I’m just waiting to board. Surrounded by suits. So tired. Feel really hot. I’m so tired, did I say that already? The gate was about a billion miles from anywhere. Fricking Poland, who the hell goes to Poland, apparently people who can walk for miles up and down concrete mountains without collapsing – those. Yes. Athletes. I am not one. I calmed down as I sat down on the seat in the boarding area at Gate 900million at Heathrow’s Terminal 1 Airport, it was not too much longer before we were permitted to join the boarding queue and locate our seats.
After about fifteen minutes, I gave up listening. Everyone in this little mini-world was suddenly speaking Polish, no translation was on offer, so I continue to read The Independent until I realise Steward was demonstrating life-jacket operation.
Excellent safety procedure, in a language I am unable to understand and he is standing behind the curtain dividing Business Class from Economy so I am unable to even see. I will die if this plane crashes and burns I murmur under my breath, how can I sue the airline if I have drowned? But thankfully, nobody is concentrating on me. I delve back into the newspaper whilst everyone else concentrates on how to save their own lives. The newspaper sends me to sleep.
I wake up with the back of a navy blue or black leather seat literally in my face. I nearly have a heart attack, Great Palpitations! I thought I had awoken into a nightmare of impending doom. We were crashing and I did not know how to active the stupid jacket of life.
Alas, it was the inconsiderate giant buffoon sitting infront of me in Business Class, his seat was fully reclined. OK so he paid for it, but a big fail for LOT Polish Airlines Boeing 737 with a pathetic blue striped curtain separating the masses from the elite. The curtain actually looks like those types used in hospital wards dividing the dead from the living. Mad Steward is going to perform serial lobotomies with plastic cutlery. I should try to stay awake and a little bit lucid. I drift off again – doing that thing where my body does a mini-convulsion letting me know I am actually dead in my dreams.
I wake to the smell of cooked food this time. It makes me hungry even though I am really not – the same way the smell of fresh bread suddenly famishes every cell inside my body. Steward pushes the trolley so it pokes its little metal head from behind the hospital ward death divider, I see potential: shiny delights wrapped up in tin foil. What could they be?
Several minutes later, Steward ceases his game of pass-the-parcel ans the curtains are fully and firmly re-closed. Steward hands me a croissant. A cold croissant. The chocolate inside looks like poo. Lovely.