Plane speaking
20 June 2006. Inspired by constant, constant travel.
I am here, honest. Or at least I am now. But not for long.
What you've missed: flying. Lots of it. Four flights in 12 days. And I'm back on a plane on Saturday. And then next Thursday. And then the Monday after that. Cheap airlines don't do air miles, so all I'm gaining is gamma rays and a morbid addiction to duty-free Toblerone. Hours and hours being trapped in air-conditioned shopping centre hell, only chain stores and tarmac containing other people's flights to amuse me as I occasionally stare up at screens that mock my purgatory with the phrase "Please wait in lounge."
I arrived three hours early for my last flight, confused by moving from EEST to CEST via BST in less than 24 hours. To try and distract me from my ire, I bought a mini football with pump, a USB stick, a book, three magazines I wouldn't read, a litre bottle of Pimms and then won £3 on Who Wants To Be A Millionaire, which I spent on an over-priced, under-sized wholly processed sandwich where the layer of butter was thicker than the bread. I browsed through empty boxes of video games for consoles I don't own. I stared at the backs of CDs by musicians who weren't born when I bought my first album. I cursed the overpriced wifi (no duty free pricing there), and chuckled at Harrods' own-brand Yorkshire Parkin.
And then it was our turn to sit in yet another sanitised cabin for a few hours, being woken up every half hour to be offered a perfume named after Britney Spears. At least this flight had one distinction from every other: the moment that the pilot came on the tannoy to say "Apparently Rooney's on the pitch." It's just possible that the timing of that flight did nothing to help my mood.
By the way, Spain are going to win the World Cup. Apparently.