Claire's Travel Blog - Part 1

May 31st

I am on a plane. I do not like being on a plane. Even with the aid of two large (large) glasses of wine, the benefit of thinly-rationed cabin pressure and the intoxicating, not-so-faint waft of 200 people's BO thanks to a dysfunctional air conditioning system (you should really only be subjected to BO like that if you have, in fact, had far more intimate relations with all 200 people on this plane than merely sitting in close proximity to them) my thought process still goes a little something like this: I am on a plane. Help. The woman next to me used to be in a punk-rock band in the 70s. Help. At least that's the excuse I'll give her for wearing a white mesh cardigan and matching see-through vest top, faux leather mini-skirt complete with thigh slash and knee high PVC boots at her age. Help.

I should make it clear that I get mean when I'm scared. I'd like to think I'm not always this rude, although Al may disagree - and he may (possibly) have a point. But it's all internal, so no harm done. Actually, yes, I think she just saw me scowl my housewifely disapproval. She doesn't look like she likes me much, but then the punks didn't like anyone much did they?

Take off. helphelphelphelphelp.

I wasn't always such a wimp. I used to be great with flying as a kid. I had it down. Scream at take-off and doubly-loud at landing so they made haste with the sucky sweets to shut you up, then settle down to watch the in-flight movie while mum and dad apologise to everyone on the flight. Simple. Then, one year we took a holiday to Majorca and the plane fell out of the sky. Literally fell out of the sky. Well OK, it fell out of the sky for all of two seconds, but it was enough - enough to set people other than me and over the age of eight off screaming. Then it levelled. The captain came on and reassured everyone that it had just been a random spot of turbulence, nothing to worry about. people laughed and took the piss out of each other while a solitary girl with a bad fringe, waist-length hair thick as a goats and black stirrup pants with white socks continued clinging, white knuckled to her armrests for the remainder of the flight, whispering "helphelphelphelp" as if only the chair could save her - I had read a lot of Enid Blyton as a kid, including the Magic Wishing Chair, in my defence. I was so scared I forgot to scream for my sucky sweet on landing. Mum and dad were thrilled.

This flight is relatively uneventful, apart from being under the terrifying gaze of Johnny Rotten's wife for the duration. I have well-practiced techniques now you see. These include 1) Wine - this is most important; 2) A well-rehearsed take-off song, something inanely cheery to distract yourself with during the scary bit. In the past I have used Outkast's 'Hey Ya' and can wholeheartedly recommend it. This time Britney Spears' 'Piece Of Me' does the trick - and also has the satisfactory side effect of drawing a few worried glances from people wondering how come they always end up next to the crazy person; 3) Always sit over the wing. It might wobble like hell, especially on small flights, but at least you'll be the first to know if it's not there - never trust anyone else with the responsibility of sharing this vital piece of information with staff, you know how uptight the British get about complaining; 4) Never listen to or watch the "in the event of emergency demonstrations". In the event of an emergency you will die. Deal with it; 5) Take all the free wine they offer and buy all the wine that is not free. The list used to end at five, but this time I find I have made a fatal flaw and must add 6) Never, NEVER leave yourself with just a book to read on the flight. Toni Morrison's Beloved is on my lap. It is undeniably wonderful. But it requires concentration, you must make the commitment to escape into it, which is not easy when you have a wing to check on every 30 seconds. Despite having an inherent moral objection to all forms of celebrity magazines (the moral objection being, of course, that they quite likely sapped up far more of my student loan than class reading lists ever did - thank you Sparknotes) and having banished them from my person in disgrace at least, oh, a week previously (quite likely muttering "this time, THIS TIME it will be forever"), I would give anything, ANYTHING IN THE WORLD right now to know exactly what crazy shit Amy Winehouse and Pete Doherty have been putting on You Tube while off their tits this week. I actually NEED TO KNOW, help.

The plane lurches skywards, help. My belly flops, help. I close my eyes and pray for the light of Britney to lead the way (repeat after me "I am indeed Mrs lifestyles of the rich and famous, Mrs 'Oh my god, that Britney's shameless'"), help. Once I realise the tail hasn't made contact with the runway, sending us all into the first and last back-flip of my life, I tentatively open my eyes (one at a time) and wonder if the drinks trolley has begun its journey down the aisle yet. I am about to initiate a lively (and no doubt largely nonsensical) discussion with Al as to whether point 3) of the take-off plan should be revised - whether, in fact, it is preferable to sacrifice my wing-watch role in favour of prime position for a freshly-warmed, over-priced Chardonnay when I realise he is smiling. Smiling - the bastard is enjoying my suffering. No, wait - he is enjoying this. This whole thing. This whole beginning process of the ridiculous idea we've bandied about for months without ever (I suspect) actually believing we'd a) come up with the money to do it or b) last long enough as a couple to see realised. He's excited, and for one brief moment my attention is drawn from the imminent death at hand to grin goofily back. I couldn't be happier.

Now, back to business - help.