On the aeroplane

The man in the seat in front of me wants to swap his middle seat for my window seat so he can sit next to his partner. He glares at me when I refuse. Apart from the kerfuffle playing musical chairs it would create, I tell him in no uncertain terms that he shouldn’t be so stingy and should have bought seats for them both so they could sit together.

Well, I didn’t exactly put it that way, in fact I said it to myself, seeing as he’s a burly Lithuanian towering over me.

At least I don’t have to deal with all that nonsense we had during the pandemic, with exorbitant, complicated Covid tests and certifications. I remember getting an Air Astana flight from Heathrow to Nur-Sultan (now Astana), capital of Kazakhstan, during that time. We had to fill out a Covid questionnaire. Loved the questions: for example, ‘Was there a contact with the diseased or persons with symptoms of the disease?’, and ‘Place of residence or alleged residence’.

So I open my backpack and there are seven free magazines I nabbed at the airport. Can’t resist them. But it will ruin the flight, I’ve got to read the bloody things. Once I got 17 free magazines at Gatwick, and it’s even worse in business lounges, where there are even more.

Looks like there’s a good choice of in-flight films. Pity the flight attendant missed me when dishing out the tinny headphones whose audible output is only slightly more pleasurable than nails on a blackboard. I can’t for the life of me attract the attendant’s attention to get me a pair.

After takeoff a few people ignore the fasten seat belt signs and move to empty seats or walk over to chat with friends. It is quite surprising to see these people completely ignore the wearied flight attendants’ announcements when they tell them they shouldn’t disobey the captain’s fasten seat-belt sign.

It’s funny how every flight’s passengers are different, just like theatre audiences differ from night to night and place to place. This lot are pretty disobedient, while some planes are full of patient, polite goody two-shoes (and that’s a weird expression if ever there was one).

I’m given a coffee - or perhaps tea - I’m not entirely sure. It comes with a sachet of UHT milk that’s really hard to open, and when I do, some of the contents quite comprehensively squirts over a fellow passenger’s trousers. The packaging includes a suggestion to follow the milk company on Facebook and Twitter. Why on earth would I want to do that?

I suspect that the sandwich I am then given, with its insipid slice of pale bleached meat of unknown origin is a suspected biohazard.

One of the less usual in-flight meals I’ve had was an internal flight with Turkish Airlines from Istanbul to Antalya: figs, olives (with stones) and baclava. In-flight catering is difficult enough to navigate without grappling with olive stones and hands coated with honey and crumbling pastry. I understand they’re Turkish traditions, but hardly practical food choices on a flight.

Now the pilot tells us where we’re flying over and our expected flight time. Why do pilots announce expected flight times? Not only are they often inaccurate, even if you do land earlier than expected, invariably there will be a big delay in getting you off the plane because the airport wasn't ready for the early arrival.

Announcing flight times is as pointless as train arrival times at tube stations: it is a scientific fact that a London Underground minute lasts four minutes above ground. And don’t get me started on looking at weather websites. I just Google enough of them until I find the most agreeable weather predicted that day and go with that.

After a while it’s time to get some sleep - until the flight attendant wakes us all up for lunch. When it is neither lunchtime at the departure city or destination, or at the place we are currently flying over.

Oh well, only three more hours to go…