Well Travelled Doughnuts

We’ve had a busy week and have been away for a wee holiday to Ireland. Which of course included flying. Anybody that says going on any kind of holiday is relaxing is 100% talking out their rear ends. THERE IS NOTHING RELAXING ABOUT AIRPORTS. Not one thing. 

First off, on booking, the flights were a reasonable price; £80 for both of us, return. Great, thought I! £20 each, each way! Bargain! They don’t tell you’ve you’ve essentially got to be nocturnal to actually get these flights though as they are at a time only known to most by “the time they rolled in the door last Saturday night.” So rather than leave at stupid o’ clock in the morning to travel to the airport, I will book a hotel. The cost of the trip is slowly rising.....

The next sneaky little trick the airlines play on you is booking your seats on the plane. Now, travelling alone, you wouldn’t be giving a rats ass where you sit, but when travelling with your 5 year old, it’s probably best you sit close to them, or even next to them ;) although in hindsight rather than booking seats 31A and 31B together, seats 1C and 30F might have actually been a better, more relaxing option but I would say sitting at the opposite end of the plane to your young child is frowned upon. Anyhoooo.....turns out that’s it’s an extra £6 per seat per journey  so I forked our another £24 to sit next to the devil child.  

The hotel was close to the airport and included parking for the tome we were away and provided a shuttle bus service to the airport every 20 minutes. Our outbound flight was at 06.30 so the girl at the desk suggested we’d want to be there for 04.30?! I was checked in and only had to get through security so hadn’t planned on being there until about 05.15 but I went with the 04.20 bus suggested by the lady. 

Alarm set for 03.45, grumpy child alert! Missy realised we had then left the Krispy Kreme doughnuts in the room which we of course had to go back for and carted all the way to Ireland with us. 

At the airport and straight to security. Missy won’t go through the gate herself. Although I’d be literally a foot away from her on the other side until I scan my boarding card and go through. He kind airport man takes my boarding cards and scans them for us and lets us both through together to avoid a meltdown. Missy the won’t remove her bag to go through the scanner, then won’t go through the body scanner herself which of course she has to do in case I’ve concealed something highly illegal on my child. I of course beep going through and have to get frisked and she’s going nuts when a lovely lady came to my rescue and distracted Missy and got her shoes back on for her (which she wouldn’t let me out on earlier because they were too tight; the same shoes she chose to wear 2 days prior to this, who knew her feet could grow so much in 2 days?) 

Finally, the gate is shown on the screen and we start heading there only for Missy to announce “this isn’t the the right way to the plane.”

And how the hell would you know? Since when have you become and expert on gates, flight departures and the layout of the frickin airport?! I want to scream.

Finally on the plane. Thank the good lord it’s only a 30 minute flight cause my brain is melted and I’ve only had one coffee ie. Not enough for this shit. 

We arrive and it soon becomes apparent that overnight she has become some kind of navigational genius as she seems to know that every road we go on is the wrong one in order to reach whatever our destination is that day. 

We did have some fun times though like playing “I spy.” V for van, B for bricks and H for house. On missy’s turn; “I spy with my little eye something being with Ch.” because I’m nice I give her the benefit of the doubt here. But could find anything in the vicinity that started with “ch”. Apparently “ch” is for tractor. No wonder I didn’t get it. Stupid mum. 

While we were there, anything she ordered that she want sure of i got round her by saying “they’re Irish potatoes, that’s how they do them here, they’re lovely,” or “that’s Irish fish fingers, mmmm!” My plan, however, backfired. 

On our return flight, which was still early but not the same ungodly hour as before we went to Starbucks for a coffee and milk. She didn’t like her milk, it tasted funny. When I asked her what was wrong with it she said “I think it’s Irish milk, from Irish cows, that’s why it tastes funny.” That’s Logic, right there. 

We’re now home. Exhausted but we had a good time. 

She never did eat any of the well-travelled doughnuts either.