CHARLIE -
On the plane, we take longer than our academic qualifications would suggest we should have done to figure out that we do in fact have our own tv screens - they are just hiding in the side of the seat and need to be pulled up. Feeling grateful that we hadn't complained about the lack thereof (as Jamie had looked on the point of doing prior to this discovery) I begin to watch Casablanca but decide to pause it so I can fall asleep.
JAMIE -
Nothing like a barrage of unwanted parental packing suggestions to make one want to leave the country and - though I love my mother - she fulfilled this antagonistic role with resounding aplomb as I pottered around on this the morning of my departure to South Africa. Perhaps more frustrating was the unignorable fact that a few of her recommendations were genuinely useful and that, lightly sprinkled within the ocean of pointless trinkets that Mum has amassed over the past several decades, belonged some items of actual, demonstrable use to me. So, while my lasting memory of the morning involves the extent to which my packing attempts were subverted and frustrated by my mother's participation, I cannot deny that she did also make substantial contributions to the eventual composition of my luggage. In short: she hampered me.
While you are recovering from the enormity of that play on words, let me move on swiftly to the journey itself. My first major mistake and annoyance of the holiday came courtesy of Tfl Journey Planner, which in its ruthlessly unsympathetic way evidently found it amusing to counsel me towards using the Heathrow Express from Paddington to negotiate my way to the airport, neglecting to inform me of the crucial fact of its price: a dizzy 18 pounds compared with the paltry 5 pounds the Picadilly Line would have demanded for its usage.
But let us skip past the ensuing sulk with which I completed this train journey, the Heathrow rendez-vous with Charlie, the subsequent chats, queuing, bag-checking and relative rush to our departure gate, to rest squarely on the riveting issue of our aircraft seating. Having checked in too late to be afforded the luxury (or, indeed, the penalty) of adjacent seating , Charlie and I found ourselves allocated some mildly eclectic seats, the exact arrangement of which I shall not bore you by elaborating on, but which essentially gave us extra leg room, a bonus that was to become increasingly appreciated as the 11 hour flight wore on.
As per the script, I failed to accrue any actual sleep during this period, but instead took full advantage of the free drinks (to the unprofessional disapproval of my aisle's butler) and continuously whipped the in-flight entertainment system's chess computer to a bloody and quivering pulp.
Somewhere in the midst of all of this, I suppose, Wednesday ended.
On the plane, we take longer than our academic qualifications would suggest we should have done to figure out that we do in fact have our own tv screens - they are just hiding in the side of the seat and need to be pulled up. Feeling grateful that we hadn't complained about the lack thereof (as Jamie had looked on the point of doing prior to this discovery) I begin to watch Casablanca but decide to pause it so I can fall asleep.
JAMIE -
Nothing like a barrage of unwanted parental packing suggestions to make one want to leave the country and - though I love my mother - she fulfilled this antagonistic role with resounding aplomb as I pottered around on this the morning of my departure to South Africa. Perhaps more frustrating was the unignorable fact that a few of her recommendations were genuinely useful and that, lightly sprinkled within the ocean of pointless trinkets that Mum has amassed over the past several decades, belonged some items of actual, demonstrable use to me. So, while my lasting memory of the morning involves the extent to which my packing attempts were subverted and frustrated by my mother's participation, I cannot deny that she did also make substantial contributions to the eventual composition of my luggage. In short: she hampered me.
While you are recovering from the enormity of that play on words, let me move on swiftly to the journey itself. My first major mistake and annoyance of the holiday came courtesy of Tfl Journey Planner, which in its ruthlessly unsympathetic way evidently found it amusing to counsel me towards using the Heathrow Express from Paddington to negotiate my way to the airport, neglecting to inform me of the crucial fact of its price: a dizzy 18 pounds compared with the paltry 5 pounds the Picadilly Line would have demanded for its usage.
But let us skip past the ensuing sulk with which I completed this train journey, the Heathrow rendez-vous with Charlie, the subsequent chats, queuing, bag-checking and relative rush to our departure gate, to rest squarely on the riveting issue of our aircraft seating. Having checked in too late to be afforded the luxury (or, indeed, the penalty) of adjacent seating , Charlie and I found ourselves allocated some mildly eclectic seats, the exact arrangement of which I shall not bore you by elaborating on, but which essentially gave us extra leg room, a bonus that was to become increasingly appreciated as the 11 hour flight wore on.
As per the script, I failed to accrue any actual sleep during this period, but instead took full advantage of the free drinks (to the unprofessional disapproval of my aisle's butler) and continuously whipped the in-flight entertainment system's chess computer to a bloody and quivering pulp.
Somewhere in the midst of all of this, I suppose, Wednesday ended.
Go on then, Kieran 3 - 1 J&C just for attempting that pun.
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