A short holiday diary; the family is on the move...
Negative Soundbyters – a hearty good morning to you all! I am writing to you from the fairest Cape where the sun and a few clouds are battling it out, the Cape Doctor (the nickname for the south easterly wind that pummels the Cape Peninsula over summer) is writing out a “windy” subscription and the sea horses are frolicking in False Bay. And my bones are warm. There is a lot to be said for warm bones; my UK bones were turning into icicles and if I had to endure another news bulletin banging on about the snow, I might have lost the will to…..get on a plane to the motherland, put some shorts on, put the Caspers on display and enjoy multiple Windhoek lagers….never!!
Talking of planes….
Rafe experienced his first continental flight last Thursday evening. This is the ultimate test for new parents. We enlisted the help of a big gun in the baba department; Mrs H’s Mom, “Nanny” (as in not a “nanny” but a “Nanny”). Nanny is a baby whisperer and when you are at 40 thousand odd feet with nowhere to hide, having the equivalent of Robert Redford at your side, keeps the nerves firmly in check.
Rafe was virtually a first class passenger.
If I was permitted to check-in an amount of luggage relative to my weight I would have had a 160 kilogram baggage allowance. Rafe’s suitcase was easily the heaviest and taking into account his hand luggage and sleek Maclaren baby stroller; well let’s just put it this way – New Dad resembled an old packhorse slogging over a steep, rocky mountain pass.
Queues? Not for Lord Rafe. The little man flashed the gummy megawatt, transfixed all before him with the baby blue saucers, gurgled softly and suddenly doors were opening figuratively that I didn’t know existed, having never travelled first class before. (For example: check-in clerk to Rafe “Please come to my counter to check in your bags” or at boarding: “Please come to the front and board first”). The packhorse just followed in the wake of “coochy-coos”, adoring airport personnel and more fluttering eyelids than I could ever muster (and that was in my prime!).
I do not know what it’s like to lie down in an aeroplane. Rafe does. Once we had taken off I retrieved the “Bedbox” from one of the many overhead compartments which we had commandeered to store all our paraphernalia (sorry, all Rafe’s paraphernalia). It is a piece of baby hand luggage that converts into a bed with mattress. A Norwegian couple invented it – it couldn’t be anyone else – and Rafe was soon kicking about on his own bed. (We had made an executive decision to buy him his own seat; neither Mrs H nor Nanny nor I relished the thought of him squirming about on our laps for 12 hours!). The packhorse breathed an inward sigh of relief in his Economy seat; if Rafe had not embraced Norwegian practicality, it would have been an infinitely more uncomfortable journey and our bank account would have been a few hundred quid shy!
In the end the flight was uneventful. Rafe was breathing easy and all those sitting around us were also breathing easy. We have all been that passenger watching – and praying – that that family with the baby will not be within earshot - only for them to take up residence just a row away. You watch as your hand luggage which was neatly packed away, disappears under the diaper bag and umpteen toys. You hurrummph (inwardly!), avert your gaze and attempt to slide deeper into a seat that you are already sandwiched into. You attempt to find distraction in the inflight entertainment but the screen has an annoying flicker (the only faulty set across 400 seats) and when the seat in front of you is fully reclined and the head of your fellow passenger is nestled on your lap, you know it can’t get much worse….until having found some respite in a state of semi consciousness…that baby begins exercising its lungs!
The Maclaren was supposed to be waiting for us as we disembarked but this is Africa so it wasn’t. Rafe is not the lightest baby, but just seeing that the sun was still shining (going through a UK winter and you begin to have doubts), gave Mrs H renewed energy and we hurtled through the terminal building with the packhorse just about keeping up under the Bedbox, day pack and two pieces of hand luggage.
We navigated passport control easily enough; Rafe sat on the counter and confidently presented his passport. By then he had already charmed the immigration officer (gummies and blue saucers work miracles) and with only a perfunctory inspection, the officer waved him, Mrs H, Nanny and the packhorse through to the baggage reclaim area.
Two packed trolleys and a couple of bemused (or is that bedazzled) customs officers later, we were free of the confines of Cape Town International Airport and with the Toyota Avaaaaaaz groaning under the weight of the Hodson and McGibbon entourage, high tailed it towards Simon’s Town where my parents live overlooking the naval base, one of the homes of the much vaunted “fleet” of the South African Navy.
We arrived to a hearty welcome from the Grandparents. Having unloaded the car the packhorse drank heartily from the Windhoek trough kindly laid on by Grandpa and then collapsed on the deck. Nanny and Granny fussed over Rafe who was holding court in his first pair of shorts and t-shirt (he has similar Caspers to his Papa only chunkier and a bit shorter!) and Mrs H poured herself a very long flute of Methode Cap Classique (bubbles in local parlance) and searched out the final rays of the afternoon.
Happy families – who could ask for more.
Big Love to All.
Hoddy X
Pic of the Week
I am master of all that I survey....
