Steven Isserlis

Or so we thought…

Because I’d had problems with BA before, and because both Olli and I like to arrive quite early at airports, we left before noon. At Paddington, we’d unfortunately just missed a train, so had 15 minutes to wait. We were both really hungry, having not eaten since breakfast; so Olli suggested we buy sandwiches. Horrified, I pointed out that we’d soon be in an airport lounge, where we could eat for free; what could he be thinking? He (rather reluctantly) acceded. Arriving at the airport around 12.30, we found Terminal 5 PACKED – I’d never seen such huge queues there; as Olli said, it was a good thing we had decided to come early. We had to queue for about an hour or so – extended somewhat by an airport official calling forward other people for flights that were leaving around the same time as ours, or later, and putting them in front of us. Anyway – it didn’t really matter too much, since we still had almost an hour and a half before the flight by the time we reached the BA check-in desk; and we had each other for company. Olli went first – no problem; his check-in went smoothly. On the other hand, ominously, the agent looked deeply concerned when I showed up with the cello, immediately starting to type aimlessly while shifting uneasily from foot to foot. After a few minutes, I suggested to Olli that he go ahead, and I’d join him soon.
Left alone with the agent, my spirits started to sink. After a couple more moments during which he looked increasingly dismayed, swiping my passport back and forth for no apparent reason and poking at his keyboard like a depressed woodpecker, he got up and left, saying that he’d be back soon. I waited, as the time ticked on, trying to ignore the furious looks and muttered imprecations of the people behind me in the queue. Eventually the agent returned and, with a brief apology, sat down – and restarted his pecking routine, without any visible results. Then he started to make phone calls, holding phones to both his ears, evidently on hold on both lines. Occasionally he’d say something into one of them – but then it’d be back to silent waiting, his face growing ever longer. At one point he looked up. ‘The problem is that the ticket was wrongly booked,’ he said accusingly. ‘No it was NOT,’ I replied through clenched teeth. ‘This happens every time with BA – it’s a fault in the system.’ Unconvinced, he went back to his waiting game. Time was slipping away – it was now less than an hour till the flight was supposed to be departing. Olli texted and asked if I’d like him to buy me a sandwich; I told him to get one that he would enjoy for himself, if I couldn’t make it. Nevertheless, at that point I thought I would make it – just. More fool I…

Now a supervisor came over, and the two conferred. My hopes rose – and sank again, as, peering uncomprehendingly at the computer, she started to look as confused as her colleague. Another twenty minutes went by – barely half an hour now until departure. I asked the agent – as he sat miserably with the two phones glued to his by-now-squashed ears – if he thought there was any chance of my making the flight. ‘Check-in’s closed,’ he said, ‘but we’re trying to get them to reopen it.’ I told him that I had a live BBC radio interview that evening; this only served to deepen his gloom. With twenty minutes to go, he turned to his colleague and conferred once again, seeming to come to some decision. I asked what was happening. ‘We’re booking you with Alitalia at 6.20,’ he informed me. Joy incarnate. So – no interview; and a different terminal. Eventually, he handed me a ticket. ’This is your AlItalia ticket,’ he said. ‘You have to go to terminal 2 now.’ I asked whether there might be any chance of getting some help with my cello and two suitcases. ’No,’ was the firm reply. ‘You could take a taxi, though, and ask BA if they might refund the fare.’

I took the train, and struggled over to Terminal 2. The staff at the desk for ITA (no longer AlItalia, in fact, despite BA’s assertion) didn’t seem as delighted to see me as I might have hoped. I arrived with my trolley. ‘Don’t just park it there,’ snapped the check-in agent – her first words. I pointed out that my suitcases were still on it, and that I would return it later. She raised her eyes to heaven, and demanded to see my passport and ticket. (In fact, she and I bonded after a bit; she asked what I was supposed to be doing in Milan, and then whether there was anything of my playing on Youtube – but was then reprimanded by her supervisor for this, and sent away to another desk.) I duly handed them over, and waited. She started her own, rather more Italian, version of the pecking game, and then asked her supervisor to come over, which he did. (I think it was at this point that he dismissed my friend the first agent, and replaced her with another.) I sighed – but at least time was on my side; it wasn’t long after 3, so I had around 3 hours. Supervisor and agent conferred, pecked, swiped, telephoned – and then turned to me. ‘BA have booked a seat for you, but not for your cello. You must not have paid for a seat for it in the first place.’ I have to admit that at this point my demeanour was not as cool and charming as it is in normal times. I tried to find proof on my phone, but couldn’t; then, cursing, pulled out my computer and showed them the original BA ticket, clearly stating that I’d bought a seat for the cello. They looked at it, accepted it, but reaffirmed that BA had not purchased a new seat for the cello – only for me. They advised me to call BA and sort it out with them. ‘It’s not fair that they dump it on us,’ said the supervisor crossly. I called Amex – who had booked the flight – and (after a long time on hold) was put through to a cheerful-sounding young lady called Kat (or Cat). I explained the situation, and asked her to call BA; she said she’d try, but warned me that since it was a Sunday afternoon, she wasn’t sure they’d answer. She told me to wait, and she’d call me back. So I stood and waited – while the agent and supervisor took it in turns to make me feel worse about causing them such problems. (For distraction, I made and received calls dealing with the cancelled interview.) I suggested to the supervisor that the only way around this might be for me to buy a new ticket for the cello. ‘Yes, perhaps,’ agreed the supervisor, ‘but you can’t do it here. We’re not allowed to sell a cabin baggage ticket at the airport – you’d have to go through the call centre. And it’s a Sunday afternoon; and it’s probably too late to do it anyway…’

Eventually, Kat (or Cat) called back. ’Sorry, I’ve tried three numbers at BA, but none of them answered.’ She asked to speak to the ITA agent (the supervisor having dematerialised for the moment). I asked the latter whether she’d speak to her. ’No – I don’t want to touch your phone,’ was the reply. ‘It’s not safe.’ I asked if I could put Kat (or Cat) on speaker; the agent reluctantly agreed to that. Kat (or Cat) said that she had tried BA, but no luck; so could ITA sort it out please. Very helpful. A couple of sentences were exchanged, and then Kat (or Cat) asked to be taken off speaker, because she couldn’t hear what the agent was saying, and needed to speak to her properly. The agent again refused. Now the supervisor came back, and agreed to talk to Kat (or Cat) – though still through the speaker. (He had a louder voice, at least, as befits such an important being.) He told her that the only way I was going to get on the flight, as I’d suggested, was by buying a new ticket for the cello. ‘I don’t know how to do that,’ said Kat (or Cat). The supervisor shrugged down the phone. ‘Well, since you’re not being helpful,’ protested Kat (or Cat) ‘I’m going to have to call my advisers and find out how to book a cello. I’ve never done it before.’ The supervisor’s eyes rolled in sync with the agent’s – at least conveying a sense of company unity. ‘Just go over to our ticket desk, and see what they can do,’ they advised me. I parted from Kat (or Cat) without an overwhelming sense of gratitude, took my cello and suitcases, and, as instructed, went over to the ticket desk. The lady there – who I realised immediately was pretty much the first competent/sympathetic person I’d met that day – was expecting me, and set about her task. Minutes passed – and more minutes; and more… After what seemed like an age – during which I stood and mournfully tweeted – I asked her whether there was a problem. She explained that the BA booking kept overriding her booking, and cancelling it – because of the cello, of course. Eventually she decided that she’d have to cancel that BA booking – but warned me that it could complicate both the refund and the return flight. At that point, I was just so desperate to get out of Heathrow that I agreed; in fact, I’d have agreed to go in the hold, on the wing – ANYTHING, by then. The whole process took her almost an hour – for which she was deeply apologetic. Furthermore, the tickets cost me something in the region of £650. Joy oh joy – beyond compare…

The ticket finally issued, she came over to the check-in desk, and set to with agent and supervisor, working on the well-nigh-superhuman task of checking in a cello. After much discussion, many furrowed brows and a whole new festival of pecking and swiping, a boarding pass appeared!!

The supervisor handed it to me – but there was one more arrow in his belt. ‘By the way,’ he warned reproachfully as I started to hurry away, by now rather late for the flight; ‘you’re wearing the wrong sort of mask – ITA doesn’t accept the one you’re wearing. You’ll need to buy a new one – it’s only ten pounds.’ A beautiful moment of parting – rather like a satisfying coda to a beautiful piece of music…