TEARS FOR TIERS

The race is on. 

Amazon Alexa has just informed me that there are 83 days to December 31^st. I have 720 Tier Points on Virgin Atlantic; I need 1,000 if I am to maintain my Gold status and keep the benefits of no change fees, extra Air Miles, and numerous other benefits I will never need, much less use.

   

I’m stressed. Last year, I went to Boston on Delta Airlines for dinner to garner the extra 80 points I needed. Delta is now a partner of Virgin, so it pays to travel internally to clock up the points (internal travel in the US is relatively cheap) and then use them on a transcontinental flight.

   

Feel free to stop reading now. Air Miles are my obsession and, specifically on Virgin Atlantic, Tier Points.

   

So, I’ve been to Vancouver (160 Tier Points) and Toronto (140 Tier Points) recently, just to boost my chances of staying Gold (and I really hate Canada – that’ll give you an indication of my desperation). Now, let me explain the discrepancy: I know you’re all on the edge of your seats about this.

   

There are different categories on Delta. Class ‘A’ gets me 20 points, class ‘P’ gets me 40. But is it worth paying the extra for ‘P’?

   

I also break my journey because that then classes as two flights. So, for example, breaking my journey to and from Vancouver was 40 x 4, whereas one of my Toronto journeys (also with a break) was an ‘A’ (keep up, people!) and three ‘P’.

If you book early enough, you can get 160 Tier Points for under $1000, whereas trying to clock them up on Virgin Atlantic will cost you over £3k to get 200.

   

Yes, those calculations are based on First/Upper – not because I can afford it but because I am very savvy with collecting Air Miles (I also need to have a bed on a long flight because of my ongoing rib and back problems, by the way). I have friends who travel in Economy who pay more than I do. I buy miles in the sale, and, until MBNA scrapped the Virgin Miles programme, I put everything on my credit card. Alas, that scheme has ended and I am now almost destitute of miles. 

I know. Third World problems, right?

   

I’m heading back to the UK for my 60^th birthday celebrations, but Christmas will have to be in the US. Virgin’s stupid new scheme re-sets my Tier points to zero on December 31^st, and the Heathrow taxes (irrespective of what class you fly) are ludicrously expensive compared to internal airports).

   

Now my dilemma is how I get up to 1,000 Tier Points in 83 days. I have two flights booked to and from LA (out of New York) that will take me to 880 (‘P’ category, breaking journey at Minneapolis on the way out and Atlanta on the way back – still with me?); but I’m still left with a shortfall. Boston is by far the cheapest and closest, but even in ‘P’, that will get me only 80 as there are no breaks on the short flight.

   

This is now occupying my every waking hour. Las Vegas is always a good option because, out of LA, it’s cheap as chips on Delta, and only a 45 minute flight; in fact, I could do it three times in one day and still be home for dinner.

   

The Christmas sale of Air Miles will soon be upon us and I will hungrily purchase everything I can in order to fly to and from the UK relatively cheaply. But it’s these damn Tier Points that keep proving the problem. What I really need is Lifetime Gold Membership, but I need to fly another 823,199 miles to get that, or to have another seven years as a Gold Card member. 

Gosh, my life is complicated.

   

The fabulous team in Swansea who chat to me nearly every day of life are like my closest friends; in fact, I speak to them more often than I do members of my own family. I’m thinking of inviting them all to New York for Christmas dinner.

   

Yesterday, I got Rob, who remembered having spoken to me before. He told me that when I come through on another line, he tells them that I’m lovely. I am. I specially like chatting to them after midnight Eastern Time, when they have more time to listen to me pontificate on my latest scheme for banking miles.

   

I also have to say that the Virgin Atlantic crews are the best of any airline I have ever flown with. They really cannot do enough for you, and if the plane went down, I’d be dying very happy (nevertheless, praying it doesn’t).

   

It’s only the website and Customer Service that let Virgin down and, since they installed their new system nearly two years ago, I’ve seriously considered switching to another airline/rewards programme.

   

But I’m hooked now. Tier Points are my drug of choice, and I would have to spend at least three months in Air Miles Rehab to wean me off the scheme. My only hope is that Sir Richard Branson might read this and, for the sake of my health, give me a Lifetime Gold Membership as a result of the acres of free publicity I continue to give him and his airline.

   

What a lovely 60^th birthday present that would be for me, Sir.

  

FRENCH KISSES

Writing about flying this week got me thinking about the happy years I spent in Paris, a city for which I feel a greater affinity than any other in the world. It’s my soul mate, and every time I return feels like the first time.

   

As I said in the last blog, I went there following 9/11 when, thinking about what my one regret would be, had I been on one of those doomed planes, it was that I had never lived in Paris. A week later, I was on the rue des St Pères in my apartment.

   

I had been in the UK putting together a TV show for the new television channel UK Food. It was very simple: celebrities would be invited to my apartment and cook for me. I would sit on a stool, drinking wine and interviewing them (I wonder who could have come up with that format, eh?). 

The channel was launching in Paris in the same week as I found an apartment and, when the producer came to see it, I said: “Let’s do the show right here.” Literally. And we did: 15 programmes in 21 days. Celebrities flew in, we shopped for the meal, had drinks or lunch in a hostelry, then returned to the apartment for drinks and a meal.

   

It was hilarious. Sue Johnston’s wig kept falling off as we argued over how much chilli to put in the pasta sauce. Julie Peasgood had a complete giggling fit when I was under-impressed with her dessert. Basically, she melted some butter in a pan, threw in some bananas and marmalade, and . . . er, that’s it. “What does it taste like?” she asked. I said: “It tastes like you’ve thrown some butter, bananas and marmalade into a pan.”

   

Sam Giles (currently Emmerdale) was the funniest. She’d been a last minute replacement for Sue Johnston, who had (Take One) arrived at the airport to discover her passport was out of date. Guests were required to explain the significance of their dish, so we had to hastily throw a story together for Sam, who had to cook a seafood risotto (all TV is fake, people). “Just say you had an Italian boyfriend who made it for you,” I said, time being of the essence.

   

“Okay, but whatever you do, don’t ask me what his name was.”

   Red. Rag. Bull.

   Champagne cork popped. “Welcome to Paris, Sam” (handing her a glass). “What are you going to be cooking for me today?”

   “Seafood risotto.”

   “And why is that?”

   “I once had an Italian boyfriend who cooked it for me, so it’s a very special dish.”

   “WHAT. WAS. HIS. NAME?”

   “Errrrr . . . J . . . R . . . A.”

   

Then, we were in complete meltdown. The more the director told us to get it together, the less we were able to perform. Sam’s story expanded with every take. Now, Roberto (as he was now called) had a grandmother who had come to his house one Christmas and . . . ” On and on. My back was to the camera and with every new detail, my eyebrows reacted with wonder at Sam’s extraordinary narrative.

   

We decided that maybe it was the word seafood that was setting us off. Or maybe risotto. Whatever, we just couldn’t do it. Three bottles of champagne and 17 takes later, we had it in the bag.

   

“Hello, Sam. Welcome to Paris. What are you cooking for me today?”

   “A rice dish.”

   

You had to be there, really.

   

It was one of the best jobs I’ve ever had in a city that never loses its magic for me. 

The warmth and smell from the Nutella crepe stand as I ascend the steps from St Germain des Prés metro, where the posters are nearly always advertising another performance of Mozart’s Requiem; the Hausmann influence of Boulevard St Germain, where the buildings never cease to awaken a sense of history, their gentle curves smiling like friends who are always glad to see you; the scent of rain and the flash of a red umbrella that turns the city into a work of art; the cliché of traditional waiters at Les Deux Magots – no place in the world, for me, awakens the senses like Paris.

   

I always felt I belonged there. As a child, my imaginary friend was called Andre – actually, not so imaginary; I WAS Andre. Despite never having been abroad or had any experience of France, even from reading books, it was my world. When I first landed there, many years before 9/11, I wept uncontrollably, as if my spirit was crying in relief that I had come home.

   

Even today, and loving my life in the USA, I feel as if I am merely on leave of absence from Paris. A bit like Gertrude Stein: “America is my country and Paris is my hometown.”

   

As the anniversary of 9/11 approaches, I remember those who lost their lives on that truly terrible day in world history; but I also give thanks for the gift of Paris it inspired in me. 

No regrets. 

To leave one’s life saying Non, je ne regrette rien is what I hope for. 

It’s a cliché, but La vie est courte. 

You see? Even Life is short sounds better in French.