Be It Ever So Humble

Tuesday 22 January – today is my final day here in Ireland and I intend to make the most of it. Naturally it was raining and colder than any day I had experienced so far in the UK. I dodged the raindrops while the now familiar sound of seagulls sounded above my head and shunted up to Suffolk Street and purchase my Hop off Hop on bus tour. This is always the best place to start. We struggled through the traffic on past O Connell Street, down beside the River Liffey across the bridge and past the Dublin Castle, Christ Church, St Patrick’s Cathedral, several ancient churches in ruins, Dublinia, the Old Jameson and the Guinness Storehouse. There is astronomical amounts of reconstruction happening in Dublin at the moment.

Several times we became stuck behind a truck as it unloaded building materials at a site. Not only is there a beat here, but a large Euro sign hangs above the city showering it with opportunities and resources. It feels rather exciting watching this city reinventing itself in this way. We took a small side street on the way up to one of the city museums and took beside a backhoe and a truck. We stopped. The bus was wedged between a bus stop sign and a monster pothole. It took 2 hours and 20 men in fluorescent shirts to move the bus and the passengers sitting on board. Not one person was bothered, as this is becoming a daily experience. You know in retrospect I should’ve taken this for a sign of things to come.

Freedom came at a price and time was running out so at St. Stephen's Green I disembarked checking out Merrion Square, the Writers Museum going into the Green itself and hanging in front of the Oscar Wilde statue, walking through the groves of Oaks and watching as the rain dripped its final farewells to me on the greenest of lawns and sweetest of tiny buds slowly but surely emerging from their winters sleep in hope for a looming spring. Outside the park, I ambled along the Georgian Square amid the oddly colourful doors in Merrion and past the National Gallery.

Then up to Trinity College for one last time, crossing the road in front of poor Molly Malone’s statue still trying to offload those old smelly cockles and muscles. One last time I walked over the bridge into O’Connell Street where THE shopping for Dublin is done and checked out a few shops buying too much stuff – imagining how I could squeeze more space out of my already heaving long suffering suitcase. O'Connell Street is the main thoroughfare in Dublin City and one of the widest streets in Europe – and it has certainly seen its share of action throughout history. The warring Irish had a rebellion here a century ago and some monument was destroyed in the process. Replacing it now is the very impressive 120m Spire of Dublin, a needle-like self supporting sculpture of rolled stainless standing directly behind the Daniel O Connell monument – a nice haven in the furious rain. My very british umbrella was suitably noticeable and I hid my face as I sheltered under it in the teaming rain. How silly am I?

Walking down beside the Liffey river, those seagulls that I have been hearing each night are congregrating on the boardwalk. How close are we to the sea here? Very unusual sight. Ambling across the bridge and up towards Christchurch, I checked out the Viking displays in Dublina and found myself sitting inside St Patrick's Cathedral to take a moment and dry off. A large parish priest wearing a purple dress sold entry tickets for 6 euros at the entrance in front of a large souvenir stand at the rear of the church. Bath Abbey was the same however St Patrick’s did challenge my childhood catholic roots. I was surprised at many plaques for Freemasons who were also parishioners. I realised that the churches with their plaques were effective marketing machines.

My hotel was directly around the corner so through the rain across the park at the rear of the Cathedral I tramped knowing my time here was almost over. A lovely final Dublin lunch at 2.30pm and my loyal taxi driver took me to the airport chatting to me about the joy of parenting a sixteen-year-old boy with a taste of independence and centre of self-focus. I got this same guy each time I caught a cab – and he was a fabulous Dublin guide – from him I learned much.

We got to the airport in good time for my 5.40pm flight – I checked in and waited patiently to board. At 5pm a delayed sign began to flash across the screen and I asked the customer service desk the obvious question. Apparently there was an air traffic controller’s strike and our allocated slot to land at Heathrow had been compromised however not too worry – we’ll open soon. 5.30pm arrived and I began to feel concerned. I called the Australian number on my Flight Centre itinerary and was put on hold for 30 minutes until I reluctantly realised they wouldn’t answer and hung up. After much questioning and researching I discovered the Malaysian Airlines desk number and advised the lady of my dilemma. She wasn’t too concerned and gave me until 9.30pm to get there. At that stage I was feeling optimistic so decided to let it go.

By 7pm however, more customers were freaking out and bombarding the airline staff who were suitably stressed and frustrated that they could not make a solid announcement. I tried calling Flight Centre again and after holding for another 30 minutes simply gave in. Poor Manny – I woke him up at 5am and begged him to call the Australian number for me and thankfully he got through after only 20 minutes and re booked my flight for the next day.

By 8pm, the airport was a scene from a horror movie with some passengers screaming abuse at the airline staff, others silently panicking and others simply sitting back in grim assignation of what seems now to be a standard occurrence in Dublin public transport interruptions.

By 8.30pm we boarded the plane by 9.30pm we landed in London yet my nightmare was not over. Everything in Heathrow closes around 10pm. The BMI desk steadfastly advised that my missed flight was not their concern and it was my responsibility to find a hotel at my own cost. So I looked for the hotel reservation desk and it was closed. I called a few hotels and was advised that there were no available rooms within a 20-kilometre radius of the airport due to fashion week and a large number of conventions. Then my mobile phone battery died.

There were no staff around to assist, I had no clue of where to look or who to call, and got myself lost in the maze of renovations and levels in Heathrow itself. For a moment it looked as if I was spending the night on the streets with my luggage.

FREAK OUT!!!!!

I no longer looked positive or strong and began to cry quietly to myself when an American guy walked past me and asked if he could assist in some way. At the moment of weakness and ultimate honesty, help arrived. So after blubbering my silly story, he advised that his friend had similarly missed his flight from New York for their conference and his room was still available at the Crown Plaza, which was ten minutes from the airport. He called a taxi shared it with me and organised the room with the hotel himself. It cost 250 pounds sterling for what amounted to a six-hour sleep BUT IT WAS WORTH IT.

I’ve not encountered many challenges in this trip – none when the boys were with me – and to miss my international flight home due to no fault of my own was inconceivable. To not be given any offer of assistance by the airline or airport staff was unexpected and I was suitably freaked out in a way that I hadn’t been once during my trip. So I guess on my final day, losing it under these circumstances was quite an achievement.

The little things truly are significant. The mundane of showering, charging the mobile phone battery, sleeping in a horizontal bed, changing out of skanky clothes and breathing in your own private space for a few hours – for me, at midnight I was in heaven.

At 3am, my phone rang and I woke up with a start. One of my sons called me from Australia for no apparent reason – just to say hi. I sensed that something was wrong however he wouldn’t expand and so I drifted off back to sleep a little longer.

Back at Heathrow at 8am, it took an hour to line up to check in. Then my new ticket had not been updated correctly in Australia so the Heathrow staff could not check me in. After an hour of haggling with them I called my partner to see if he could phone Australia. That’s when my nightmare REALLY began. He was at the Wesley hospital with the son who called earlier who was very ill, high temperature and connected to a drip and was being tested and closely monitored. It sounded serious. His violent bashing by the neighbour had caused a devastating affect on his health and thousands of miles away, I feared the worst.

Eventually after looking at their training sheet, together the staff and I re entered and administered my new ticket, I checked in and awaiting my boarding. The 12-hour flight to Kuala Lumpur was agony as I collapsed all the possibilities for my son and faced an unthinkable scenario 100% out of my control. My entire body changed form in those 12 hours and every molecule charged on another frequency from that point.

Arriving in Malaysia, there was a part of me that didn’t want to call Australia, as I couldn’t face receiving bad news with another long flight ahead of me. But call I did and it was such a relief to hear that my son was out of danger and released from hospital, still ill but at home and improving. That was a moment to remember forever.

Nothing else mattered after that.

Life is melted down to its very foundation – the love for your child will always take precedence over anything else.

My remaining flight to Sydney and finally Brisbane drifted by me and before I knew it, my youngest son was greeting me in the lobby pf the International Airport.

I loved my adventure in UK and Europe for Xmas, New Year, my Birthday and my work – it was a true success. However I have to admit that for the very first time, I am so happy to be home. Just to be here, at home, with my family, doing nothing of significance other than mundane basic human activities. The magic of my experience is here in Brisbane with me now while I tend to a sick child, prepare for the new school year, clean up my very messy and neglected house, catch up on business work, marvel at how I wore the same clothes SO many times as I attend my laundry and just BE in my home with all my stuff around me.

There truly is no place like home.