The love that dare not speak its name

Diary of a Drama Queen
By Mairead Wilmot
I’M traumatised, I tell you, traumatised.

My previously perfect airport record is ruined. These are the perils of dating a foreigner, I presume – that and having to deal with doses of racism from my family. “You’re dating an English man?” spat Papa Wilmot when he found out. “Yes,” I replied. “As in, someone from England?” he asked again. “Yes.”

There was a deep intake of breath followed by a long: “Jeeeeeesssssuuuuussssss Christ.”

“What’s wrong with that, Dad?” I ask pointedly.

“Oh, nothing at all,” he says. “They just raped and pillaged our lands for hundreds of years, but nothing at all wrong with it.” “Might I remind you our surname is Wilmot, Dad: I’d say we were in the thick of it,” I tell him.

Moving on, yes, I am dating an English man. I don’t necessarily feel I have to explain how this came to pass, but since you all asked … he’s friends with my friend’s boyfriend. We decided that we would try to see each other every two weeks; he’ll fly here and I’ll fly there, and so on and so forth.

I didn’t really mind getting involved in such a dalliance because I own a regulation-size bag which fits exact airport standards so I didn’t anticipate having any problems with engaging in a long-distance relationship. And so, in keeping with the to-ing and fro-ing nature of our relationship, we block-booked several weekends in advance.

Just yesterday, after receiving threatening emails from Ryanair, I sat down to check myself in for my flight. I did all the usual things, like repeatedly checking my passport number to ensure I did not enter a wrong digit. I obsessively clicked Ireland as my country of origin, made sure my date of birth was in fact my date of birth, and so on and so forth. Then, after rechecking everything, I checked in.

I pressed print and out came a boarding pass ... but I was momentarily confused.

“Why is there only one boarding pass for my outgoing flight? I definitely booked a return flight for Monday morning, like, I definitely did,” I said to my computer screen.

At that stage, I thought it would be a lovely idea to panic. You know, just because I hadn’t panicked about something in at least an hour. Although, I must admit I did feel this was a relatively valid source of stress. “I’ll be trapped in England,” I announced to the person going out with me. “I’ve no boarding pass for my return flight. People will think I’ve been kidnapped. I have no idea how this has happened but it is safe to say that I am certainly not to blame.” “Are you SURE you booked the flights

correctly?” he asked.

“Are you implying that I have done something wrong? Because I have a flawless airport record, I would never do something so utterly stupid. People who book flights incorrectly deserve to be put into homes.”

“Right ... but all the same, would you just go back and recheck the flights you’ve booked again? Just to be sure.” “I have done that! My flights are perfect.”

“Okay, but maybe you should just have another look anyway. Go back with a clear head instead of overreacting.” I decided I would let the “overreacting” comment slide.

Armed with a calendar, I agreed to go and have yet another look at the flights I’d booked but not before I’d made significant threats to Ryanair, which

thankfully were not recorded. I looked at the dates, and then I looked again, and then I looked again. I could see nothing wrong, so I looked again. Eventually, I was forced to admit defeat and email a friend my flight details to see if she could spot the error.

I told her the sorry tale, recounted my fears about being trapped in England for the remainder of my days and pointed out that I absolutely could not have done anything wrong because I have a flawless airport record.

“You have a flawless airport record, do you?” she emailed back. “Yes,” I replied.

“Why did you book your return flight for two months’ time then?”