|
|
 |
I don't like flying. It makes me nervous and I feel sick. I have to load my system with Dramamine and several large brandies before I can relax on a plane. It's all psychological, of course. It stems from my first-ever flight as a teenager. I flew to Luxembourg to stay with a penfriend, and it was the first time I had been away from home on my own. The flight out was uneventful, and I arrived in Luxembourg safely. Unfortunately my luggage didn't - it decided to take a separate vacation in Liverpool. I spent a fortnight with only the clothes I had travelled in. The suitcase was found the day before I was due to go home. |
 |
|
The return flight was what really spoiled it all for me. The plane spent four hours circling over Heathrow in a violent thunderstorm. The barfbags were in constant use and a smell of recycled airline meal hung in the pressurised air. It was not a pleasant trip. So it is hardly any wonder that I now step on board an aeroplane with somewhat less enthusiasm than that displayed by a Christian going to meet the Lions. This slight reluctance was not helped by knowing that charter flights to Greece (where I was heading for my holiday) use decrepit old 727's, designed to seat midgets - as soon as someone sits down in front of you, the back of their seat is forced hard against your knees, cutting off the blood supply to your feet; and the seats are so narrow that someone of my ample bulk is squashed between the armrests like a balloon in an eggcup. To add to the torture the flights are always in the middle of the night, but it's impossible to while away the boredom and pain by sleeping because every 10 minutes a trolley is trundled up the aisle offering drinks, or duty free perfume, or cigarettes, or (worst of all) dispensing a truly inedible plastic meal. Anyway, you have probably got the picture by now - I detest flying. (As a matter of fact, although I love going to strange places, I am not keen on the mechanics of travelling of any sort - boats, trains, roller skates, or whatever. I wish some genius would hurry up and invent the matter transmitter and save us all the tedium of trying to get from A to B. Maybe next weekend, if I am not too busy, I'll have a go at it.) So although the prospect of two weeks on an idyllic Greek island had me panting with anticipation, the long long journey was something I could have done without. It started badly. I said a sad farewell to my two cats - they were not pleased at being left for a fortnight, and promised destruction of the entire flat by way of revenge - but I finally prised their claws out of my legs and set off. On the way to the tube station my suitcase threw a wheel. I had to abandon the little trolley that allowed me to tow the case behind me like an obedient dog and resort to brute strength. (Putting wheels on luggage has made being a Liberated Woman so much easier.) And this case was H E A V Y ! I fail to understand how two bikinis and a couple of paperbacks can weigh more than a baby elephant - obviously the case was lead-lined to protect against nuclear fallout. Having nearly ruptured myself I caught the Gatwick Express. This miracle of British Rail is supposed to go direct from Victoria to the Airport, non-stop in 30 minutes. It took 55, and it stopped three times at stations and five times in the middle of nowhere. A sweet little recorded announcement welcomed us on board and extolled the virtues of BR's Intercity services - clean, comfortable and quick were some of the words they used. You could spot the English people on the train, they were the ones rolling on the floor in hysterical laughter. At Gatwick I couldn't find the check-in desk. Just to confuse me, they had built a new terminal to the Airport and not told anyone. I was in the wrong one, of course. A toy train trundled me and my mother (yes, at my age I STILL go on holiday with my mum!) to the correct terminal, and the usual airline procedure of hurry up and wait began. A little time was killed by the bag search - something in my holdall showed up on their screen as possible plastic explosives so they pawed through the entire contents - I think they were just being nosy. Then my belt buckle set off the alarms and I had to be frisked by a very charming lady security officer. More time was wasted prowling round the duty free shop, trying all the perfumes, asking for demonstrations of the super-duper calculators and cameras, exclaiming in disgust at the repulsive ornaments on sale. And having a few drinks in the overpriced bar (as I said, I cannot contemplate stepping onto a plane sober.) Of course the plane was late. They always are! They herded us on board an hour after we were supposed to take off and then there was another hour's wait while they sorted out some catering problems (a shortage of lemon-scented napkins I believe...). But stepping on to the plane was a real surprise. The first thing I noticed was classical music playing over the tannoy - very soothing. Then I sat in my seat and found I could actually bend my knees. There was room to stretch out. I thought I must be in the wrong plane. Then the Captain spoke, welcoming us on board the new British Airways Airbus, only the second one to be commissioned. Obviously a new policy on the part of BA to care about passenger comfort. As it turned out, I was not desperately reassured to learn that ours would be only the second flight of this plane. What with all the crashes and near-misses there have been lately, I wasn't entirely happy to be used as a guinea-pig in a new model. Had I realised then that two days after my return home one of these miracle computerised planes would crash, killing 200 people, wild horses probably wouldn't have dragged me on board. But, fortunately, I was blissfully ignorant. Finally we were underway. I half expected the music to change to stirring aeroplane stuff - the Dambusters, or possibly the Star Wars music - but instead the tannoy reverted to normal and started spitting out incomprehensible messages. I felt more secure with this familiarity. Once we were safely aloft, we had the cabaret. It wasn't very entertaining, just a glamorous stewardess pointing out the exit doors, putting on a lifejacket, showing us how to use an oxygen mask. They should have had dancing girls, or maybe a comedian. Then, more surprises. We were given free champagne. The catering difficulties meant that there were no drinks for sale, all they could offer was bubbly. Who was I to carp? Next, the in-flight meal. This was smoked salmon, coq-au-vin with new potatoes and mange-tout, fruit salad, cheese and biscuits, and some chocolates. And more champagne. And it was all delicious. I couldn't understand it, surely they were just lulling us into a false sense of security so we wouldn't mind so much when something went REALLY wrong. All these luxuries were offered by the smiling plastic stewardesses. I wonder why Stewardesses are always young and attractive? Presumably there is an age-limit for recruitment, but what happens to them after they have been working for a few years? Do they have to undergo frequent 'wrinkle-tests' to check for visible signs of ageing? And if they fail, are they thrown out of the plane at a great height, in order to make room for the next Debbie or Tracy or Sharon who wants to pamper businessmen and tourists whilst travelling to far and exotic airports? Finally, at 7.00 in the morning (Greek time - 2 hours ahead of BST) we landed at Athens Airport. But the journey was only just beginning! |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
