A senior moment
Remind me to avoid Geneva airport in the future. Coming back from a meeting about an exciting new book deal in London (which I will tell you all about once it is signed) I flew into the scene of my handbag abduction episode. When I parked that morning (at 6am so I was a little bleary-eyed) I opted for the unlimited car park. I carefully wrote down Red 17 so that I would be able to find my car again.
I trudge towards the car park in my pink heels which after a day in London are hurting like hell. It is odd, I think to myself, that when I arrived the car park seemed so close, and now it seems so far away. I finally get there, heave a hugh sigh of relief and put the ticket in the machine. “Your ticket is not valid in this car park” it tells me. I look at my ticket. Unlimited Car Park number 1 it says. I am in unlimited car park number 51. This could explain it.
So I trudge back, swearing at my own idiocy, unaware that this episode is totally minor compared with the self-inflicted suffering I am about to come up with.
It is now ten to nine. I landed at 8.20 pm. I have an hour and a half drive ahead of me. The children are waiting up to say goodnight. I am about to throw my shoes away they hurt so much. To say I am keen to get home is an understatement.
I finally get back to the right car park and put my ticket in. It won’t let me pay with a card and I root around my newly-found handbag for any Swiss francs in a total blind panic before I realise the machine takes euros. Phew. I find Red 17 without any further mishaps and sink thankfully into my car. I set Titty (the GPS navigator) to my beloved Blanchiniere and plug in my phone. Ready to go!
Now all I need is the car parking ticket. It has vanished. Much like my handbag days before, it has been abducted. I literally turn everything upside down. I even crawl under the car, cursing and shouting at myself. I am in total disbelief. It HAS to be here. But it’s not. So I look for the office of the car park, there is none. I decide to drive to the exit and explain what has happened.
But when I get there and the man asks me where my ticket is I am just too ashamed to tell the truth, to tell him (even if he is hidden inside a machine) that I have no idea, that somewhere between paying for it and getting to my car I lost it. He’d think I am a fool, which I am, but why should he know that? So I lie. I cross my fingers and tell him the machine ate it. I get very Italian and shout about the machine. And the fact that my handbag was stolen last time I was here, and that I just WANT TO GO HOME. Eventually he releases me. I blow kisses to the invisible man in the machine and head for the motorway.
At home the children are asleep but Rupert is waiting with candles and a glass of red wine. I am so relieved to be there I almost weep. On Wednesday we go back to Geneva Airport to drop Bea off. I think I might stay in the car.
Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008
03 Jul 2008 helena 9 comments
The Savoie is idyllic. It is one of the most beautiful places I have ever been to, rather like Devon on steroids but with mountain ranges. But this tosh about a peaceful life in the country is, well, tosh.
So when I go to collect it next week I will see if this is a literary thief (in which case the pink Montegrappa and pink Moleskin will have gone), a thief who cares about his or her hair (evidenced by missing Mason & Pearson brush, also pink), a pouting thief (my beloved lip glosses, mainly pink) or a myopic thief (my sunglasses).
If only we hadn’t gone to that cafe, if only I had put all our passports in the glove compartment as I’d meant to, if only I’d been using my Montegrappa pen instead of leaving it “safely” in my bag. And the worst of it is my nine lip-glosses and Gucci prescription sunglasses. I hope the little shit who stole my bag puts them on and falls in Lake Geneva.
I have had my eye on this little place for a couple of years. It is close to our friend’s Norrie and Mary’s house. It sits in the dip of a valley, surrounded by rolling hills and mountains. It is made of stone and wood and extremely simple.
So where am I? A McDonald’s on some nameless roundabout 10 kilometres from the Ile d’Oleron, our next island stop.
I have been to the Ile de Re on France’s Atlantic coast three times and every time it has rained. Notwithstanding this, I love it. In fact I’m sure after two months in the desert I will be dreaming of its green coastline and soft showers. 
I decided to join him and so after our European tour we are moving. The children are going to the French school and we are going to work. All very grown up. I will miss my afternoon kips and walks with wolfie but am extremely excited by this new adventure.



