Back home, and feeling (as usual) both slightly dazed and strangely restored after the flight. It used to be a mystery why I enjoyed flying: my first two flights (both when I was 12) were hideous.
No 1 was Glasgow to Geneva (on Dan Air … remember them?). There was a tremendous Alpine storm brewing; we were the last plane allowed to attempt a landing … and it was one of those ones that was so rough that the luggage compartments fell open, oxygen masks descended etc. All was deathly silent until we finally thwacked lop-sidedly onto the tarmac, whereupon the air was filled with the sound of 80 schoolchildren vomiting with huge relief into their sick-bags.
No 2 was Glasgow to Cape Town, where Graeme & Helen were then living. In those days, that journey took 24 hours, including several refueling stops. Once again I had to reach for my sick-bag (storms over the Sahara …) but sadly pulled the menu out of the seat-pocket instead, and threw up over that. My brand new brushed denim jeans (you’re proud of that sort of thing aged 12 …) were never the same again.
I manage to fly with a bit more decorum these days. And I think the reason I find it restorative is that it’s one place where I can be completely in my own private bubble, with no expectation that I need to do anything other than read, think, doze and listen to music …
Ah well … back from the world of dreams … and back into the office tomorrow.