It was Malcolm Wombat. You still available for work? he asked. We need someone from next Thursday. The job's yours if you want it.
It was 7.30 am. It was a Thursday. Was I available? You bet I was.
Flew over the following Tuesday. Comedic scenes at Heathrow Airport, where the nice BA lady (there IS one after all!) told me one of my cases weighed too much, whilst the other had some space. So the Future Then Husband took charge, as men (and future then husbands) often do...neither of us had enjoyed much sleep, and it was very early in the morning. Thus we spent ten minutes taking stuff out of the suitcase with not enough stuff in it, and putting it into the suitcase with already too much stuff in it.
The nice BA lady had obviously dealt with this scenario before (amazing what training they give them these days), and without looking even slightly askance - as if this was an everyday occurrence, three times an hour - told us we'd f*cked it up. Although in BA-type phraseology. (My name's Samantha and I'll be your F*ck-Up Monitor for the duration of the check-in...)
We set to again. Watched in fascination by an ever-growing crowd, happy that Terminal 5 was not the nightmare it had been reported as being in the worldwide press, but actually a place in which you could expect to depart for exotic climes, whilst being entertained by a couple of clowns masquerading as normal members of the public in a somewhat discreet, understated fashion.
Finally, it was time to part. We said our goodbyes. The Future Ex, with the odd tear in his eye (did you think it was going to be a normal tear???) turned and walked away. I watched the end of my marriage make its way to the short-stay car park, hoping the luggage farrago wouldn't mean my impending divorce was now deemed long-stay.