A Postcard From Lanzarote #1


(Technically A Postcard from Too Many Thousand Feet Up In The Air, but let’s not be picky- it’s a start).

AlphaMale has verbally emptied his mental in-tray between home and take-off and I feel I am now more an qualified to do his job for him, should the worst happen and he runs off with some swarthy señorita to run a beach bar instead of returning to Blighty as planned.

We’ve had our first run-in of the day over the luggage allowance. Having assumed, as one does, that any sane person would’ve gone for the normal baggage allowance, and packed accordingly, it was announced at the eleventh hour that AM had in fact gone for 15 kilos. Between us. Not each. He evidently assumes that summer clothes weigh less than other seasonal attire. His do now, as most of them are on the bed at home

We appear to be flying with Minion Airway: the entire plane is bedecked in navy with accents in a startling shade of yellow. I’m expecting to be served my inflight coffee by a small squeaky person wearing dungarees, sporting a tufty hairdo and a pair of horn rimmed spectacles. In my diazepam fuelled state of mind I may have vocalised the Minion Airway thing out loud as we boarded and we are now the only people on the plane with a row to ourselves as nobody wants to sit next to the weird woman in 31C- including AlphaMale who has stayed in 31A so he can pretend he doesn’t know me.

An hour into flight and the Rip Off trolley has now been and gone, pushed by a rather rotund little chap without dungarees. He had trousers on obviously, but disappointingly no sign of a Minion costume. I’ve made a mental note to pop that on my feedback form. Given that we have such a tight luggage allowance, I would guess that the rotund little man weighs more than six people’s baggage which seems a little unfair. A little less of him and I could’ve packed a whole suitcase full of sandals. Another note for the feedback form. Whilst we’re on the subject of feedback, I’d like to complain about the woman three rows ahead who has done nothing but sneeze since we boarded. There really should be some form of shrink wrap service at check-in for anyone who shows the slightest sign of germs. I very much fear we’ll all have consumption by the time we land. We’ve blown the lunch card already- lord only knows what we’re going to do for the next 2 1/2 hours. The entire aircraft now smells like one big tube of Pringles; when they open the doors in Lanzagrotty we’re all going to need to be fumigated. It has just dawned on me that the Trolley Dolly bloke may have Popped And Not Stopped on far too many occasions.

We’re a mixed bag of passengers. There are a large group of cackling women, who clearly took advantage of two hours in the bar pre-take off, and are situated halfway down the aircraft. Oddly enough most of the other passengers in that vicinity are wearing headphones already. Cleverly though they seem to have been allocated seats closest to the emergency exits which will make jettisoning them over the Atlantic much easier. There are the usual cluster of grey-tinged Brits yearning for some winter sun and already sporting flip flips. Thank the Lord for the smell of Pringles, that’s all I can say. Then there are several people wrapped up in winter boots and woolly jumpers, wearing puffer jackets. I’m slightly concerned they’re on the wrong flight and are expecting the Alps to loom into view at any moment. Either that or we’re on the wrong plane and I’m going to freeze my arse off all week.

You’ll just have to wait for the next postcard to find out which.

Mid air hugs,

NB: The seatbelt sign has just been activated which means we’re about to crash. Pass the diazepam….

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