Flying

The Best Beloved and I spent four days in France at Duras with Terry and Robbie Cattermole, two of the most hospitable friends who are great company so a great deal of laughter ensued.

We decided to fly down to Bergerac where the Catz would collect us before making the 40 minute drive back to Duras. We flew from Southampton. Neither of us are great fliers - read previous blog about fear of heights and best beloved's problem with ears at altitude. MuleBoy can't understand why my fear of heights doesn't affect me too badly up in a plane. I think it is something to do with the fact that my brain can't really comprehend the idea of flying at all. I did have trouble with the idea of flying but read an excellent self help book which convinced me that aeroplanes are designed solely for flying (which is why take off and landing are the tricky bits) and that rather than trying to fly the plane by my own will power I should leave that task to the pilot and his crew.

I have successfully adopted this approach and sat down to read the Guardian bought in the airport newsagent before embarkation. I discovered the following story told in the letters page. It was the culmination of a whole series of letters about a singing airline pilot.

One airline pilot used to arrive in civvies and seat himself amongst the passengers before the flight began. After a short while he would begin to complain loudly about the delay in the plane taking off. He would involve other passengers and the hapless cabin staff in loud conversations deploring the amount of time being spent on the tarmac. Finally he would leap from his seat and say something to the effect: "This is just too much. I can't wait any longer. I'll fly the bloody plane myself!" And with that he would disappear into the cockpit. I roared with laughter on reading the letter but am not sure what would have been my reaction if it had happened on a flight I was on.

On the day I came home I read another letter in the Guardian (they tend to come in self generating series) about the same pilot who would re-emerge just as the plane was about to land and say: "Does anyone know how to land this thing?"

Terry has a little rhyme about "farting" I must ask him to teach me.

I did hear the following on I'm Sorry I Haven't A Clue in a completing the proverb round (it appealed to the retired teacher in me): "If you can't beat them....." "What's the point in teaching?"

We have decided that we might use the train to visit Duras next time. The flight wasn't bad but we do like to be on the ground. It might also lessen our carbon footprint, but make it difficult to reach New York, and apparently our patio heater isn't good for the carbon exchange thing.