This article first appeared in THE WEEKENDER

8th November 2008

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Most of the time, when I fly somewhere, I pay for the ticket myself. Almost all of the time, in fact. For much of my travelling life I was as ignorant as everyone else in economy class as to what happens on the other side of those magical curtains that separate the plebeians from “executive travellers”. Suffice it to say that business class lounges and I were also not well acquainted.

Last year, however, I was fortunate enough to have a return ticket overseas booked for me in business class. The out- and in-bound flights were glorious: air stewards fell over themselves to bring me the finest food and drink, I played the part of the businessman by spending an hour or so on my laptop, I lay back and stretched out for a full night’s sleep ... at one point I thought I heard (although it may have been a dream) the angels singing.

Even more delightful to an airport-wary traveller such as myself, however, was the exquisite pleasure of killing time in business lounges. I sipped my free beer with cosmopolitan flair and ate my free sandwiches with debonair indifference; I sat earnestly at computer terminals sending unimportant emails and furrowed my brow to page through foreign newspapers while reclining on the comfy couches.

In fact, I got rather used to these perks. So much so that, when I returned from my sponsored trip abroad – having flown into Johannesburg, with a few hours’ delay before my non-sponsored flight to Cape Town on a local budget airline – I recoiled in aristocratic horror at the thought of a lengthy stint on the cold, hard metal benches endured by lesser mortals. Not for me, the bookstores, souvenir shops and crummy coffee joints of the domestic departures terminal: I had to find my way to an executive lounge, and soon!

I’m generally rather parsimonious when it comes to unnecessary spending, but when one becomes accustomed to life’s little luxuries (don’t you know), paying a bit extra doesn’t seem too painful. So I thought little of coughing up R100 to enter what I assumed would be the delights of OR Tambo International Airport’s Domestic Departures Premier Club Lounge.

Well, for reasons beyond my humble ken, the good folk at this particular Premier Club branch were having a bad day. My efforts at getting some work done were foiled by two Jurassic-age computers, only one of which was functioning, and barely – it kept freezing when, no doubt, its mouse-on-a-treadmill system seized up. A “technician” who was called in to help unplugged the computer just as I had managed to open Microsoft Word for the first time. The place was dirty. The coffee was cold. Worst of all, there were no little triangular sandwiches, or fresh food of any other description.

Summoning my righteous fury, I embarked on a sustained complaint that started with the poor woman behind the reception desk and continued until I had arrived home to send off an email to Customer Services. They were very good about the whole thing, apologised profusely, assured me that facilities would soon be upgraded and offered me a complementary domestic lounge voucher.

Fair enough, I thought, I’m sure to be delayed at a local airport soon enough; then it will be (admittedly temporarily) back to the business lounge good life for me. But infuriatingly – and I’m aware that I’m the only person who has ever said this – every flight I checked into for the next nine months was on time.

The voucher was about to expire when, fortuitously, my wife and I arrived at Cape Town International to be told our flight to Johannesburg wouldn’t be taking off for at least an hour. Just what I’d been waiting for. I waltzed towards the Premier Club.

At the door, I waited in a queue of two for about five minutes, but was still beaming as I waved my voucher at the receptionist and told her that my wife and I were belatedly accepting her Johannesburg colleagues’ collective apology. “This is only for one person. You have to pay for two,” came the sour response.

“You don’t understand,” I said, explaining the circumstances of my first Premier Club visit in more detail, and looking around for my high horse. “The only reason I am deigning to use your facility is because of a gesture of goodwill on the part of your company. There is no way I will pay to come in again. Phone the lady who issued the voucher. Ask her.”

She did, and I walked off in a huff to find some coffee and muffins for my wife and I. The coffee machine was empty. So was the baked goods basket. Refusing to get downhearted, we found a pair of seats. I kept a beady eye on the food and beverage corner, and before too long the supplies were replenished. I leapt to my feet, elbowed a few suited competitors (and possibly a senior citizen) out of the way and retrieved the goodies.

As I sat down and started opening the plastic wrapper on my muffin, Il Duce tapped me on the shoulder: “Mrs X says you have to pay for two people”.

I rose to my feet, whistled for my high horse and cried “That’s it!”, keen to make a scene. “This is ridiculous. Give me my voucher back!”

“Sorry sir, but you’ve used the facilities,” she grimaced, hiding a triumphant smile.

I looked back at the cups of coffee, each three-quarters full, and the muffins peaking out of their torn wrappers. “But – but – ” was all I could stammer, realising that my high horse was nowhere to be seen. “This isn’t the last that you’ve heard from me!” I declared, defiant to the end, and slunk out under the comforting arm of my wife.

We were due to board anyway.