Night Flight

Interesting flight to Darwin last night.

I'd been randomly allocated a window seat. After I'd herded onto the plane and found it, a couple about my age, fifty plus, were in the process of appropriating the window seat to store a large flat framed, bubble wrapped piece. Suppose they couldn't believe their luck on a packed flight. Seemed a tad miffed, I thought, to relinquish the floorspace they'd used and stow the item in the overhead locker. The woman - thin lips, tan leather jacket, skinny jeans, menopausal black dyed concave bob - had removed her knee high boots. In black socked feet, she unfurled herself, distractedly stood, and slotted her piece in the locker. Oddly, she ignored me and sat down again.

"Perhaps you'd like to move over?" I inquired politely, thinking they could both just shift over one.
"No, I'm staying right here, thank you very much!" 

Bit aggro. Think she thought I was going to boot her out of her allocated seat.  She was shaking her head, glaring at something indeterminate. Her partner, a grey loose-jowled man, chin sunk on his chest, just stared at the seat ahead. Perhaps he was jammed in. Thin-lips was determinedly having that aisle seat. I didn't care except I'd had a soaring blood sugar all day, probably a rebound from my near-death gastro in the previous 36 hours. Now I was dying of thirst - a diabetic thing - and knew I'd need a pee at some time during the flight.

"Well, I'll have to climb over you." I was sing-song, smiling, indulging a couple of children.

At this, something clicked and they clambered out. Bit of a struggle for him, clinging to the seat in front and shuffling sideways.

"And you'll have to forgive me climbing over you during the night," I belled, beaming, shuffling into my seat. "Old bladder, ha ha."

During the night? Who was I kidding? I thought, sitting heavily on my crossed seat-belt before wresting it out.  It was 3 a.m.

Amazing how much urine one's bladder can hold, in extremis, despite considerable discomfort. Once in, I could not get out. Had there been an emergency, perhaps a crash, with assistance from flight attendants, the blob next to me could perhaps have been induced  to prise himself out. He reeked of a few too many at the bar prior to take-off.  He was in an inert Can't Be Fucked, alcohol induced torpor.

Glad I'd relieved myself of those last few drops back at the airport toilets.

The armrest between me and my companion was raised and he'd taken the opportunity to ease himself about a quarter onto my seat.  Hmm. What to do?

"Would you like the armrest down?" I carolled, clicking it into position under a roll of his flesh.  He rested his arm over it, as one does, and I was okay.  Still had one completely to myself on the window side.

Beyond him Thin-lips had assumed the position: facing her husband, legs drawn up towards her chest.  Quite flexy, I thought.

Blob inclined himself towards her, in so doing, resting his back fat right over my arm.

I was irate, and perhaps more irrational than usual. It was 3.45 a.m.  I'd had no sleep since 9.30 the previous a.m., and prior to that I'd been on a drip in the ER for five hours following 18 hours of explosive gastro.

I swore under my breath.  That achieving nothing, I whimpered for an instant, pinioned as I was between back fat and the aeroplane wall.  Hmm.  What to do?

Tapped him on the arm.  He blinked awake and slowly turned to gawp at me.

"Excuse me?  Is she your wife?"  No more sing-song.  Assertive now, I nodded towards Thin-lips.

He registered the question; cogs creaking round.

"Yes."

"Well, would you mind leaning on her instead of me?  These days I don't even let my husband get this close."

He gawped some more, bemused perhaps.  Maybe he thought he was having an alcohol induced dream.  At this stage, ready for sleep or what passes for it on a plane, I'd pulled my orange hood up over my head, my bespectacled 55 year old face was peering at him, and around my neck I had, due to air pressure, an over-inflated blue neck support pillow.  He obeyed anyway.

Unfortunately, when he dropped into deeper sleep it was no holds barred.  He rolled over 'in bed' onto me, to mouth-breathe into my face.

Confession:  I can't even bear this with my old man and consequently we sleep, in our queen bed, in our little compartments, our heads separated by a pillow (affectionately known as 'the barrier') standing on its side.

Drunk, Blob was comatose.  I pulled my hood around my face, cleaved to what remained of my $300 seat and the side of the plane and prayed for a swift flight.

Me at Highpoint.

I'm in the changing room in Target, Highpoint - I've hit the fashion heights, clearly.  There's a discarded coat-hanger on the bench and a used  tissue on the floor.

I've stripped down  to my socks and undies on the bottom.  I'm keeping my top pulled securely down over my trunk lest my abdomen escape from the top of my knickers.  I don't want to see it.  I've selected five pairs of pants to try on.  It's an interesting exercise being in one of those rooms with the reveal-all mirrors.  I try to avoid looking at myself above my hip line.  Muffin tops would be putting it politely.  Think I've got the opposite of body dysmorphia.  I go about my life thinking I look okay, and then I see the reality in Target when I'm trying to have a nice shop.

One by one I struggle into these enormous pants - my size - and one by one I drop them into a heap on the floor.  The pants look crap but I quite like my asymmetrical haircut. Haven't seen it from this angle before,  Not bad at all.  It compensates a little for the disappointing elephant-crutch duds.  I've worked up a sweat at this stage and check my blood glucose in case I'm having a hypo rather than a menopausal flush.  I'm okay, but I've had enough of Target.

I abandon the trouser shopping.  After all, I'm supposed to be buying a present for my old man's birthday.

I'm in Big W next, opportunistically buying a bra.  Well, they've got my style and size.  This presents a problem though.  I want to browse the rest of the store but I'm not carrying a shopping basket so I must carry this enormous black bra with its massive moulded d-cups.  Try to tuck it inconspicuously under my bag but to no avail.  This bra has a life of its own.  If it had wheels I could have ridden around in it.

Run the gauntlet of Level 3 - yes, madam is having a nice day, but no, she's not interested in boxing lessons, nor organic cosmetics - and decide to buy a USB from Dick Smith.

Next stop, Just Jeans.  Really must get something for the old man.  The alarm goes off as I try to enter the store.  I fling out my arms, as one does, as the assistant rushes over to accost me.  I rifle through my bag.  The USB is the culprit.  I'm asked for the receipt, which I proffer.  Good to know they're all looking out for each other at Highpoint.  Nothing to see here, I think, given a small crowd has gathered behind me to gawk as we swing various items through the sensor.  They're rewarded with a viewing of my incredible living bra.  The shop assistant kindly peels off the metal label from the packaging of the USB and I'm in.

Now I'm having another hotflush/hypo special combo.  Surreptitiously check my blood sugar again before resuming my jeans shopping.  All good.

Despite my earlier trouser disappointment I'm tempted by the two pairs for $100 offer.  Pair for me and a pair for the old man.  He's easy to buy for.  Thirty-four inch waist.  He works out; has hardly changed shape in 32 years.  I have a moment of euphoria in the changing room when I find a pair of jeans that fit - albeit below the muffin top line.

So I pay for the jeans and head for the exit and WTF?  I'm bleeping again.  The assistant rushes over and now the d-cups are once again being passed back and forth through the sensor.  That's what you get for being environmentally friendly and bringing your own carry bag.  But once again, it's the USB.  The shop assistant obliges with a pair of scissors and liberates the USB from its attention seeking plastic packaging and sod the guy in Dick Smith who didn't de-magnetise it, or whatever he was supposed to do.

Back for more tomorrow.  The old man's pants didn't fit.