Upstairs, downstairs – how the other half live
A news story about golfer Ian Poulter (no, I hadn’t heard of him either, but bear with me) made me giggle this week. The poor man had been ridiculed, it seems, because he complained on Twitter that British Airways had downgraded his nanny from business class, leaving his wife to travel alone up front with her four children.
(I must just say at this point, unless her children are all entirely self-sufficient, I do have some sympathy for her, but that’s not the point.)
While Poulter was daft to complain about the situation on Twitter, his chief mistake was booking the kids and nanny into business class in the first place. Clearly he’s never sat on the Emirates A380 from Dubai to London with a bunch of expat wives.
If he had, he would have seen, as I did this summer, the hordes of women clattering up and down the aeroplane’s elegant staircase as they came down from business and first class between glasses of champagne to check on their offspring in economy.
This, my dears, is how the experts travel.
‘Ohh,’ sighed a cabin crew chap I was chatting to by the loos as another squiffy mum clambered downstairs from the bar to visit six-year-old Felix in 72B. We watched together as she tried and failed to limbo under the red rope barring commoners from heading up. ‘It’s all upstairs-downstairs on this flight.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘It was easier on the triple 7. Then it was just forwards-backwards through the curtain… no-one tripping over the rope. You can’t say a thing, though.’
‘Course not,’ I sympathised…
Next year, DH?