Take Off

So, off to Hannover for a Sheep Vet Society meeting (honest). The plane from Heathrow is the smallest I have been on, discounting flying Chipmunks (and that is not a circus act) when I was an RAF cadet. The plane is only three seats wide. We have to board one at a time so that the stewardess can individually shoe-horn us into our seats. By the time the last 5 people board there is no longer any room in the overhead lockers for their hand luggage. The stewardess has to stop a passing Robin Reliant and borrow the roof rack so she can strap the offending luggage to the wing. Then, when we are wedged in and require a liberal application of baby oil if we are to ever hope of getting out again, they announce that (a) we don’t have a take off slot for half an hour and (b) by the way we are still refuelling so please don’t fasten your seatbelts. Strangely enough, every time I have heard that last announcement I have completely failed to find it reassuring.