BOEING 747 CRASHES IN BALTIC EN ROUTE FROM HEATHROW TO STOCKHOLM

I kept seeing that headline as I felt the sudden pressure against my back and the aircraft accelerated, tyres bumping along the tarmac, faster and faster, until the nose lifted, and we were airborne.

Gradually I relaxed. I had been sweating profusely (and farting a lot) before we took off, expecting carbine-toting police to burst into the cabin and drag me and Sydney off the plane. They didn’t - but I was relieved when the door was shut and we were being towed off-stand - I picked that term up from a friend who used to be a trolley-dolly: Hector, his name was. I wish we’d kept in touch.

Bagging the window seat turned out to be a bad move: by the time the seatbelt sign had been extinguished, Sydney was fast asleep, and remained like that for the entire flight. (he’d obviously taken something). He didn’t wake up once during the three times I climbed over him on the way to the lavatory.

I couldn’t sleep.

I thought, what if we did crash? And it was the end? Just like that? No chance to make amends, no chance to explain.

I suppose there would be panic as the plane fell, faster and faster, towards the sea – but from 30,000 feet we’d probably be dead before we hit the water.
And then what? Nothing?

I began to reflect upon my life. What would it all have been about? Well, it would have been about living. Is that all? You reply. I say, what better purpose could there be?

I started to run the old ‘B’ movie I have in my head: The life and times of George Jackson. The first half is in black and white because colour had not been invented. There is sound though – I am not that old!

Women. They have played a big part in my life. Some bigger than others. (Actually, when I think about it, I seem to have mostly attracted the heavier woman).

As I said in my ‘profile’ I have been searching for love. I really cannot think of anything more worthwhile. Someone to share your life: your hopes, your fears, your dreams – someone to hold in the night when the vultures hover outside your window.

Not a lot to ask, is it? So why is it so difficult to find? Or having found it, to hold on to? (Answers please, on the back of an old marriage certificate.)

I wonder what they would say about me at my funeral?


“His wife had something to put with, you know.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, he liked his women.”
“Yes, well, he’s dead now, and his little peccadilloes have been buried with him.”
“I should hope so – there was some talk of keeping them in a glass jar on the mantelpiece.”

The old ones are the best, eh!

But seriously, what would they say about me?

If you refer to my post about ‘specs’ you will see the problem. Everyone views us differently. Perhaps there isn’t a real me but many me’s , which I wear like suits of clothes depending on what the occasion demands.
Ah, but who is the ‘I’ that chooses which suit to wear? (If you really want a sort of answer to that, read “Creation: Life and how to make it” by Steve Grand.

I once had a friend who used to say, with an impish grin, ‘talk metaphysical to me.’ Actually, she was one of the exceptions to what I was saying earlier about the ‘heavier woman’ – she was so slim. She would go on about her ‘scrawny breasts’ – but I liked them. She’s dead now, and I miss her.

I think I’ll buy a sandwich from this lovely young lady who is now approaching, with her loaded trolley. And perhaps supplement this with a miniature of gin, for the warmth and comfort that might be in it.

She has to lean over the sleeping Sydney to place my purchases on the little plastic tray. As she does so, the plane hits some turbulence, and next minute she has landed on top of me - one of her magnificent breasts (the left one) whacking number one son on the nose as it passes. He grunts and splutters but – amazingly – does not wake. Meantime I am drowning in billows of flesh and waves of perfume.

Wow. That was well worth the six pounds seventy five, I can tell you!