Angry bird taking flight

“You and your damned lists!” This from my mother in response to my packing.

I am a largely a disorganised type. Periodically I undertake vast cleaning operations and tidy up, but generally I muddle along through life slightly bemused by order.

There are always exceptions to the rule. One is when I pack. When I pack, I make lists. Copious lists.

If I don’t list, I’ll pack 50 pairs of underpants and no jeans to wear over them. This infuriates my mother, my husband and now my son, all of whom just throw stuff in the general direction of the suitcase.

My father on the other end of this trip said benignly, “Just bring a change of clothes and buy stuff here.” Oh for limitless foreign exchange.

 

My list currently reads:

  • Do not  have nervous breakdown.
  • Do not have nervous breakdown.
  • Do not have USB converter thingie.
  • Do not have Forex.
  • Do not have pharmaceuticals.
  • Do have white cat staring at me malevolently from black wool jacket necessary for travel.
  • Do not have nervous breakdown.

I duly went online to check in exactly 24 hours beforehand only to find that the entire aeroplane got here before me and there are no window seats left! No window seats! Horror.

My well-travelled spouse then suggested booking two seats on either side of an empty one. He reckons that no-one will choose it and then we’ll have a spare.

This is good reasoning, however, the thought of having to engage in conversation with a total stranger with whom I will be sharing air for 10 hours makes me nauseous.

The trick that works for me in these circumstances is to speak only to the air stewards or stewardesses. (Is there a PC unisexual terms for them? Air Waitrons? Airtron?)

I have had the farter. He ruffled his paper, lifted up a buttock and farted with silent and pungent regularity throughout the flight.

I have had the snorer.

A large, overweight man who grunted and dribbled like an irate boar from London to Ibiza.

I have had the window seat schmoozer.

He engaged me in lengthy conversation I largely ignored culminating an hour later in, “Well, as you’re obviously not going to sleep, could I have your window seat?”

I have had the chatterer.

She started speaking as we were boarding and didn’t shut up for 15 hours. This was the calibre of her monologue, “Look, there’s the sea! The sea isn’t blue you know. It just looks blue. Like the sky.”

When with great relief I spotted the runway, she said surprised, “Wow! We’re here already and I haven’t watched a single movie!” With great aplomb, the gentleman sitting across the aisle said, “We know. Oh God we know!”

My son is now completely useless. We fly at 10 pm tonight. It is now 10 am this morning. If he asks me again what time it is I may smash all the clocks. I have isolated him with a terrifying book about teenage vampires in the hope I may steal an hour of relative peace.

He can’t wait to get on the aeroplane. I on the other hand would happily miss that entire leg of the trip. Cattle class. No leg room. Terrible food. Neck cramp. Smelly loos.

I am not a fan of long haul economy travel. I can’t even sleep through it with the help of pharmaceuticals, because I have to teach a small child how to play Angry Birds!

What the hell is Angry Birds?

I have no clue, but apparently it is a vital component of happy travelling with small boys and is on my list.

Small Boy Aged 7 who is remaining behind is breaking my heart with huge eyes welling with tears each time I venture out of his sight.

His sister is resorting to suffragette tactics of chaining herself to my leg.

It is a very successful means of Gandhi-like resistance.

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One thought on “Angry bird taking flight

  1. Pingback: I Hate Flying « gordopdx

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