Thoughts from BA flight 114 NY-LDN 31/10/08.
Catch as many Boeings and Airbuses as I do and you soon develop a finely tuned radar for other people and their pecadillos. Something to do with sharing an pokey aluminium tube with 358 other bods hurtling through the air at half a Mach, 10,000 metres up, all of you pretending that it’s the most natural thing in world.
That composure shatters like stunt glass on a Western set when the Captain, bored comatose flying on autopilot, flicks back to manual and joggles the controls around a bit in the name of unexpected turbulence.
There are only two responses to this. Most people do as asked and strap in tight until the Captain heroicly steers us clear of the shoals. The others, and their numbers are definitely swelling, are half out of their seats and wound up like a coil spring ready to sprint to the emergency exits faster than Usain Bolt. It means that, should the seagulls really hit the Rolls Royce fans, and the plane be in proper trouble, these people will tread over all humanity to get to the inflatable slide first. Women, children and the elderly be damned, it’s survival of the fastest.
Which brings me to the point of this post. You can tell these selfish Bolt-ers in advance. They’re the ones lounging ‘round Departures in track pants. The women in lemon, purple or pink velour, the men invariably in grey marle brushed-cotton blend.
Never sit next to a traveller in track pants, it’s a sure sign they fancy themselves in a sprint. Hit the call button and demand to be moved. Trust me, when the going gets rough they’ll have their running spikes on and have punctured the inflatable slide before you can say Asafa Powell.
