Photographs copyright: DAVID McMAHONI'm very fond of my mother-in-law, but over the years, I've had a lot of fun at her expense, on the basis of this story. Back in 1984 I was based in London for about six weeks, covering Wimbledon and a Test cricket series. And guess who else was in London for a few days? Yep, it was my m-i-l.
You think you can shop? She'd leave you for dead. She enjoyed herself in London, checking out every inch of the city with her friends and relatives. Just before she flew out of London, she asked me to help her pack.
I was incredulous. Help you pack?
Something was not quite right here. I should have been instantly suspicious. But I think when I was born, someone disconnected the be-wary-of-traps circuitry in my brain - or what passes for a brain.
Something was not quite right here. I should have been instantly suspicious. But I think when I was born, someone disconnected the be-wary-of-traps circuitry in my brain - or what passes for a brain.
Turned out she had packed all right. But the suitcase wouldn't close. It held twice what a normal suitacse was designed to hold. To cut a long story short, I repacked the suitcase and actually managed to wrangle it shut. Mate, it would have been easier to wrestle a mountain lion than it was to lock that suitcase.
Next, it had to be carried down a narrow flight of stairs. If anyone had viedotaped the footage of me carrying that suitcase down the stairs and trying not to fall on my butt, it would have been an international hit. By the time I got it downstairs, I was gasping for breath, I had broken out in a sweat and my pulse had dropped to near-ER levels.
"Does it weigh more than 20 kilograms?'' she asked.
I snorted. It was probably double the allowable weight limit for airlines. So we weighed it. It was 42 kilograms. That's about 90 pounds. Huh, you try carrying that down a narrow staircase.
Then the penny dropped. I had to escort my m-i-l (well Mrs Authorblog and I were not yet married, so officially she wasn't yet my m-i-l) to Heathrow Airport. Let me paint the picture for you. We were in South Wimbledon at the time, and Heathrow was on the other side of the city.
And before you ask, no, the suitcase didn't have wheels. So I carried it to the nearest Tube station and by the time we got there, I was grey, had heart palpitations and my blood pressure was dropping. We had to change trains three times. And each time I had to carry the darn suitcase down the platform, up a flight of stairs and across another platform to catch a train on a different line.
But the m-i-l was striding ahead, whistling airily and turning around every so often to say: ``Why are you lagging?'' or words to that effect. Thank goodness Londoners are a discreet lot, or they would have called an ambulance for me, plucked me from the London Underground and tucked me up in intensive care, with an IV line in each arm.
So we arrived at Heathrow, one of us distinctly the worse for wear. And guess what? The flight was full. But the airline could offer her a seat the next day. My m-i-l was delighted. She clapped her hands in glee, proclaiming: ``One more day to shop''.
I don't remember what happened next. I think I must have passed out.
Logically, I knew I would not survive taking that suitcase back to South Wimbledon and then returning to Heathrow with it the next day. I was on the verge of an apoplectic fit.
Then I remembered that the airport had a left luggage office. So we went there, gratefully handed over our money and I watched as the strapping individual behind the counter tried lifting the suitcase. I would have gladly paid a king's ransom to have him take charge of it.
"Wotcha got in here, guv? Bricks?" was all he could say, panting.
Then I explained how I had carried it down the length and breadth of two London streets and four Tube stations.
"Really?" he asked. "I think the Queen should knight you for that."
Knight me? Naaaaah. But maybe Her Majesty could send the footmen round the next time, for the suitcase. And perhaps a St Bernard rescue dog, for me.
