I couldn’t check in fully online yesterday. Random ID check. Meant I couldn’t adjust my seat. The flight is full so by the time I’m ID checked there is absolutely no wiggle on seats. “Oh yeah,” she says “you wouldn’t have been able to change your seat because of the ID check thing, right?” “Yes that’s right. I’ve got a bad back and I’m six foot tall.” “We are completely fully booked now. But inform the flight staff and if someone misses a connection we might be able to move you.” Nobody misses their connection. Darn.
Middle seat right at the back. A young tired social media vodka drinker on my left, thankfully diminuitive and hammered to sleep. On my right, the lady immediately has a protracted hacking cough as I sit down. “Did something go down the wrong way?” I ask her this hopefully. She turns to me. Her eyes are streaming. “I don’t what the fuck is wrong but it’s bad, I’m really really sick,” she tells me and I turn away from her. It’s bad enough generally on an airplane. I’ve rolled terrible dice here.
As we take off, water starts dripping onto my bald patch. There is consternation. Benjy is behind me and clocks it, and catches a staff member. “Has someone’s water bottle burst?” The air hostess is here to comfort me immediately. “Oh that always happens here. It’s the air conditioning unit. It’s just water.” So I’m in the middle seat with no legroom, next to patient zero, and now I’m getting baptised with filthy water. British Airways. To Fly. To Serve.
I watch Oppenheimer. Gorgeous work. Maté is in it, so I take a selfie with him.
They fed me. They had run out of vegetarian options by the time they got to me. I didn’t have a choice in the matter I consumed but it was vaguely edible matter. Some sort of deconstructed burger thing. The dying woman next to me asked me to open her water bottle. I then immediately went to wash my hands. I really don’t want what she had. Thankfully I’m maxed up on vitamins at the moment.
Then I watch Avatar. The first one. Never seen it before. When it came out it looked like a cartoon and someone said “It’s Dances with Wolves in space”. I couldn’t be arsed back then, and all the hype pushed me away. Finally watched it. It passed the time. By the time it was over we were landing, which was excellent.
I’m right at the back on the left hand side so I’m pretty much the last person to leave the plane. “PASSENGER BARCLAY PASSENGER BARCLAY” says a pissed off looking woman who has clearly been saying “PASSENGER BARCLAY” for months by now to everyone as they walked past. “That’s me,” I tell her, bemused. She gives me a poorly written form. “Your case is lost. It’ll be here tomorrow.”
The form encourages me to contact http://www.ba.com/bagagge (sic) for more information. There’s no file reference. British Airways. To Fly. To Serve.
Security went well. And then to the baggage carousel, sorry the bagagge carousel, where I thought it worth looking for both cases. And curiously I found both cases. So they didn’t lose my case. So the poor lady didn’t have to shout my name for a year.
Now we are in a van on the way to South Bend with all our cases. It’s fucking cold. Minus ten. But I’ve got a snood. All is well.
AlBarclay 