She is one of a very few who I can talk with for hours about nothing in particular, put the world to rights and have a laugh along the way. Like myself, her view of men, relationships and mothers is that of a hardened cynic due to past experience. Yet she has an innocently romantic streak that makes her grip my arm all dewy eyes and trembling lips at the closing scene of ‘Pride and Prejudice’.
After what seemed like an age of waiting, quietly appalled by a family of shell suit wearers shuffling loudly in their seats facing us the boarding area, it was announced that we could board the plane. Women and children first, first class next and then by seat number, we were herded through a narrow door into what seemed mid air.
I gathered up my possessions sure that I should have been giddy with excitement, but still fretting, unbelieving and unable to gauge H’s level of giddiness due to a cock up with the seating. She was already seated somewhere down near the tail section, the bit that always falls off first in the disaster movies, I pondered uncharitably as I shuffled forward among a sea of unfamiliar faces to find my allotted seat on the Virgin flying cattle bus.
Once seated, it became clear why airhostesses are painfully thin, five foot nothing with their hair glued back and smiles painted on in bright red. Strapped down, jammed in by intrusive strangers elbows and with the seat in front so close you can’t check your seat belt without risking a head injury, they need to be able to scamper down the aisles like well-dressed Meerkats if only to escape the passengers.