Flying is dreadfully stressful. It triggers all my paranoia.
Will I miss my flight? Will the morning inertia that insists I keep pressing the snooze button for an hour when I have to go to work make me late for the cab, thus late for my flight?
What if I forget my passport like the time me and my sweetie were going to Venice? (Happily I remembered in time, took a cab back home and got it)
Will the fact that my ticket has only my first and last name be a problem? Even though I googled “middle name on my passport, not on ticket” multiple times and every time it said there should be no issue.
Will I get spot-checked at customs? They’ll find the 4 bars of cheddar and 2 soft cheeses my parents are making me smuggle into the county, then I’ll go to airport jail and everyone will shout at me in Hindi about cheese. Even though I’ll be able to understand, I’ll be incapable of coherently responding because my Hindi is so bad. Why didn’t I learn Hindi at home better? Why are languages so hard? I should never travel.
I manage to rise on time at the ungodly hour of 5:45 am without much trouble. My sweetie is all warm and cosy in bed but anxiety is very refreshing as far as getting out of bed goes. I should try this for work but it doesn’t seem to work unless I know there is a plane to be missed.
Parent at Heathrow security points to a round ceiling cctv camera and tells the child
“Look! He’s watching you. He watches all the time. And if you misbehave he won’t fly the plane.”
Second parent adds
“…and he has a direct line to Santa!”
CCTV: God and Santa combined. Watching all the time
People in miniskirts and rubber slippers waiting to board. Envious and baffled at what balmy self-contained habitat they seem to inhabit.
I decide to catch up on all the schlock sci-fi/fantasy movies I’ve managed to avoid thus far. They were so poor that I wrote a review while watching them:
Maleficent: Baby puréed pap beginning to end. I mean seriously: Only breast-feeding mothers would find this movie moved them.
Divergent: A Dystopian breakfast club. Riddled with clichés and entire cast of characters are either intense douche bags or Mormon-cult ‘nice’.
Example quote from the movie:
“Well all this talk [of possible homelessness] is depressing… Let’s go get tattoos!!”
Sure, I always want to permanently scrawl some hideous tribal doodle on my skin every time I’m sad. What else!
The only good part of this movie was the pro-drugs message. Everyone seemed to be shooting up and tripping on acid.
Sci-fi plane fest served to distract from the person sitting to my left. And maximum distraction was required
Virgin Airlines or Virgin Flights or Virgin Atlantic or whatever they call themselves have decided to bleed their customers as much as possible by cramming 8 seats into the economy class of the plane.
8!! 8 seats to one row! I’m neither fat nor tall (I’m only 5″4) and I could barely fit comfortably in those seats. I don’t know how anyone else did. They were both narrow and there was no leg room. Squashed on either side. It was perhaps the most uncomfortable flight I’ve ever been on. It was almost impossible to sleep or even sit. The seats didn’t even recline much since their had so many rows rammed in one fucking plan so you were practically upright.
Virgin should rename it ‘Virgin 3rd World: Economy Class ‘S’ (for Slum.)’ Welcome Aboard.
What was a normal economy class, of 6 seats that you could actually sit in without legs cramping they’ve now called “Premium Economy”. Because paying over £1000 for a mere slum class economy seat is far too little.
Word to the wise people. Do not fly Virgin. 8 seats to a row is just unacceptable. Nor was this a ‘cheap’ flight. So fuck that shit and fuck Virgin.
Indian man next to me squirming, jolting and jogging my elbow the entire flight. Tries to put his knees up on the back of the seat in front of him, squatting like a toad, and turns on the call assist button twice.
We mentally tussle for the arm rest. I refuse to back down . I nudge him back each time he crosses the invisible boundary fence of my seat.
Clearly the man can’t fit in what is essentially slightly bigger than a child seat but deal with it dude!
He also has the sheer indecency not to leave his shoes on. On occasion the cheesy waft from his fat-ass feet rises up under my nose.
I ‘tsk’ in annoyance at him every now-and-then, and gradually, almost imperceptibly over the course of the flight, grow to loathe him.
At least the food was good and there was an iPhone charger on the back of the seat. The (only) nice thing about the middle seat is that one has the privilege of being the one who disturbs instead of being the one who is disturbed. I got up without guilt repeatedly. Oh the power! The Power!