on the passenger seat. Must've thought I'd get cold fingers.

They don't just drive on the other side of the road in England. It also RAINS on the other side of the road. To be fair, it may well rain on the "other" other side too but, truth be told, pulling out onto the A4 and later the M25 that day, I couldn't see far enough to tell. It was raining on my side though - and had been for quite a while judging by the flooding. The UK was (is) in a state of drought - Winter was too dry, low water table, hosepipe ban, all that. All week I was hearing jokes about "the wettest drought on record". Well, it was wet all right, I can vouch for that. I had decided by now not to go to Dorking to sort out my mother's things - too tired, too wet, too late, too hungry, postponement called for. I got on the M25 orbital motorway, meaning to head straight to Croydon, where I would be staying.

But it was SO wet. I wasn't sure the mirrors were correctly placed - I'd adjusted them before setting off but seeing in car parks is not the same as seeing on a highway - and the wipers were not responding to instructions. Note to rental companies:- IF YOU HAVE TO TAKE THE INSTRUCTION MANUALS OUT OF CARS, AT LEAST PUT SOME PHOTOCOPIES OF IMPORTANT BITS LIKE WHERE THE CONTROLS ARE AND HOW THEY WORK. WHO PUTS A FOREIGNER IN A MAKE OF CAR HE CANNOT POSSIBLY HAVE SEEN BEFORE (NO SKODAS IN CANADA) AND SENDS HIM OUT ON THE M25 WITH NO MANUAL? YOU DO, THAT'S WHO.

I've driven most things in most places in most conditions, but this was scary and I was tired. When I saw the "Dorking" turn-off, I took it, figuring that at least I'd be on ordinary roads where the things I needed to see were closer and moving at a more manageable rate. It worked, sort of. It was slower - MUCH slower. Many of the roads were flooded right across, the rest were flooded on one side so everybody was swerving about to avoid deep puddles, splashing pedestrians and so on. It took forever.

Deepdene, the nursing home, had been expecting me around 10.30am. It was more like 4pm when I got there. Parked in a residents only space (the only kind there are), I went and rang the bell. I met the new manager and some of the staff and, with help from one and coffee from another, set about going through the leftovers of my mother's life. Her TV had gone - I had bought it for her 3 years earlier and I'd promised it to my cousin who needed one after the recent digital conversion rendered his bedroom set obsolete. Asking after it, I was told it had been taken out for "safe-keeping". Unlikely, I thought, in a place where only the staff can walk but I said nothing while they sent for the man who had it locked up.

A nurse helped me go through all the stuff. Three garbage bag-fulls of clothes (give them to anybody who can wear them, the rest to a charity shop), various knick-knacks, ornaments, calendars of various years, some bits of jewellery (retained), photos (likewise), toiletries and enough luggage to comfortably take all the stuff I had to take away and more. Curiously and infuriatingly, among some unopened mail, there was a tax refund cheque. I had received a notification in February that my mother had a refund coming but had not yet seen it on her account or received a cheque. Here it was, dated February, addressed to the care home, also in Dorking, where she had lived from 2006-9. Why send ME the notification but HER the cheque? I did manage to deposit it to her account later in the week but really - a huge piece of luck was needed to avoid it getting lost. An hour or so later, I was back on the road, heading for Croydon.

It was rush-hour, of course, and still raining enough that pedestrians were soaked, half-blind and impatient. But I was heading into more familar territory - I was staying as a guest in a house I had once lived in for over 10 years - and was able to improvise my route to get out of the worst bits. Sometime about 5:30pm, I arrived, luggage free, exhausted, but home. A lovely supper, a couple of beers, some stories, some tentative (luggage contingent) plans for the big day to come, then I turned in about 10pm, about 36 hours after I had woken up to my alarm at home in Nova Scotia.

The next morning my hosts both left early for work and I rose, remarkably easily, around 9am to try to track down my luggage. United's website link to lost baggage took me to the Continental Airlines site (they had recently merged) which showed nothing about missing baggage, it just tried to get me to buy more tickets (yeah right, THAT's gonna happen). COME ON PEOPLE - THIS IS WHY YOU'RE IN TROUBLE - PAY ATTENTION. I resorted to the "pan-European" toll-free number on my claim form and was connected to a call-centre in....go on, guess.....Bangalore? No, good guess though, try again......Dublin? No, but it would've been nice to talk to Barry again. I'll tell you. The USA, that's where. I didn't ask but, from the accents of the three people I spoke to there over the next couple of hours, I'm guessing Virginia or similar.

Yes Sir, your bag left for England last night and should be there by now and will be delivered to you by three o'clock this afternoon, I was eventually told. Ah, but you see, three o'clock's too late, I have to be at my mother's funeral at 4pm and I have to drive for 2 hours before that. Once I had got this point over - 2nd attempt - they offered me an "interim payment". the agent seemed very proud to inform that she was authorized to authorize that. What does that mean? I asked. Well, in case you need to go buy some clothes.

I was still slightly groggy but could see the problems with this solution quite clearly:-

1. What if the bag arrives while I'm out? Will they leave it? (No, needs a signature).

2. I'm standing here in borrowed pajamas. The clothes I wore yesterday (and the day before) are soaked and dirty and it's pouring with rain (still). How do you expect me to go shopping? "Well I'm sorry Sir, that's the best I can do"

I said I'd wait another hour, call back, check for more news and, if there's was none, I'd consider the offer. An hour later, after much prodding, pleading and explaining, I managed to get the agent to tell me that the bag had left the airport and was on route. This was 11.15am. Even if it had JUST left the airport, even with the worst imaginable traffic, even with another couple of stops along the way, it should, I calculated, be here in time.....just.

It was. At 11.30, a van pulled into the close and my bag was delivered, only slightly damaged,

If you read my last post, you'll know that I made it to the crematorium and everything else for the rest of my stay went perfectly. Only when I left again did the Axminster Principle kick in again. I won't dwell on the return journey - it was mild by comparison. just a quick list of issues will suffice.

- Found Rental Return place after only 20 minutes of orbiting it but did not see any gas/petrol station in so doing. Got ripped off by Hertz who surely know that there is no way to return a car to them "full".

- My itinerary from Thomas Cook said I was flying direct from LHR to Halifax with BMI. The Hertz driver told me - correctly - that BMI use Terminal One and took me there. Only the third BMI employee who tried to help me when the electronic check-in wouldn't work realised thant BMI do not fly to Halifax. It's a "Star Alliance co-share". I'm flying Air Canada, from Terminal Three, 15 minutes walk away, with bags (extra bags now, Mum's stuff, remember?). Note to Star Alliance, it's members, Thomas Cook and any others guilty of the same - GET THE AIRLINE RIGHT ON THE ITINERARY - WE DON'T CARE ABOUT YOUR ALLIANCES - WE DON'T KNOW THIS STUFF - YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO.AND YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO TELL US.

- When I get to Terminal Three, the flight has gone. I was late, it was early, I have to rebook via Montreal.

- That's about 4 hours out of my way, plus the connection time. Sneaking out of Montreal airport for a smoke between flights, I met a man on his way from Cardiff to Charlottetown PEI. His story was very similar to mine. This is obviously not a rare occurrence.

After that.all went well. I got home about 9.30pm, toughly 6 hours late, but with bag, car and self in tact.

This was, hopefully, the last time I will have to make a short notice, limited choice trip to the UK. All the people I know there now are younger than me - I do not expect any more transatlantic dashes. So, in future, for more leisurely trips I will (this is a promise to myself)

- Go when I can get a flight into Gatwick - or anywhere else other than Heathrow - even a drive or train ride down from Glasgow would be better

- Not take a route through the USA. If I'm honest, I've never been comfortable there (except, for some reason, in Manhatten, I guess it feels like London) and it is now clear that the visitor there is guilty till proven innocent in the eyes of the various "Homeland Security", "Border & Immigration" and so on "services". They even asked if I had any Cuban tobacco with me!! For an hour at the airport, then out again? Really people, get a grip.

For the good parts of the journey, I am grateful to the very funny ladies behind the bar at Halifax airport, Ashley of United, the "Edinburgh couple", Lena, my neighbour on the Newark flight, the "Compost" lady - she really did try, Barry of Hertz, Dublin and the supervisor at Heathrow, "BMI person 3" who noticed why I wasn't in their system, the two Thai Air ladies who chatted at the Hertz bus stop, Oh, and the Air Canada steward who gave me more wine than I'm sure he was supposed to, without being asked - y'know, United try to SELL you the stuff!!!

And in the non-travel related parts of the trip: Veronica and staff at Deepdene, Steve & Sally. Bill, Betty & other Steve, Wendy & Sue from Nower Care, Graham the celebrant, Sally Sherlock and all from the Funeral Directors, Michael & Dave, Bill Hill and the Bog End Boys, other Michael & the Band at the Two Brewers, Bob Russell, Roy Hollidge, Tracey Williams, Bruce & Vikki, Annie, Robert & Lynette Soper, Carol Dean, Katie Broady and particularly, my hosts who made what could have been a nightmare feel like a vacation, Jackie & Roger.

Next time, I hope, Musical Time-Line Chapter 6.