There are many things I hate about flying but top of my list is fellow passengers. Surely in this day and age someone should have invented a quicker way to travel? Airplanes are just so old skool… I want to be able to click my fingers and arrive at my destination, or blink my eyes twice whilst imagining a sunny beach. Why can I not spin around three times in a telephone box and magically arrive? Instead I have to endure hours of torture in airport lounges, frisks by security, over-priced meals, endless shopping and I always seem to be on the plane that’s delayed.
When I finally reach the plane I’m incapable of sitting still for more than four seconds, the fifth second of an eight hour flight sees the start of a gradual transformation from normal person to someone that may kill the next person that kicks the back of my seat, dares to adjust their food tray, reclines their seat, or all of the above.
Seat belt signs scare me more than the thought that P!nk and I will not live happily ever after
because we so will. The second it goes on I’m desperate to go to the bathroom or have an overwhelming need to find something that I don’t really want in the bottom of my hand luggage. I am absolutely positive seat belt signs are used by flight attendants worldwide as a means of torture.
I’m always lucky enough to be seated next to screaming children and their frantic parents or the guy who needs medical treatment half way through the flight. During one flight I had the pleasure of sitting next to a woman who vomited on and off for four hours… Normally I’m patient, but place me in a confined space with people I don’t know, or want to know, and I suddenly turn into a monster.
I’ve only ever managed to fly without fear of a nervous breakdown on the odd occasion that the plane took off and the seat next to me remained empty. Mind you, this absolute pleasure is only realised after thirty minutes of torture. Thirty minutes spent looking at boarding passengers and crossing fingers that the scary looking guy who is walking towards you is not the one who is going to share your breathing space for the next eight hours. Relief comes as the screaming children pass by, the old fella who you know is going to tell you his life story sits in the seat behind and the lady that really should have booked two seats sits down a few rows in front…
Alone for eight hours to stretch out, put my feet up on the seat next to me and use the arm rest without fighting for it. Bliss.