Sotto voce: quietly, under one's breath, in a whisper.

Otto voce: very very loudly, at the top of one's lungs, screaming purple-faced with forehead veins standing out like an orgy of earthworms.

'And I directed Margin for Error by Claire Booth Luce, which opened on November 3, 1939. I remember the date because a German actor called Rudolph Forster was to play a German count -- he was a great star in Germany. (Much later he played a small part in THE CARDINAL.) One day I came to rehearsals and he wasn't there. In the middle of rehearsals, just a week before we were to open out-of-town, he had left, writing a very funny note for me: "Dear Otto, I am leaving to rejoin Adolf. Love, Rudolf."

'... We couldn't find anybody to play the part, so Claire Booth Luce suggested that I play it. She had watched me when I rehearsed the actors and she said I could very well play a nazi.'

~ from The Cinema of Otto Preminger, by Gerald Pratley.

I was initially puzzled that Otto would re-hire Forster after being left in the lurch like that, and for such a dubious reason! Then I reflected that a) Preminger was perhaps grateful for the incident that sparked his acting career, a useful sideline, and b) Preminger must have been aware that working for him was NO TREAT, and this was perhaps his oportunity at long last to scream his head off at Forster, twenty years after the original offense.

Anyhow, Otto's nazi was well-received, even garnering praise from Albert Einstein (great physicist, but was he a good judge of theatre?).

The play later became a film, which Otto directed, relaunching his stalled film career, with uncredited script work by Sam Fuller, still in uniform at the time -- it's arguably the first film Otto really put his heart and soul into, and it's NOW AVAILABLE.

Then I caught the wrong train to Dublin, where I was admittedly over-confident. After all, trains are much easier than airplanes. There's less mucking about: no check-in, no baggage check, no cavity search. Often, you don't even need a passport, which considerably reduces my potential margin for error.

And of course, I had LEARNED from past mistakes.  

Unfortunately, not enough . . . because we come to my return flight to Dubai. Again - and I appreciate that you might find this hard to believe given the incidents above - there was a surfeit of confidence happening. After all, I was equipped with a library of Hard Lessons, including:-

(1) Make sure you double-check the flight date/time, preferably prior to the flight;

(2) A driving licence is not accepted as a substitute for a passport;

(3) Get to the airport before the flight;

(4) Stand in the right queue; and/or

(5) Read the ticket;

(6) Bring the ticket;

(7) And don't leave it in a phone booth;

(8) Or anywhere else (I haven't actually LEARNED this; it falls more under the category 'Near Misses')

(9) Make sure your residency visa hasn't expired

In fact, I figured the only lesson left is to ensure I have a visa for countries requiring one, and there’s plenty of time for that one.

That morning, I was up at 06:45hrs, packed some final bits and pieces and bade farewell to Róisín's boyfriend, whose flat we were staying in. It was around about then that I checked my bag for passport presence and . . . it wasn't there. You might say the presence was poor to non-existent.

Hard Lesson #10: relative proximity of passport. (Ok, so I actually learned that on a business trip, but it was over 10 years ago so it was about time for a refresher course.)

We guessed that the most likely location of the passport was Róisín's flat, at which point I spent five minutes running around in circles screaming, which gave Róisín an opportunity to waterproof her new Ugg Boots. Seriously. I was wearing a hole in Tim's welcome mat, going: 'We might be able to make it to the airport via your house in time if we leave now, I mean NOW in the immediate sense of the word,' while Róisín sprayed her Ugg Boots: 'Just a second, I need to do the heel'.

Then we exited the door at a gallop. Róisín's sense of time is rather Irish; she was confident we'd make the trip from Clapham South to Walthamstow Central in twenty minutes, including a stop-off for coffee.

An hour and 3 litres of cold sweat later, we arrived at Walthamstow Central and charged a taxi.

"You forgot your passport?" said our driver, slapping the steering wheel. "That's a joke. Ha ha! Very funny."

"You know, firstly," I said, chillingly, "I'm not finding it all that funny, joke-wise. Secondly, I think it's technically more a cliché than a joke."

"Why didn't you check your bag before you left the house?" enquired our driver.

"Good question," said Róisín. "Niamh?"

"You should always check your bag before leaving the house," advised our driver.

"Thanks for the tip," I said. "<mutter: Don't count on getting one yourself>"

"Once I picked up a woman. She was all excited. Going on holiday, you know? I brought her all the way to Heathrow. Then remembered she left her passport at home. I had to drive her back."

"And?" said Róisín, ever idealistically yearning for the happy ending.

"She missed her flight."

My passport was on Róisín's living room sofa underneath a duvet.

On our way back to Walthamstow Central, Róisín rang Tim, who had checked the Emirates flights from London and established that there were seats free on the 14:15 flight. I am strongly encouraging Róisín to marry the man. One second after it opened, I rang the Emirates Service Desk and booked myself onto the afternoon flight.

Róisín didn't slag me off once. Either the woman can't recognise an opportunity, or she's a saint.

The following text exchange with Andrew reminds me why I am blessed to be with him:- 

Me: Missed flight :-(

AT: Bugger. What happened? 

Me: Which would you believe? (a) The flight was cancelled (b) A flock of rogue sheep took over Heathrow (c) The wing fell off the airplane (d) I forgot my passport 

AT: Those dam sheep :-)

I like to think Husband was so thrilled to see me he didn't mind my arriving at 01:00hrs