The path to Llacas

0 - 470 mph in 20 seconds

An hour and a half later we are sat in the departure lounge, having read every English newspaper published that day (trying to ignore the seemingly endless articles about planes falling apart around the world), eaten our weight in crisps, and exhausted the fun to be had with electrocuting each other using the 'charging up your feet on the nylon airport carpet' technique.

Finally we board, and once I have been securely strapped into my seat in the vain attempt to prevent myself running down the aisle and begging the tired-faced stewardess to let me off again, (as I always want to do) the plane revs its engines and we move. About 30 feet. It takes 55 minutes to do this. We watch 13 other aircraft nudge their way in front of ours and take off. The tail fin on each one begins to look more and more like a middle finger stuck up at us sneeringly as we sit impotently on the tarmac, and all the while I start to convince myself that the walls of the plane are gradually closing in on us. He looks at me curiously as I start the inevitable ‘eyes-welling-up’ routine.

A Dubliner had told me that pilots to Ireland like to make good time once they get going, and as we finally get clearance for take off this becomes apparent. In the style of a boy-racer waiting at a red light, the engine revs once more until it sounds like it’s going to explode, and we take off from an almost standstill. It normally takes me at least 30 minutes into a flight before I can relax enough to pretend I’m not several thousand feet above the ground – 20 minutes on this plane (as I am undigging my nails from the back of his hand) and the pilot is announcing over the intercom that we are starting the descent. Blimey.

posted by Liberty Slutzski @ 1:43 pm