Postcard from Spain - come fly with me

Airplane jam - how twee!

After years of resolutely holidaying mostly in England (I still maintain that there is noting as hot as a hot English summer – we’re just not ready for it, rails buckle, roads shimmer, hosepipes are banned and the media is full of drought alerts before the average person has had time to turn from ‘pasty’ to pillar box read) I’ve decided to upgrade my carbon footprint from that of a kid who has to wear one of those special built-up shoes to that of a yeti.

Somewhere along the way, air travel was deregulated enough to fly cheaply. The trade off has been that you are basically travelling in a National Express coach with wings. The only way to come to terms with being cooped up for a couple of hours on a short haul flight is to drink, and because it’s short haul there’s no time to mess about with beer.

That’s why I favour champagne when flying. On the flight back from Spain I paid 22 quid for a bottle – far cheaper then it would normally cost in a bar, not much more than it costs in a supermarket. Gratification about this was offset by the cost of the packet of mini chedders that I selected as a savoury accompaniment – at three quid for a packet of bloody crisps you may be at 30,000 feet, but you must be flying over la-la land.

The flight back was, somewhat to my surprise, at 02:40. This is not, as one might imagine, 2:40 in the afternoon, but 2:40 in the morning. After the initial wailing and sulking, I actually realised that it’s probably the best time to fly – you drive to the airport at midnight so there’s no traffic to get snarled up in, you fly overnight and you arrive at dawn – a bit pissed but essentially ready for a couple of hours kip and then to face the day!

Also – I like staying up so late it’s early, I can pretend to be Jack Bauer, or young.