Flying...

I hate flying. Taking off specifically. I haven’t always hated it – I remember flights as a child when I was buzzing with excitement at the airport and again as we wooshed up the runway, and then at everything from the toilets in the plane to the trays with sections for the food to the boiled sweets to stop my ears popping. But as I’ve got older, I enjoy it less and less, which I put down to a rather unpleasant short-haul budget airline flight a few years ago; I now spend take-off either gripping the hand of my companion or holding my St Christopher (not religious, I just like it). I love airports though, and once I’m up in the air, I’m fine, it’s just that take off bit that I particularly hate. Anyway this is all very problematic as I'm currently sat in an airport about to board a plane for about twelve hours heading to the states to meet up with the big brother. Soon I’ll be going through the routine of counting the seatbacks to the nearest exit as I board (apparently it could save me in the event of a dark descent), working out what I can watch on the tv to while away the many hours, and debating whether aspirin to thin the blood will react badly with sleeping tablets which will have me prone in a DVT-inviting position for daylight hours. In the meantime there is shopping to be done.

I haven’t flown solo for years, not since I was travelling. The last few plane trips I’ve taken have been package holidays or short trips abroad, and I’ve always been with a friend, so they’re on hand to keep me entertained with food and drink and thinking about things other than take-off. Shopping in the terminal and wondering about the contents of the snack packs made up (either by the birthday girl or me) to compensate for not having paid for the over-priced and underly-pleasant sandwiches or hot meals handed round on planes these days (I'm sure the meals were better in the old days in those sectioned trays) managed to hold my attention. But today it's just little old me - I imagine there will be wine involved very soon…

Which is bad as I have a small hangover this morning. Went out last night with the lawyer to see a singer/DJ/producer who had us dancing and waving our hands in the air for what seemed like hours, but was in fact seventy minutes. I'm not sure if that was in part due to the vodka consumed before, or cider consumed during, or a dinner of a handful of chocolate minstrels. Either way, it was a fabulous night, and the journey home seemed to flash by in a tipsy haze. Nice.

It seems like I've been drinking since last week as the weekend was another one spent in the east. A night out with the bst friend and the young uns on friday was enlightening as I made cultural references to long-gone TV shows which made me realise the eight years or so that I have on them, although strangely when I'm actually with them, I don't seem to feel that way. I think in my head I'm somewhere between 19 and 24 anyway. Saturday night we celebrated another 30th birthday with a meal and a couple of drinks, and then a longing to get home and get to bed... Football on sunday saw my team stage a glorious comeback to draw with a richer, better, more glamourous club. Fabulous, well done boys.

And then there was MNC. The boy nextdoor came along with the brunette and I for an evening of cocktails and deal-food in a restaurant not far from the office. A lemon sherbert (vodka, limoncello, sugar and ice) was pure alcohol which i blamed for my inability to get my words out later in the evening. A mango and bourbon creation later on wasn't anywhere near as fun which was a shame. The brunette and I had more than our share of cheap house white wine (the boy wasn't drinking) and by about 9.30 I was giggling. Although that could have been some of the inappropriate conversations we were having; it's my mission in life to make the boy nextdoor blush, poor lamb.

So it's time for me to go. The gate is open. Wish me luck.

BB here I come.