Grisly gremlins on dreaded long-haul flight
In a few weeks’ time, I will be wing(e)ing my way to London. Actually, the whinging will only start somewhere over Morocco. First there will be a low mewling, then a low grumble and, by the time the third re-run of Harry Potter is played and I’ve made origami cobras out of the in-flight magazine, I will be in full Bee Gees whine. Night fever.
It will start with a child – a nice enough child when we were all gaily hanging onto the straps in the bus at the airport. I might have even pulled funny faces at it. God forbid, I might have even spoken to its mother. “Awww, keeeewt. A small person!”
At 34 000 feet above Pietersburg, the child – serendipitously seated in front of me – will stand on its seat and throw an entire herd of plastic dinosaurs into my lap. Still fresh of armpit and smooth of tooth, I will play along and hand them back. I might even do paleontological sound effects: “Grrrrrr, grrrrrrrr.”
The child will gleefully fling them again. Again. Again. Again. And when I finally “Grrrrr, grrrrr” and hiss that I’m going to throw all the Barneys out of the window, the child will cry for three hours.
Next, there will be The Talker. He will smell faintly of scalp, onions and photocopy ink.
“Where you going?” he will ask.
“Same place you are,” I will reply.
“What you reading?”
“A book about giving birth to cats.”
He will laugh and suck his gums. “You’re a funny one!” Then he will stand up, lean over me – his polyester crotch a mere whiff from my face – and scrabble around in the overhead compartment.
“Now, this is reading!” And he will spend the next 45 minutes demonstrating the functions of the Kindle.
He will also tell me he is en route to a polystyrene conference.
“Most people don’t understand polystyrene,” he will say darkly. “She’s the most misunderstood polymer in the world. But I think she’s the most beautiful.”
I will then hastily erect a small divider between me and The Talker made of popcorn bags and a Shape magazine. I will order two dinkies of wine and glug them straight from the bottle.
Four hours later, I’ll wake up. My neck will be at 90º to my body and one of my shoes will be missing. I will be as thirsty as a leguaan, my head full of missiles. The Talker will be snoring, his Kindle clutched to his chest. The aisle will be strewn with long-haul debris: empty sick bags; Jeffrey Archer books, crushed peanuts and pairs of sleeping, airline-socked feet.
In the toilet, a creative type will have made an art installation comprised of shredded loo paper, three splotches of toothpaste and a ring of urine. So thoughtful.
As I’m hovering over the steel bowl, I will remember that woman who got sucked down the toilet. I will remember the couple from PE who, half an hour earlier, had giggled their way into the cubicle to engage in a spot of mile-high contortion. I will remember not to touch anything. Sploosh. Blue liquid. Sploosh. Flap flap flap.
At dinner, I will spend half an hour trying to retain the structural integrity of my divider as The Talker saws his way through a chicken breast. I will wait and wait.
“Ma’am, you said kosher, vegan, halaal and gluten-free?” the steward will ask.
“Yes,” I will growl.
“Unfortunately, all I can offer you is a cheese sandwich.”
“Don’t worry. I'll just eat this advert for Southern Suns. Vitamin D,” I will reply.
At last, at last, we will commence our descent. Ripe of armpit and furry of tooth, I will chew 300 Endearmints and rub my underarms with the sachet of coffee that came free with Shape.
When The Talker leans over my and asks if I’m really reading how to give birth to cats, I will tell him I’m actually reading poetry. “Elizabeth Ferret Brown Ears – How Do I Hate Thee? Let Me Count The Ways.”
And then I’ll be off. In between looking at art, looking at the sky and taking photos of my feet, I will spend the next two weeks visiting ladies in travel agencies.
“There’s a camel safari that ends in Blantyre,” they will offer. “Or an overland truck that should be there by Christmas.”
I will shake my head and squeak like Barry Gibb. And then rent a small cupboard in Camden – With Free Fold-Down Mattress! – and ponder how to get home without getting high.