Don't you just love flying?

So we’re on our way back now from sexy Marrakesh, with a glowing yet skinless body,(ahh hamman) a short tan, (as in it was frowned upon for bearing skin so now sporting brownish calves and forearms, at least its winter at home) and cystitis said it was sexy did'nt I, nothing to do with the cheap champagne that cost a fortune, god your as bad as my man!

We get to the airport we have a 6am flight, so as you would, I in the early hours suggested we party through, well we had to leave the Riad at 4, “it’s so not worth sleeping”, more cheap/expensive champagne is necked, (not at all enjoyed) only the effects are, not the smell, taste or texture (don’t ask,) any how we arrive red eyed, and rather giddy, and we sit, watching the chaos that those yellow ticket bearing, no frills flying passengers have to incur. My god what a treat, for us not them, even worse for the none bearing yellow ticket holding no frills passengers, Allegedly, what happens is you book your really cheap flight only 2pence one way, 42pence the other way so OK that’s cheap, 44pence, whey what a bargain? Plus, vat now only 15% still not bad, plus airport tax £493.66 not looking soooo good, plus fuel tax to put you off polluting the air £77.62, plus extra leg room, a soggy green bacon and spaghetti sandwich cooked on board, smells divine) £67.74 and then the biggy ……… baggage allowance 2kg per adult, no I have not miss placed a naught, two I say! any more £194.56 per kilo, hence no one at all at check in, everyone with bulging hand luggage, and many many small zip lock bags, with an array of 100mls worth of liquids all of course vital for ones survival. But that’s not my point; after all, of this expenditure while booking your quick cheap get away on the www, you see an amazing thing, something that is going to make you better than the rest, something that is going to make you superior, ahh! The yellow ticket, truly it should be golden, for purchase one of these yellow tickets of destiny and you shall be one to walk with dignity to your air craft (that’s it) walk, and it’s a fiver! Ahem! You see what I did'nt know until this blurred drunken morning, when the steward yells boarding and slams back the gate, (I so wish only posh people were allowed to fly and I were one of them ) the herds jump and leg it, I mean full on Jamaican bloke 100meter sprint, you see there are no allocated seats, (unless you have a yellow ticket) but the fun bit, none yellow ticket holding flyer's are not aware of this luxury, no, surely they would have bought one if they could read, understand /get hold of fiver, so a class war breaks out and it gets messy.Tickets are waved with venom, children are stampeded on, pensioners crushed, by the designer clad, ticket bearing better off, (five pounds better off), A hatred for the middle classes not seen since the miners strikes, it was grim. But funny from I was seated.


We did'nt have a yellow ticket, we were on a more old fashioned class system flight one that you don’t really see much these days, one with first class and second class, (I must add though when going to see England play in the world cup in France 98, air France did invent a third class, especially for the occasion, its true) but in my drunken haze this got me to thinking (and when Essex girl does hazy thinking its wrong!)
“Hey babe, you awake (yes we are still at airport) I say,
“They’re calling our gate number, put that bottle of bubbly in the bin, wipe that saliva from your chin, and follow moi”
and off we go
we walk through the little tunnel, and veer off to the left at the 1st class exit, “ we’re not 1st” whispers my man,
I tell him of my idea, how are they going to know, to ask permission is to seek denial, what harm is there in trying, follow on,
We find an empty seat, (oh how I cringe) a beautiful empty seat, a beautiful leather reclining empty seat with a glass of “expensive,/expensive champagne!”this is the real McCoy no sand papering of the tonsils when you down this nectar. We place our bags in the over head locker, and be seated, “don’t touch anything I say, as I grasp the luxurious bag of welcome aboard 1st class goodies, a satin eye mask round my head, hand cream already applied, champagne flute being re-filled, ahh small pleasures,
“Excuse me” I hear a voice, I peak from satin mask, “may I help,” I smile,
“I think you’re in my seat” it smiles back
“Oh let me see” I flick a blank glance at my ticket number undeterred, “darling we are in the wrong seats” I gasp laughingly,
not to worry, I think, opening second glam bag, and sipping more champagne, the doors are closing, relief, we sit back smug, and satisfied, bliss, my man is donning some spectacular socks, and I am in moisturizing heaven, liberally applying lotions and potions fit for a queen to joint and limb, splendid. Totally got away with it.
Then boom –“MR and MRS ESSEX GIRL please let yourselves be known to the captain or your bags will be moved from the air craft,”
What, shock, horror, how? but, shit, bright red, please floor open up,
My man does the descent thing, I look mortified and spit phrases such as how could you, you said, and, I am so very very sorry ma'am (ma'am? Where did that come from?)
I avoid all eye contact with other real first class citizens, the stewards obvious distaste is enough to sober me up, as she leads us through the thick, plush on one side frayed “on t ‘other curtains, into smelly soggy green bacon and spaghetti sandwich, cattle class. We squeeze into our seats; my man is 6’5 so really it’s a squash and a squeeze. I am sure everyone knows what we have tried to do, then I am sure everyone knows what we tried to do when that stupid, jumped up, jobs worth, taps me not so lightly or politely on the shoulder and says, madam the gift bag if you please, my heart sinks and my hands are so lubricated that there is no way I can hold on to the shiny satin, that she beckons from me, ping, the eye mask torn from my soothed forehead, I fail to hold back a small sob, its all gone, I am no longer a 1st class citizen. My man squishes his legs into what little space we have been given, his feet scraping irritatingly against my sunburned calf, I have only one piece of sunburn how come he can find it, I think gritting my teeth, then my sob turns into hysterics as I notice his velvet socks, 1st class velvet ensembles Hugh Heffner would be proud to wear, my man catches my eye, we both belly laugh for England, in unison, we do the whole shoulder shrugging, chocking back tears, economy class snorting laughter.
As I begin to hazily think, “next time we need to sit either one of us in our allocated seats” I say knowingly “we can pretend the other is sick in the loo”
What next time my man smirks.
Don’t you just love flying?