Fancy Lounges

We have a problem with H. He’s beginning to take things for granted. I guess it is to be expected, the way he lives. When you say “Jump” and a room full of people say, “How high? Is this high enough? Should we run out and get a trampoline?”  well, I guess you get used to it pretty quickly.

The worrying thing is that it will rub off on the Minis. In fact, it’s already happened. Last month when we were visiting my family, my mother dryly noted that TC screams, “Taxi!” and lifts her arm every time she sees a car.

Yes, it’s a different sort of life we lead.

But this morning I decided he’s really gone off his rocker. We’re off for a 3-day trip without the girls (who are in the very capable hands of their “people”) and the airport limo took forever to get to the airport. Seriously, who drives down Shaftsbury Avenue?

Anyhoo, by the time we got to the airport, I was nearly chomping at the bit. As we stood there, waiting for the agent to get our boarding passes, Fancy here was moving left and right, rocking on her heels, pale and sweaty with anxiety.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” H asked. “We’ve got plenty of time. We’re not going to miss the flight.”

“Nooooo,” I whined. “I want to get to the lounge. I’m barely going to have any time in the lounge!”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. You have to get over this lounge thing. It’s stupid,” he chastised.

Really? Really? He wants me to “get over” my excitement about spending an hour or two in the lounge, drinking champagne at a time normally reserved for Cheerios, stuffing my pockets full of the complimentary candy and biscuits, nibbling from a plate of three different kinds of smoked salmon, shoving free copies of the Daily Mail and Heat into my bag?

I think we can all agree that if he thinks about it, the last thing he would ever want is to see me the day the lounge is no longer a fun treat. I’m sure that day is coming, but for now I would think he’d be grateful that his wife is not yet that Fancy.

Grateful. And probably embarrassed to be seen with me. My behaviour in airport lounges is sort of ridiculous. But can you blame me?