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Marching orders
Sep. 4th, 2003 02:16 pmIt appears that I may be off to Parma in the morning!!!
Why, you ask, the bold italic, the exclamation marks? Well, because the bureaucratic contortions that I have had to negotiate over the past ten days or so have been enough to turn me prematurely grey and blithering. Everybody was passing the buck. People were giving me wrong e-mail addresses; other people were not picking up their phones. Airline staff were failing to find any record of a booking in my name. People were ranting to third parties about the disrespectful tone in which I addressed them. Other people were telling me to insist to the ranting people that the procurement of the plane ticket was their responsibility - and that they should contact the Ministry in Rome if they didn't believe me. Much of this was taking place through Italian.
My father (who's an Italianist, which makes the whole thing that little bit more convoluted) has been a rock and a tower of strength. He's unusually excellent when it comes to Weighing In With Practical Help.
So, until this afternoon, there was no ticket for me. There is now, apparently, a ticket, but I don't know where it is. It had better be available for collection at the airport (where I'm to show up - HOWL! - at 6:15 a.m. tomorrow), because otherwise I'll more than likely be shuffling off home with my tail between my legs and a low growl grating in my throat.
Let us hope it does not come to that.
Edited to say: I have a booking code! Joy! Rapture!
Why, you ask, the bold italic, the exclamation marks? Well, because the bureaucratic contortions that I have had to negotiate over the past ten days or so have been enough to turn me prematurely grey and blithering. Everybody was passing the buck. People were giving me wrong e-mail addresses; other people were not picking up their phones. Airline staff were failing to find any record of a booking in my name. People were ranting to third parties about the disrespectful tone in which I addressed them. Other people were telling me to insist to the ranting people that the procurement of the plane ticket was their responsibility - and that they should contact the Ministry in Rome if they didn't believe me. Much of this was taking place through Italian.
My father (who's an Italianist, which makes the whole thing that little bit more convoluted) has been a rock and a tower of strength. He's unusually excellent when it comes to Weighing In With Practical Help.
So, until this afternoon, there was no ticket for me. There is now, apparently, a ticket, but I don't know where it is. It had better be available for collection at the airport (where I'm to show up - HOWL! - at 6:15 a.m. tomorrow), because otherwise I'll more than likely be shuffling off home with my tail between my legs and a low growl grating in my throat.
Let us hope it does not come to that.
Edited to say: I have a booking code! Joy! Rapture!