Living in denial

I was feeling pretty good about myself at 6pm yesterday.  I’d managed to tackle the Paris metro system from our hotel to the airport arriving before check in had even opened so as to ensure that we had plenty of time for a proper lunch and big run around the airport so that Alby would be knackered by the time our plane took off.  I glided through check in, security and boarding (Alby attempted to crawl behind the check in desks, walked through security by himself and started to get grizzly at the boarding gate ensuring we were put to the front of the queue and ushered to our seats in a very swift manner).  Despite rain and wind causing a twenty minute delay at either end of our flight, plus some brilliant turbulence causing the lovely young girl next to me to get covered in orange juice, Alby was quiet for the whole journey. (He slept the first half of the flight and spent the remaining 40 minutes looking out of the window, closing the window, high fiving our sticky neighbour, pulling apart the magazine and using the tray table as a drum).

I got us off the place in one piece and was able to keep a bored Bear entertained and contained during the thirty minute wait for our luggage and the buggy.

Bearing all of this in mind I was feeling rather good about myself as I headed into M&S to buy us some dinner.  And then reality popped up and smacked me in the face.  It reared it’s ugly head, pulled the rug out from under my feet and did all sorts of equally clichéd nasties as I realised that somewhere between the newsagents at Charles de Gaulle airport and M&S my wallet had gone walkabout. 

My gut instinct was that it had fallen out in the overhead locker or as I was stuffing Alby’s shoes back into the bag just before going through passport control but who knows, it could still be in Paris. 

So, we went to airport information who sent us to the “white phone” who sent us to gate E who phoned the plane to have it checked but the plane had already gone so who sent us to lost property who told us to go online and complete a form.

The lose of the wallet is an annoyance – it had money in it, not loads but enough that I would rather it be in my pocket at the moment and not somebody else’s.  It had some precious photos in it which can’t be easily replaced.  It had a range of bank and store loyalty cards which have to be cancelled and reissued.  However it wasn’t the physical loss which frustrated me, it was the symbolism because losing the wallet was proof that no matter how on top of things I thought I was, I wasn’t. 

It was a conversation with my Dad later that evening which really grounded me though.  To set the scene, I had phoned him before leaving Heathrow asking if he could get the bank emergency numbers for me so I could get the cards cancelled quickly.  He had been very sympathetic and supportive on the phone.  Once I was home, Alby was settled in bed and he had checked that I’d manage to successfully cancel all cards he allowed his funny funny wit to shine through.  In the space of five seconds he reminded me that not only had I lost my wallet but I’d also not known which airport I was flying into (true – on the flight over I didn’t realise until I was at Heathrow checking which gate to go to that I discovered I was headed to Orly and not CDG, having confused my inbound and outbound airports.) I had also not known what time I was flying either going out (I thought my outbound flight was at 11:35am, turns out that was when it landed) or coming back (I told my mum I was getting in at 2:30pm but my flight didn’t actually land until 4:30pm). So really, the wallet was only the tip of the iceberg.  Ah well, I may be poorer and a bit more dishevelled around the edges but at least I have family who keep me grounded.