I used to run a small writing group in a rather rundown estate in Northern Ireland, known colloquially as BallyBosnia. The name BallyBosnia was due to an unusual number of burnout houses and cars that seemed to dominate the landscape.
My group consisted of vulnerable, sensitive, often traumatised individuals and the writing was therapeutic for us all, not high literature.One lady had lost her son the year previous to cancer and subsequently her left leg to diabetes. Another had her children taken into care, one had PTSD from being close to several bombings.Another was a paranoid schizophrenic one a young Goth, a single parent and the retired or just bored.All lovely enthusiastic writers. They seemed to speak and write with no filter. It was heart-breaking and breath-taking in equal measure.
The local council had agreed that we could only use a small room (practically a cupboard) in the community centre. There, we all squeezed in and with so many, our 87-year-old, Joyce, complained of constant claustrophobia.It was unusual, she rarely complained. A delightful 87-year-old lady who could still touch her toes and produced a memorable poem on fish.We were all delighted and proud of her when the local newspaper published her epic poem. This wasn’t the first time she had been in print. Her previous poem was about how she kept warm in the winter by staying in bed because she couldn’t afford the oil for heating every day. This poem she had posted to Downing Street and had received a rather sympathetic but hand-wringing letter from the Prime Minister.She responded by publishing both her poem and the Prime Minister’s letter in the local press. This turned into a rather hard-hitting account of what it means to be old and poor in present society. Made all the more atrocious by her sweet kindly open-hearted disposition. Some people just melt the heart with their sweetness, here she is in full fettle, with her fish poem.
What is it about travel? I eat continually as if walking epic journeys in need of nutrition to sustain me. The fact that I am bused, flown, carried from pillar to post is incidental. My system may be assisted by all this technology but runs on a much more primitive animalistic operating system. In such close quarters with unknown numbers of my fellow species does their presence trigger a grazing hunger. Eat quickly what is available before others tuck in and leave me bereft?
Or is the hunger stress-related? Far from my home, sofa, fridge and familiar surroundings do I overeat to distract me from all this strangeness.The comfort of a full belly brings a satisfied sleepiness that almost neutralizes the foreignness. Like a baby, I swig the bottle and stuff down biscuits to shut out the otherness that threatens!
I see the stress on others too. Even queueing is an irritant. Why did he push in? Surely, we should be moving now, where is my boarding ticket and do have I still have my passport!
We hug our familiar belongings, sure that everyone wants what we own. Pulling bags closer still, wrapping handbag straps around shoulders and checking locks on suitcases. The fear-inducing statement, “Have you packed your own case?” is asked. Followed by,"Do you carry inflammable explosive objects?" Of course, you don’t! But the idiots in front and behind you may have not have packed their own cases! They probably don’t even realize the danger of Lithium-ion batteries occasionally bursting into flames on planes.
Suddenly, one feels travelling should only be for those intelligent enough to obey the rules. There should be special scanners to pick out those too stupid to be allowed to fly. The airline staff seem unduly inexperienced and uniformly distracted. One wonders if the pilots and crew on planes are busy on their iPhones checking Facebook instead of watching dials. Answering emails and text messages instead of monitoring storm warnings.
In addition to all this everyone who works in the cockpit or as stewards are all of reproductive age and so are by nature perpetually distracted. Either recovering from devastating breakups or enduring stormy/heated relationships or perennially on the hunt for new potential partners.All these emotions leave little room for professional performances.You feel a strong desire to scream “focus, focus please!”
The vista of cotton wool clouds stretching outside my window seat reminds me of some celestial last vision. The intercom announces all the goodies for sale from aftershave to portable speakers, perfume etc and reminds one of the materialistic nature of this whole enterprise. The speaker’s inability to converse coherently in basic English has me doubting his organizational skills and technical know-how. These people have to do cross-checks and safety things after all. I see how slowly they struggle to serve drinks and food as they meander down the cabin. “Come on people get a move on!” You’ve only done this thousands of times. How can you be so crap at it? Running the full length of the cabin to retrieve more lids, Pringles, water, ice. The fact that you are so cack-handed at these simple tasks makes me doubt your ability to deplane this aircraft. Yes, that’s what they call it. Is that phrase itself an evidence of stupidity?
Bring me more food! I am noticing too much. How annoying is my neighbour with his stinky socks. Why can’t he keep his shoes on! The red-haired air steward keeps picking his nose between serving drinks. I know it’s Ryanair, and their uniforms and training scream budget airlines, but surely, they could’ve been given a special training session on the inappropriateness of nose picking when serving drinks and food.
The two women in front have talked incessantly for the entire four-hour flight about their families, their partners, their homes, their holidays, their jobs in those elevated excited tones that strangers use. As if whispering and talking in your normal voice would indicate an intimacy that is not justified by this casual encounter. Instead, the proper volume is high, animated by loud forced laughter. Couples desperately ask others to switch seats so they can sit with their partners. Having achieved the sought-after goal they say not one word to their partner the rest of the flight. The longing is not to be with their loved one at all but to be free of the bloody stranger! That way they can comfortably sulk and moan as normal. It makes this flying tube a little more like home to have that familiar face frowning over Suduko beside them.
Mind you, I shouldn’t complain, we landed safely and we all survived. However, since I am in complaining mode I’d like to mention the seats on Ryanair.They are so uncomfortable. I am not claustrophobic but the distance between the seat in front and my face is worryingly small.Mind you, the prices keep me coming back for more.Worrying to hear of their plans to have us all standing in the future (surely its a joke?).
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But perhaps this group's song captures the whole cheap airline experience best.
