Opinion / Robert Bound
Winging it
There’s never a good time to miss a flight but yesterday was perhaps the worst. The plan was this: the Monocle massive fly to Zürich for a biannual pow-wow to dream big, plan stories, theme issues, eat Italian and swim in the lake. It’s a civilised way of doing business, sure, but not without that pleasurable tingle of nerves, the little shimmer and shudder of performance anxiety that goes with taking to the stage. You’re expected to have good ideas and, God damn it, you’re expected to turn up.
So you can imagine my surprise when I found myself in bed at 08.00 instead of in seat 7A. I blame Magic Betty (who is Googleable). What is the etiquette of missing a flight? Is there a good way to do it? Rather than excuses just board the next bird, of course. Though even our doughty travel agent replied to my email with, “Not again?! LOL. I’ll see what I can do.”
A reputation as a habitual flight-misser is tough to reverse. I missed a few one time in New York when a chef spiked my supper; I missed one in Zürich – the party capital of the world – when I found a nightclub named The Future; and, happily, I missed one in Amsterdam the day after the night I met my wife. In the end I flew to Zürich yesterday, jumped in a taxi to Dufourstrasse and turned up to the meeting dressed as Bob Dylan – sometimes the only way is to style it out. Also, I’m sorry.