8 Miles High* (or Fractured Thoughts from an Aircraft Seat)

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Just how difficult is it when the check-in person asks ‘Did you pack the suitcase yourself?’ not to answer ‘No, actually I got the butler to do it.’?

Why are the first passengers onboard always blithely unaware that there is a planeload of others behind them waiting to board?  Why can they never find their seats?  Why can they never open the overhead locker?  Why can they never lift their bags into the overhead locker?  Why can they never close the overhead locker?  Why do they have to stand in the aisle and chat about the fact that they can never do any of the above while the rest of us queue in the rain outside?  (N.B. the opened overhead locker is not overhead.  If you don’t believe me, try walking under one.)

I understand that not a single life has ever been saved by the under seat lifebelt following a ‘forced landing’ at sea.  They are officially there for the passenger’s peace of mind.  Peace of mind?  Really?  All they do to my mind is to make it even more aware that no life has ever been saved by the lifebelt following a forced landing at sea.  (N.B. Forced landing at sea = crash.)

If an oxygen mask falls from the panel above my head the stewards can relax: there is no way I’m helping anybody else get theirs on before I have put on my own.

Why is the eight-year old with Tourette’s always seated directly behind me and who the hell has painted a target for him/her on the back of my seat?

If policeman are getting younger, how come flight attendants are getting older?

Why is my Kindle still on Flight Mode from my last holiday?

Remember, every word read on a flight is forgotten on landing.

Why do I have the passionate need to have aeronautics explained to me as soon as the plane begins to lumber its way to take-off? 

Can we actually trust the same people whose rules insist that a bumble bee cannot fly to design a functional aircraft? 

Why is it impossible to convince myself that the whole thing is not just one big joke – because nothing of this size could possibly get off the ground – and I am the only one not in on it? 

Why does the back not hit the floor when the front lifts off?

Why does every flight contain a single individual who thinks that everybody else on the plane needs to hear his Sonic the Hedgehog progress?

Why is the person I have just spent two weeks trying to avoid always allocated the seat beside me?

Why does the drinks trolley always reach me last?

Why have they always sold out of Jack Daniels?

Why do all on-board Pringles taste of cheese & onion?

What the hell is that noise?

Exactly who is responsible for that smell?

A typical in-flight meal provides approximately 10% of the nutritional requirements of the average gnat.

Why does the person on the seat between me and the aisle never need the toilet?

The Earth is our friend until we are above it, then it is definitely the enemy.

A mosquito on a plane is worth 10,000 in the bush (and, let’s face it, nobody wants a mozzie in the bush).

However many people are on a flight as it comes into land, not a single one of them actually believes that a plane can fly quite that slowly.

Why do I always believe that I just might possibly be an international terrorist as soon as the passport official looks at me?

Why do I never recognise a single person from my flight at the baggage carousel?

Why is the belt on my suitcase never the colour I remember?

Why does the wheel always start to squeak as I pass through ‘Nothing to Declare’?

*Actually, commercial airplanes generally fly at somewhere between 5.9 and 7.2 miles high.  What were the Byrds thinking about?