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.

London Rogues part 3: Banking Crisis

Way to BOF's heart,
in case you're interested

After a slightly unlikely night out a couple of days ago, a friend and I at last decided to head back to the Pad for tea and sleep. [Poor old BOF almost tried to pretend he hadn't been woken up at 4 by my confused babbling, but this was an unconvincing politeness too far. Gifts of blueberries followed - Countryside gold dust - and concerned readers should note that Pad sleep patterns have now been restored.] 

As Tactful Friend and I made to leave (she, fleeing hordes of eager suitors), some Heroic young gent (Hyg) asked where we were headed. By astonishing coincidence he too was on his way back to Pimlico, though he seemed uncertain about exactly where. We grabbed a cab. 

I still get embarrassingly excited about travelling through the city at night, so I spent the journey observing every landmark, leaving TF to fend off Hyg's banking soliloquy. Eventually I noticed that we were following a route I recognised. To mark this groundbreaking geographical triumph, I pointed something out to the others (Buckingham Palace probably: marvel at my intricate knowledge of London…). Hyg looked scandalised. 

'What the hell are we doing in central London?' He demanded, loudly enough for Our Kindly Taxi Driver to hear.

(OKTD) 'Well, Victoria sort of is in central London mate.'

(Hyg) 'Yeah but this isn't the bloody route to take is it? When we get cars from the Bank they never take us  through the centre.'

Tactful Friend and I swapped glances. 'Mmm,' she contributed, noncommittally. 'Oh well. So, you were saying about derivatives…'

Obligatory 'greedy banker' image

Oblivious to her attempts to steer him back to the straight and narrow, Hyg blundered on with his thoughts about OKTD's crummy knowledge of London. He seemed convinced that this was a route contrived to do us out of money. Slightly dodgy ground from an investment banker this, as even old Bobby Diamond might have spotted. 

OKTD was no longer watching the road by now, which struck me as bad news. Instead he stared at our friend with a murderous glint in his eye.

Keen to live, I attempted diplomacy. Badly. My tactic - calling the taxi driver 'sir' and shouting over Hyg's commentary - had no noticeable effect, except to make TF even more uncomfortable and Hyg even more shouty. With relief, I spot the Pad looming a couple of streets away. 

KitC: 'Here we are!' 

TF (surprised): 'What? Oh yes, yes this is us… Thanks!'

Grabbing the door handle, we leg it, flinging an array of small change at our friend. Since he's the sort of chap who bins ten pence pieces because he finds them annoying, he looked particularly galled.  

As we slammed the door shut, we felt a little guilty. But Hyg's a man who can look after himself. Definitely.