Orna Mulcahy on people we all know
Dee is a woman who can pack. Her one small rucksack carries everything she needs for the 22-hour flight to visit her son in Adelaide: pashmina, pillow, moisturising cream, lip balm, sucky sweets, reading glasses, earplugs, the crossword, digestive biscuits, a flannel, an apple, The Da Vinci Code, a large bottle of water filled from her tap at home, tea bags and a little bag with a sleeping tablet that she's cut in two in case she goes into a coma from taking a whole one, or gets hooked. And, of course, her surgical stockings, which she is now hauling on with some difficulty, as row 55 doesn't have much room for manoeuvre.
As usual, she's got the worst seat in the plane, next to the toilets, so even if she does manage to stretch her legs a bit sideways, into the aisle, people will be tripping over her feet all night, and is it her imagination or have the seats got smaller and closer together since her last trip? Still, the stockings and aspirin should see her safely through, if she's not asphyxiated in the meantime; everyone knows they turn down the oxygen in steerage to make them sleep. Oh yes, it's true; up in first class they get far better air, along with the champagne and reclining seats. But the cost! It's a ridiculous waste of money, though just once it would be nice not to have to share the armrest with the very large, hammy elbow of the man in the next seat, who is already lolling alarmingly sideways, ready to use Dee as a pillow.
Then there's a tussle with the hand-held controls. Dee tries in vain to call the steward while, in fact, changing the music stations 32 times, but at last she gets the hang of it and locates the headset she's been sitting on. Then she settles down to watch a very interesting programme about whales. As a rule, she doesn't drink and fly, but she is a little nervous, and the mini-bottles of Shiraz are actually very good, although she really shouldn't take a tablet now, in case there's a reaction.
As the night wears on, Dee can't make head nor tail of the movie, which has Tom Cruise running up and down trains, shooting at people. Later, she takes her walk up and down the aisle, twitching the curtain into business class, to see if she can use their loo, because already there's a definite pong in the toilets back there, as well as evidence that the Thai curry didn't agree with everyone. By Bangkok, she has shooting pains in her left shoulder from that overstuffed whale of a man slumping on top of her. But on the next leg of the flight a woman across the aisle turns out to be very interesting. He, too, has a son down under, and they happily compare notes about selfish daughters-in-law for the next seven hours, until touchdown.