Calm mum wannabe

I'm just a calm mum wannabe, muddling on through from tantrum to tantrum, one big deep breath at a time. Ommmm....

Saturday, 9 April 2011

One woman band and a celebrity spotting

We're home in England for a week. For now I'll just tell you about the journey over, flying solo with my two boys and an inordinate amount of hand luggage. My amazing partner takes us to the airport on his lunch break. He drops us at the check-in desk, pulls out a luggage strap and, with a nifty little knot, he invents a fabulous contraption that enables me to push the buggy with my two year old in, my three year old on the buggy board and all our luggage attached. All with one hand. He's quite something my man.

We say our goodbyes and I make my way to departures, gliding effortlessly through the airport, boys and baggage all under control. A veritable one woman band. I am so pleased with myself and my contraption that I have to text my partner on my mobile using my free hand. Because I can. I bask in the admiring looks and comments as I zip past people who are struggling with far inferior amounts of luggage.

Until, that is, I get to the security gate queue. I eye the zigzag cordon with a sinking feeling. I forge ahead resolutely, taking the corner posts with me at every direction change. Horace goes skiing springs to mind. I receive amused, sympathetic reactions from the people behind me in the winding tailback. As I turn the final corner, I catch the eye of a friendly man, and give him a “phew I made it” look. He smiles. I smile back. And then I freeze. It’s Boris Izaguirre (a Venezuelan-Spanish TV presenter: funny, camp, immensely likeable). Why do I get tongue-tied around famous people?

The one woman band is made to completely disassemble for the X-ray machine and then reassemble again. All bags and boys are on board. Tickets. Passports. Double-check. Boris is long gone. Damn. In a parallel universe we’d have gone for a coffee and I’d have told him about a night in Salamanca five years ago when I went to a party at my literature professor’s house with a bunch of other post-grads. My tipsy prof read aloud some passages from Boris’s (rather steamy) novel. Surely every writer would love to hear about a scene like this involving the reception of their book. Boris, I’m sure you read a lot of mum blogs... If you’re out there could I just say thanks for the beautiful moment. My dynamic, passionate and illustrious literature professor loved your book.

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