Air Rage

People behave strangely on planes. Air hostesses and babies in particular. On the way back from visiting Daddy Mason (DM) I felt awful (perhaps fearing my return to rain and rat-run) and sick. Very unfortunately I was trapped in a window seat by my neighbour - a sleeping fat man with fat arms.


So enclosed, I found myself facing a serious dilemma of politeness: do I wake him up (bad, but safe) or attempt to vault him and risk inflicting GBH (better, but less safe)? I ultimately chose the latter. I fled down the plane and towards the gangway by the loo. There, I loitered.


At some point an air steward spotted my pasty face:


'You sick? It's the heat. Very hot in the cabin. Get up. You can't be sick here. Sit here. You'll be fine.'


Ten minutes later when I was still there, cooled to the point of convulsive shivering, he reassessed. I was plane sick, he explained. (Too sickly to speak, I didn't argue.)


Five minutes later the ultimate diagnosis: low blood sugar! I smiled inwardly at this: a favourite DM diagnosis, it is occasionally true. Yet in this case my proximity to vomiting suggested otherwise.



True - it didn't look like this

'I'm getting you some chocolate!'

'No thank you,' I croaked.

'No - you need it! I won't be argued with!'

I was strongly reminded of Miss Trunchbull.

Helplessly I tried to ignore him into submission, but he bounded back with provisions. When I stuck to my guns on the chocolate front (a clear sign of illness surely?) he began conferring with his colleague.

'She didn't eat her supper,' pointed out another foundation-faced chaperone of the air, apparently sizing me up as one of those 13-year-old schoolgirls who'd 'forget' to eat lunch at school, then pass out a few hours later during games.

But WHY don't you want this
you ingrate?

I could only mumble feebly to myself. ('No, you bag I didn't eat "supper" because the plane was three hours late taking off, it was quarter to one and I'd already eaten. Also I don't really like slimy pork with indefinable croutons.')



'I've got your supper tray,' she said moments later, tapping me on the head with it to alert me to this. 'The one you didn't eat earlier, remember?' The air people exchanged knowing looks. The temptation to throw up all over their feet was strong, but sadly I've never had great timing.

This was a critical moment. Images of forcefeeding passed across my nausea-weakened eyelids. There was only one thing for it. I leapt to my feet - 'I'm fine after all!' - and raced back to my fat-fenced seat. Cured.