God, I love flying

Taking my seat aboard flight CO5 to Houston, following the ingestion of 7 mgs (and rising) of Diazapam, and a ruckus with a repulsive little man regarding my lack of an ESTA - something which is, apparently, compulsory for anyone entering the US but knowledge of which has completely bypassed my awareness and, I am fairly sure, was not mentioned at any point during the process of my booking this trip - I am uplifted, albeit momentarily, by the caption on the front of the in-flight magazine which tells me the exciting news that 'Robert Pattinson refused to wax his eyebrows for New Moon'. This could only mean one thing... I would be able to follow the romantic escapades of Bella, Edward and Jacob as I soared above the Atlantic, making the whole experience far more bearable. I could even watch it more than once.

But, would you believe it, the one channel that isn't working on the sodding entertainment system is the one designated to show Twilight? The ONE channel.

Are you frikkin joking me.

Instead, alas, I am forced to alternate between watching re-runs of House and peering intently at the route tracking system, monitoring the ground speed, altitude, outside air temperature and estimated arrival time for any anomolies to which I must immediately alert the crew*.

Goodbyes are never fun and, I am not ashamed to say, they are something I fail to pull off with any level of finesse. Snot ridden and with enough make-up smeared across my face to make even the most weathered of Avon ladies blush, rivulets of congealing mascara quietly dripping onto the sleeve of the ill-fated Mexcan gentlemen sitting next to me, I am a sorry state. Indeed, this combined with an unerring need to urinate at frequent intervals as soon as I go anywhere near an aeroplane, along with my insistance that the window blind be up at all times - despite the fact that this means nobody can see anything at all, let alone a poxy tv screen - and a profuse sweating, wailing and knashing of teeth whenever the fasten seat-belt sign is illumnated to signal turbulent conditions, one can only sympathise for my fellow passenger/s.

As we cross over Goose Bay in Quebec (a very roundabout way of getting to Texas if you ask me, although funnily enough no one did), snow and ice become indistingishible from a freezing sea. It would be well bad to crash now I reckon, we'd probably have to eat each other. Oh god, I hope I don't get Deep Vein Thrombosis, I didn't buy the special socks...i'll do some excercises instead. That's bound to endear me further to the fellow next door. Lucky bugger.

PS: I'm fairly sure the head hostess woman is Sue Sylvester from Glee.

*Question: why is the plane on said route traking system scaled so be so bloody big? According to this map's depiction, all one has to do is get on at the tail of the aircraft at Heathrow, walk down the aisle and disembark casually in America.