Literally flying solo: Part two

So when I last left you, Me and Maura were getting on a storm and I had ingested what felt like an illegal Absinthe strength style cosmopolitan. Well it was time to go find my boarding gate and get another belter bit o news that only bestows solo travellers. I have been allocated a middle seat, on a 12 hour flight, that in the words of the female staff member ‘was absolutely rammed’. I mention her gender, because my attempts at charming my way into a better seat were met like a tray of shit sandwiches at Buckingham Palace.

I wonder forlornly through duty free trying to think of ways I can improve this 12 hour nightmare ahead of me…fags? Why isn’t it the 60’s anymore when you could smoke on planes?

Because if it was the 60’s I would probably be at home all day while my husband neglected me and I’d have to be shagging the postman and have 3 kids. Fine, I guess 12 hours doesn’t seem that bad.

So I get on the flight and edge my way to my god awful seat. As long as I’m not sat next to some mutant child or an obese chap, I should be able to valium my way through this. My fingers are crossed for some 20 something legend that’s up for fully abusing the free alcohol system on a long haul, alas, I get two thirty something guys. One passes out immediately with a neck pillow next to the window. I may as well be sat next to a pile of bricks so no problem there. Bricks, might I add, that aren’t infringing on my space whatsoever either, so there’s 50% of my problem dealt with. The guy on the aisle seems friendly enough too and again, not up in any of my dedicated third of this tin can economy aisle.

After a couple of hours, I haven’t snatched any sleep and turbulence is jiggling that cosmo about, so i’m pretty glad to see the dinner doing the rounds. Or so I thought.

I gobbled down the rubbery flat ‘chicken breast’ to go join it’s petrolly bretheren and all of a sudden I came over very hot…couldn’t catch my breath…getting a bad case of the old spinny heads…if I didn’t know better I would say I was going to be sick.

“Jesus are you going to be sick?” whispers the only conscious person in my row. I frantically nod and fair play to the guy, he swiftly shoves a paper bag under my sweaty face. Now I don’t know if you have ever tried to be sick in an airplane bag but they have the circumference of a letter box and I’ve never been that good an aim. So inevitably there’s now sick all down my dress, all in my lap, jammed in the seatbelt and to give me my dues – a bit in the bag.

When I came to my senses everyone around me had been flitting about getting me cold flannels and water which was quite sweet, but basically of no help. So I scuttled to the bog, again, the size of a very small rickety wardrobe and put on some leggings and just zipped my hoodie up over my bra. Which looks frankly terrible but it’s that or vomit tie dye. And I wasn’t at fashion week but I’m pretty sure that didn’t make an appearance.

I’m going to cut an eight hour long rest of this story short for you and tell you in this bag, is a vomit soaked dress, that I promptly chucked in a bin when I hit Australian soil. Single and down under awaits…

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