Sleeping 14 stone baby + budget airline = an incredibly unpleasant four hours for mother, father and any other unfortunate within earshot of our whinging.
For five reasons.
1) Searing trapped wind circled the drain that is my bum hole for roughly the first two hours of the flight. Fortunately Boos proudly audible parps allowed me to violently and rhymically fire off a series of pent up guffs of my own into the non plussed seat fabric, while blaming my smiling daughter.
What? She's cute. She can get away with it. If people knew I'd squeezed a few out, they'd just find me repugnant and wouldn't fail to note the worryingly eggy tones of last night's chippy tea.
Always best to pin it on the defenceless one.
2) Listening to the raging idiots on the row behind us complete the head scratching conundrum that is the Heat magazine crossword was like slowly stripping an Elastoplast from your shin, hair by not-shaved-for-three-weeks hair.
We writhed in agony as we heard them discuss, in minute detail, the answers to questions such as 'Spinach eating cartoon character?' listing potential suspects and rattling through their various spellings, before finally plumping for Philip, because "it fits and starts with P, so it must be". All of which also took place incredibly loudly, as in, the volume of lunacy blaring at us from the row behind utterly drowned out the sound of the JET ENGINE we were sat next to.
|I always find that limited cabin space is just crying out for the addition of a large plush toy.|
(NB I reserve the right to retract this comment at any future juncture should The Poop wheel out an unscheduled public tantrum).
4) How I love cabin crew nearing the end of their first 12 hour shift in a run of five 12 hour shifts this week. Nothing screams 'service with a smile' more than a woman whose make up appears to have been shot at her from a canon, 'surprised' eyebrows (those ones that are thinner than a stray bit of cotton) etched on her orange grid, slinging a polystyrene beaker of tea at your crotch. As I mopped up the spillage on my trousers and pondered whether my travel insurance would extend to scorched genitals, I prepared Boo's food. At which another friendly air cabin chap pointed out that the bag between my feet, which contained Boo's food and nappy gubbins, should be 'deposited in the overhead bin immediately'. When I suggested that, as I was currently guiding a spoon loaded with a highly staining tomato based puree into the mouth of my sumo wrestling cherub, and with the two of us sharing a space no greater than half a metre square, the bag would not be moving 'immediately'. This response was greeted with Mad Face. When I reasoned that said bag had resided at my feet for the last hour, Mad Face became Incensed Breech Of Airline Protocol Face, and the bag was snatched from our feet and slam dunked into the locker.
Fortunately, as he moved away, I managed to smear some of the luminous gloop up his homosexually immaculate sleeve.
5) After four hours and twenty minutes of being weighed upon by our plentiful daughter, deadened nerves and raging pins and needles patched their way across my body and settled themselves in the most humorous of places- left bum cheek, right knee joint, left ankle - forcing me to exit the aircraft in an actual wheelchair, making my way across the tarmac flanked by high-vis vested air marshals and the who's who of budget airline invalids/asthmatics/morbidly obese socio-economic leeches.
A proud moment.
Roll on the flight home. Fingers crossed The Poop'll scream all the way, thus giving me a diversion from the assortment of oddballs, weirdos and people who fish their undies out of the bum and then sniff their fingers that we will undoubtedly be inundated with on our return.