Husky Galore

This weekend was the Royal International Air Tattoo at RAF Fairford, one of the highlights of my calendar. I started packing on Friday night ready for an obscenely early departure on Saturday. The first item on my list was 'Ticket'. Easy enough, as it had been sitting on my desk since its arrival by post...except it wasn't there now.

Shit. Lost tickets can't be replaced, you can't buy them on the door, and I didn't have a working printer with which to print out an e-ticket, my only option at this late stage. After searching every corner of my bedroom in case it had blown or flown somewhere, I was grasping at straws with the idea that I might somehow have put it in the recycling by accident.

Our recycling facility is a massive bin with a locked lid out on the main road, into which everything recyclable goes. I had a peep through the slot and was able to recognise objects from our flat; nobody else round here seems to recycle, which usually makes me cross but was now a godsend.

I went back to the flat for some sort of poking device, found a broken curtain rod, and stirred the recycling around while standing on an IKEA step stool because it's a high bin. Against all the odds, I spotted my ticket, but couldn't get it out. I retreated to modify my poking device, pushing a nail into the end in the hope of spiking the ticket. I didn't succeed in this, but I did manage to work it gradually up the inside of the bin until I could reach in and grasp it.

Nobody stopped to ask what was going on during any of this.

The whole operation took about half an hour and isn't an experience I want to repeat. But I had my ticket! I was off to the show!

And that's a whole other post.