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Our flight from Dublin to London was late. This seemed to me to be very unfair, as we had risen at 5.00 a.m. to get to the airport in time for an early check-in. The late flight resulted in there being barely enough time to travel the mazy route through Heathrow to effect our connection with the flight to Rome (I think that we walked over 1000m. to reach a plane that was only 100m. away from the one from which we disembarked). I wondered if our luggage had a more efficient transfer mechanism.

On arrival in Rome, we made our way to the baggage carousel and waited and wondered. The best thing about waiting for luggage is that the people who trample all over the meek in order to be first off the plane get to wait longer. There was a single brown leather bag making lonely circuits like a distance runner in training. Why is there always one bag on a carousel? Suddenly it was joined by dozens more, and people acted as if Santa Claus had made an extra out-of-season distribution of goodies: they grabbed cases and bags and scurried away to enjoy them in secret. Herself's case appeared, and I was relieved. The luggage transfer at Heathrow had been efficient. My case and the bag containing the comfortable shoes should be along any minute. Several minutes later, I was less sure. We were reduced to watching the brown bag. There were about twenty spectators, including some I had noticed on the morning plane from Dublin.

I asked Herself to keep an eye on the carousel in case another delivery arrived, and went off to find somebody who might assist us. I eventually found the desk, which had no sign to explain its function. There were about five service points, of which one was staffed. Another passenger from our flight had found it before me, so I waited. The lady behind the counter interviewed him for what seemed like a long time, and then presented him with a form to fill. With commendable initiative, he took a second form and passed it back to me. I realised that I had left the baggage tag numbers with Herself, so I went back to get them. I also told the other people who were waiting (all of whom, I learned, had travelled from Dublin) where the service desk was hidden, and led a group to besiege the solitary attendant. There, the interview was proceeding like a police interrogation: colour of missing cases? brand name? precise dimensions? contents? And there were about twenty people waiting. I was beginning to see why the Romans had lost an empire; the mystery was how they got to win one in the first place. I made some new friends-in-adversity by reaching over the counter and taking a fistful of forms, distributing them, and advising people to have their tickets and their tag numbers ready.

Reinforcements arrived. Two other service points were opened. I approached one with my completed form, tickets, and baggage tag numbers. The young man entered details in a computer while I made shapes in the air with my hands in an effort to estimate dimensions, and tried to remember whether I had packed seven pairs of socks or eight. No need. All I had to do was point to pictures on the baggage handler's version of a sheet of mugshots, and that sufficed. The young man told me that the bags would be delivered to our hotel, probably later in the day or, at worst, in the morning. He gave me a card with a file number and a telephone number which I should use if this did not happen.

Only once before had my baggage failed to arrive on the same flight as I, on my return to Dublin from a trip. It had arrived by courier at my home 50 miles from the airport later the same day. Based on this experience, I was optimistic that things would be all right. So we made our way to our hotel.

The bags did not arrive that evening. I remembered hearing that airlines customarily supplied emergency kits to people who had become separated from their luggage. British Midland had, apparently, not heard about this. I had no razor or toothbrush, no clean clothes, and (worst of all) no change of footwear. The next day our itinerary was dominated by the baggage problem. The hotel receptionist told me she had been telephoned and advised that the bags were on their way. We hung around the hotel and limited our tourism to mini-excursions in the neighbourhood, checking back every couple of hours for the arrival of the missing stuff. This turned out to be our programme for the day, as the bags arrived late in the afternoon, more than 24 hours after our own arrival in Rome. A shower, and a change of clothing, and (most welcome of all) fresh footwear, and I was finally ready to take on Rome.

Aftermath

After we returned home, I contacted British Midland, told the story of the baggage delay, and invited their comment. I got a reply the following day, telling me that my comments were logged and that I would be responded to as soon as possible. At the time of writing, "as soon as possible" has exceeded two weeks.

Oh, well. British Midland go on my list.

2006 Update: Still no word from British Midland.