A Century Of Flight
Any person who has flown internationally knows that the airplane, at some point in your trajectory, becomes a sort of flying asylum. Time loses meaning. You are buffetted by wailing of all kinds as you try to retain a grip on the steady operation of your mind. Children keen and shriek as though being murdered, and you hold to your in-flight cookie like a life preserver.
To make things worse, I was sitting next to some kind of mutant. I don’t know if they just grow them that big where he’s from, or what, but he was eight feet tall if he was a foot. We immediately took a dislike to one another. I try not to touch other human beings if I can help it, it’s just a personal rule, but his gargantuan legs splayed in all directions and made it difficult to exist in that space.
When they brought out the breakfast, however, something wonderful happened.
They had given me a raspberry yogourt that was sealed on the top with tinfoil. There was also some sort of Air Quiche, but it’s best if we don’t discuss it. I opened the treat as carefully as I could, but after the initial resistance the cup practically exploded. Covered from head to toe in stunning pink, the mutant looked like a carnival float in a gay pride parade.