FLYING BACK FROM BARCELONA (OR: WHY YOU SHOULD ALWAYS LISTEN TO A LION)

Lenny The Lion Goes Back To Barcelona

It had been a huge and a difficult day, as I had long since come to anticipate. Enervating, emotional and ever so slightly surreal, as I had also learned to expect on one of these trips. Yet I was still convinced that I was going quite, quite mad when I first heard the lion speak.

“Hello,” he began – or was it “¡Hola!” You will forgive me if I can’t quite remember whether he, the lion that is, addressed me in English or in Spanish. It had been, as I explained, a really rather long day and there I was, after a nerve-wracking battle through the rush hour traffic, finally through passport control in Barcelona, just about to board the flight back to London.

I looked around surreptitiously, just in case somebody else was addressing me, ideally somebody human. But no, there was nobody else in similar, audible whispering distance. I was also relatively alone, perched at the end of a bank of chairs, in clear view of the gate, just across a wide expanse of gangway, with the frankly garish gift shop on the other side.

“Yes, it’s me! Come closer. I don’t want to have to shout!” The voice appeared to be coming from the shop, from the skinny pyramid of plush toys, from somewhere around the middle row, one hung heavy with furry, smiling mammals and cartoonishly cuddly big cats.

The toys had certainly caught my eye earlier but I had thought better of it. Didn’t even enter the shop. I spotted a quiet seat and marched right past. I didn’t want to jinx anything, curse this latest attempt, by buying a premature gift for yet another baby who might never arrive, like the rest of its erstwhile siblings, all of whom had somehow slipped away before they saw the light of day.

As casually as I could, I approached the rack of toys, trying my best to look like a sane and standard day-tripper, instead of a lunatic, mad woman, apparently responding to an advance from a cuddly toy. By now, I had worked out the voice was coming from a little lion, who was opportuning me to approach, presumably for a longer chat. By now, he was beseeching.

“Twenty five euros. That’s all you’ve got to lose! Your kid will love me to bits! I’m begging you now? Liberate me from this stuffed and stuffy zoo! Surely you can’t let me go home with some spoiled kid, who won’t even care for me?  I want to come home with you and wait with you, for your baby. Please, please. Please!”

To be honest, it was the 25 Euros that stopped me in my tracks. Bear in mind that I was still trying, at this juncture, to appear perfectly normal. As far removed as possible from some geriatric, baby-crazy, fertility tourist who was reduced to chatting to over-priced furry toys in an overlit, scruffy airport souvenir shop.

In the end, it was a split-second decision, fueled mainly by embarrassment. I just wanted this encounter to be over. Yes, the price was high but it was a pretty fair exchange for the return of my peace of mind.

I carefully unhooked my new friend from the rack, where all his chums hung dejected, still captive. I walked hurriedly to the till, with one eye on the shuffling queue at the departure gate and handed over a crisp blue 20 and a worn red 10 Euro bill. As I stuffed my purchase, furry mane first, into the top of my shoulder bag, I swear I heard a muffled “Muchísimas Gracias. You won’t regret iiiiiiit!” But by now, the gate was closing and I grabbed my change, turned on my heel and ran.

I had a window seat that evening. It was a crisp, clear, indigo night and a crescent moon glided alongside us, over the Pyrenees, all the way back to Gatwick. My new feline friend stayed snug inside my bag in the overhead locker. I didn’t dare eyeball him, for fear of another, unsolicited and frankly uncanny conversation. Nor did I think it would particularly amuse the earnest IT consultant in the seat next to mine.

A week or three later, we first watched and listened to the insistent beating heart of our daughter, who would be born 36 weeks later on February 1^st 2013. Lenny the Lion was certainly her first, if not her only, toy. I am also happy to report that he is still very much loved and cherished and apparently occasionally chats to her too. At least he did when she was younger. Now that she is five, she may not have quite as much time to listen out for him as she once did.

I am actually rather sad to say that he doesn’t talk to me anymore, although I am pretty sure I have seen him wink in my direction, more than once in a while.