The Big Tuckshop in the Sky

The Big Tuckshop in the Sky.
A snapshot.
Or
Why I Hate Flying.




I have turned into a disturbed autistic hunchback, bent over with my hands over my ears in a stubborn clamp and my elbows holding a book open, trying to shut out the noise of two hundred boisterous holidaymakers and an endless scream of announcements.


Three rows in front Lee and Kenny are trying not to think about the possible cons of taking a flight on Friday the 13th, the eyes of the cartoon woman clutching her life jacket and whistle bore morbid and unblinking into theirs from the unsafety information on the back of the headrest in front.

The air, laced with aviation fuel and microwaved pizzas retailing at the bargain price of £3.80, begins its own journey in and out of the mouth of every passenger and makes my skin smell wrong.

The excitable and therefore voluble ladies in the row behind finish every identical anecdote with, It was absolutely hysterical. I nearly am.

After another ear-splitting announcement telling us how we can buy perfume Kenny the soundman says, It’s just a big tuckshop in the sky really.





Whingingly yours, Carey