I picked up a calf strain while I was on holiday in Spain.
Looking at my picture, you might be forgiven for thinking it was while doing something rugged. Like sailing a yacht single-handed across to North Africa. Easy mistake to make.
Actually, I was injured while standing on my tiptoes trying to retrieve a box of chocolates from deep inside an overhead locker in our holiday jet. I realised I was about two inches too short to reach it comfortably.
I never knew they were so deep, but it was a matter of honour. I could feel other passengers’ eyes on me as I stretched and gasped.
I was scared some burly bloke would leap to the rescue and lift me up like a kid so I could reach.
Finally, my fingertips grasped the duty-free bag with one final push – just as something clicked in my leg.
And, so, I hobbled off the plane. Still clutching those chocolates; I would have given up my life for them.
You see, they were a special gift for one of my nurses at Aberdeen Royal Infirmary. It was an apple for the teacher kind of thing, and once something as important as that lodges in your mind, nothing will get in the way.
I felt like the soldier in war film 1917, dodging bullets and bombs to deliver an important message to the front line.
It’s the kind of attitude we’d like to see in people in everyday jobs which serve the public. But, these days, issues like staff shortages and recruitment difficulties affect quality of service at the point of delivery.
It’s very real, and disrupts services at all levels, from police and hospitals to airport workers and hospitality.
Sometimes, however, I suspect it’s just another weak excuse – like the Covid and cost-of living-crises were, in some cases – to mask deficiencies such as management incompetence and lack of motivation.
Kind strangers going the extra mile
I checked the chocolates again, anxiously, to make sure they were intact; lined up nicely in a box I’d bought at Malaga airport duty-free, adorned with a striking picture of a Spanish woman under the brand name of Dona Jimena (wife of Spanish military hero El Cid).
With a bright red rose on one ear, which matched her lipstick, and jet-black hair, she invited me seductively to sample her thick “chocolate bonbons with milky caramel filling”.
I can tell you that I almost ripped open the box before reaching passport control in Edinburgh airport, but resisted; I had a higher purpose in life. I had to deliver them safely to the nurse at ARI, as she had taken the trouble to answer my plea for help all the way from the Costa del Sol.
I’d left a voicemail with a specialist unit which has been supporting me for almost five years, since my brush with cancer. I told them I was panicking about something while in Spain.
Within an hour or so, she called me back and put my mind at rest. By then, I had taken up my customary position outside a bar for pre-dinner drinks, and I reckoned it was past her going home time.
It was a wonderful thing to do; that irresistible combination of kindness, going that extra mile, and quiet efficiency. I was grateful, so I bought a little something as a thank you.
Have we got our priorities right?
A stern-looking border guard dragged my attention away from the woman with red lips.
“May I ask you what you are doing in this queue, sir?” he inquired after studying my passport. I think I’ve watched too many spy movies: it struck fear into my heart.
“Because I paid in advance,” I replied pluckily, and showed him my “papers” (a confirmation receipt for the fast-track lane through passport control).
He waved me though and said I’d be surprised how many tried to sneak through for free. I wasn’t, actually, after experiencing the dog-eat-dog behaviour of people in airport terminals and on planes.
He also said we were lucky, as six flights had just landed, so we raced through to grab a trolley. Except there weren’t any. Not a single trolley in baggage reclaim, despite hundreds of passengers coming through.
I found someone with a clipboard to berate. “Sorry, but they’re busy and short-staffed,” came the reply. There you are again.
I couldn’t help but think that if they were prioritising correctly, then trolleys for arriving passengers would be top of the list. Especially for those with calf strains, chocolates to carry and wives who needed a new knee.
Chocolates delivered, I basked in the warmth of doing a good turn – followed by a terrible shock. I’d left my personal bag of liquorice allsorts in the back of the airport taxi in Spain. I doubt if I’ll hear from the driver.
David Knight is the long-serving former deputy editor of The Press and Journal
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