Suitcase saga

Ah, the vagaries of international air travel.
The pre-arranged cab came to A Flat on Abbey Road early. They tend to do that in London, whereas in Belmont we tend to wind up looking out the window and getting agitated. The cab service knew enough to send a station wagon. We each had two bags, a carry-on, and a computer bag, so we were riding pretty low to the ground on our way to Heathrow.
Check-in was a breeze. Actually, it was quick bag drop, as we had checked in on line the day before. We were sent to the shorted security line, which was unfortunate, as they chose one of Hubster’s bags to go through. He wound up waiting an extra twenty minutes for them to hand-screen it. I never learned what the issue was, as TeenE and I were busy trying to get into the Executive Club lounge. Of course, that didn’t work either, as the membership is Hubster’s and he wasn’t with us. When he finally did join us, they wouldn’t let all three of us in as the member can only bring in one guest. So, he was left with Hobson’s choice: He could bring in his wife, OR his minor teenage daughter. You can guess who wound up sitting out in the main terminal with the hoi polloi. Of course, the other options, that of letting Wife AND Daughter into the exclusive lounge, and sitting in the terminal himself, was not considered, nor was having all three of us reject their stupid policy and sit in the terminal in mute protest. It’s OK, I didn’t want to sit in their stinking Executive Club lounge anyway. As it was, when the gate was announced I got there fifteen minutes ahead of them anyway.
Our aircraft was a 747. I haven’t flown on one of those in a long time. That is a big bird that takes quite a thrust to get it off the ground. As soon as our ascent started, and within a moment of the landing gear being retracted, we were into major turbulence. I have never had turbulence that strong, and never ever upon taking off. We were bouncing so hard that a seat nearby was squeaking like we were in a ’72 Chevy on a country road. It was grip-the-armrest time, and I know that I was not the only one whose mind turned to those poor people on the Air France flight from Brazil whose plane broke up over the ocean and whose clothes were sucked off their bodies when the cabin depressurized. The three of us were all sitting in separate areas of the plane so there wasn’t even a chance to grab for a familiar hand. I was just about to check for the whereabouts of the barf bag when it stopped after about two minutes.
Upon our arrival, we heard Hubster’s name being called over the intercom for “a message”. One of his bags, the one with his medications, no less, had not left London. It would be on a later flight and would be delivered to our home at BA’s expense.
Son picked us up in the minivan, and we were delivered to 78 Oliver by our awesome firstborn. We arrived to find that NeedhamSis had made sure we had cooked chicken in our fridge, along with a large chunk of cake with our nephew’s face on it. He just graduated from Needham High, in time to allow his High School principal to move to London to be TeenE’s High School principal at ASL next year.
It is VERY VERY strange to be back in our house. It took so much physical and emotional effort to get out of here last summer that think I overcompensated, as I have never felt homesick for the house.
The cats are shunning me, the garden needs weeding, and I am looking forward to seeing friends and family during the next month.