Air Travel

The Trout and The Boss

I think The Boss needs a holiday to get over this one.  We had a great time while we were there, so it wasn’t that.  Spending time there with his parents was relatively fun, so it wasn’t that.  He’s used to sitting around now, so it wasn’t the 1hr 15 coach transfer plus 4hr 30 flight plus 5hr car drive home plus all the hanging around (left hotel at 1135hrs and got home at 0215hrs), though that was tough enough with 3 little minxes.  No, it was the actual flight.

He’s 6ft 1 with legs in proportion to his height.  So he’s tall, but not abnormally so.  Yet he physically can’t bend his frame into the seats.  He has to take absolutely everything out the seat pocket, then sit with his knees apart and up, for the entire flight.  No wonder I got to hold the baby throughout.  That can’t be safe, can it?  It’s not like you can even get up for a leg-stretch every hour or so – the stewardesses are too busy whizzing up and down the aisle selling headphones, scratchcards, duty-free, toys, drinks, meals, charity donations and a patridge in a pear tree.  I got up to change the baby’s humming nappy and had to wait to let a trolley past.  Not only were the stewardesses snippy about me standing to wait (well, I can’t levitate, dearie, and if I don’t get in the toilet queue now, I’ll not get in for another 2 hrs), but 2 of my fellow sardines got very unhappy about me blocking their view of their favourite in-flight entertainment screen.  The other 30-odd screens visible to them obviously didn’t meet with their favour – they’d paid extra for more leg-room and boy, did they want us cheap-skate plebby mortals to know it!  I shrugged, moved to the other side, and considered how lucky they’d been that I was too sleep-deprived to remonstrate.  Or rip their stupid heads off and shove the contents of Mini Minx’s nappy down their necks.

Anyway.  When we had fewer kids, we’d quickly agree before take-off what we’d do in an emergency: “you grab Maxi, I’ll foist Midi off on some poor sucker; we’ll trample over that little old lady there to get to this door here.  Don’t wait for me.  Save as much duty free as you can.  See you on the other side.  Whizzo.  Chin-chin”.  Now I wonder if The Boss would be able to get out of his seat in an emergency at all.  I worry not because I love him (I do), but because we’ve been married 5 years now and his guarantee’s run out.  And I can’t haul 3 kids out a blazing aircraft on my own.

Hmph.  I’d pay extra for the more legroom seats (relatively) happily, but you’re not allowed to if you’re travelling with children.  Pity.  I’ve carried out 2 emergency aircraft evacuations myself, so would probably be a good passenger to operate the emergency exit and lead everyone to safety as I hot-footed it into the safe distance.  Oh well.  Better keep practicing the handy-bendy yoga.

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