Airpors R Us

There is a woman on telly. She is trying to get from Gori to Tbilisi. The car she was in swerved and turned over and they are all lucky to be alive. Her hands shake and she touches her chest as if to reassure herself her heart is beating. On the other channel is a programme hosted by a female twit with a desperate lear. Its called ‘The British Suck in Bed.’ I think the title is supposed to be clever. Dear God. I turn back to watching terrified people weeping. I feel like I am floating in an enormous empty ocean.

I flew back from the wedding on Sunday night. I had started flying on Sunday afternoon but as we began to descend to Heathrow the captain announced we were holding. Nervously we looked out of the windows for smoke... What was wrong down below in heathrow??
Then, after half an hour, he announced we were diverting to Gatwick. We landed safely and after driving down the runway like demons get out of the way of the other diverted flights landing all around, we parked up and the captain informed us that as the fire alarm in the control tower had been switiched off...
1. we were going back to Heathrow but not for two hours
2 .we couldn’t leave the plane
3 .and what the f*** the bar is open even for the poor sods in economy.
Phones blazed as people desperately tried to tell families they were safe but stuck.
The trolley dollies (and I call them this with venom as they were nasty and hopeless) were dragged, attached to the booze trolley, up and down economy until there was nothing left. Not even a pringle.

My dear pal travelling with me …did some work!! (Earlier we had discussed our dating dilemnas...hmmm. Might want to look out for that one J.) Appalled at his lack of excitement and engagement in the situation, I made friends with the delightful saxophone player on my left who had just done a beer addled tour (no – he couldn’t believe I had just been to a dry wedding either) and was desperate to get home before his two year old went to bed. Her name..get this..Mathilda Florence! 'What a wonderful name', I say trying to get an air hostess in a headlock so we can pillage the bar. '.Mattie Flo..Mo Fo... ' The saxaphonist looks troubled. I shut up.

We flew from Gatwick back to Heathrow in 15 minutes at about 250 feet. The captain was really taking NOOOO shit anymore.
When we landed I wanted to ask the captain to dinner and tried to grab him as we exited the aircraft but found myself gripping a seething trolley dolly instead….these damn eyes…I released her back in the plane.
I had to rush off to catch the bus to Cambridge. Another three hours on a creaking, stinky National Express coach and I was only a taxi away from bed.