Flight of Fantasy

I'm writing this whilst high. Not on drugs, I hasten to add, but high up in the  air.  36,007 feet up in the air, to be more precise.  You see, I'm currently on an American Airways flight to Chicago. We're doing a home exchange with a family from Waynesville, Ohio and this is the first leg of our journey. An 8 hour leg... Actually, it's my first ever long haul flight and, indeed, the first time I'll have ever left Europe. Up to this point, I've only flown short distances with El Cheapo airlines with names like Pig-Air and Grot-Fly.  I'm writing this blog entry on one of those tiny fold-down tables whilst, around me, my fellow passengers have gone into that flight-induced state of suspended animation where sleep and books replace social interaction. We're about 4 hours into the journey and I've already finished the in-flight magazine (before we even took off), fiddled with the entertainment system (if you've ever been tempted to watch John Carter, don't bother: it's rubbish) and unwrapped and eaten all the little packets of food which made up the airline lunch. In short, boredom is beginning to creep in.

 Nevertheless, I adore flying. Not just the idea of being thousands of feet in the air (although that, in itself, is pretty amazing) but the whole process, with all its rituals and systems. I think it must appeal to my oft-elusive OCD side. I love it all: the way the luggage disappears though flaps at one end and magically reappears again at your destination (or to a selection of cities around the world if you fly cheaply, preferably a place as far away as possible from its intended destination); the airline food, too, consisting of a tray laden with intriguing little packets, each containing something which tastes rather different from but not entirely dissimilar to how it's supposed to taste. In fact, if you take your time, you can spin out the whole process of eating for ages, opening and trying each tiny parcel separately.

 The only part of the experience that I dislike is airport security. The system seems to be designed to make even the most innocent of travellers feel like a bloodthirsty terrorist planning to commit unspeakable wrongs with the nail scissors and half empty bottle of Volvic they accidentally left in their hand luggage. Also,if you're anything like me, at some point, you will inevitably find yourself, having passed security, trying to juggle a coat, a bag, a pair of shoes and a belt, whilst your trousers, revelling in their newfound, belt-less freedom, attempt to descend. If an alien were to ask me the meaning of the word 'stress', I'd give them a pair of baggy trousers, a belt and a carefully packed bag containing a pair of eyebrow tweezers, then direct them to Heathrow.

 I could add a lot more on this subject, but I'll leave it there for now and go and stretch my legs. I've written too much already. and I'm quite worryingly beginning to lose all feeling in my posterior. Hopefully I'll blog more about the US when I've arrived, if anyone's interested (perhaps let me know in the comments if you are).

Anyway, I was planning to end this post with a pun related to flying. But now I realise that that would have been plane stupid...

 I'm sorry, really, I am...