Flight From Hell. With Cartoon.

I was flying to Melbourne at 1.30pm. I took the kids to school then lingered with the four year old at pre-school. By the time I got home it was 9.45am. I decided to print out my itinerary before starting to pack my bags.

I pulled my itinerary up on screen, and nearly vomited on my keyboard.

The flight was at 10.55am. I needed to be at the airport within forty minutes. It was at least a half hour drive.

OH MY GOD. I began shaking. I picked up the phone to call a cab but a) couldn’t remember the number of the taxi service, and b) couldn’t remember how to use a phone. 

After a couple of precious, wasted minutes I retrieved my brain, dialled the number, booked the cab, and frantically threw some items in a suitcase. Not, sadly, any pyjamas, or toothpaste, or indeed a top to wear the next day, but ‘items’ nonetheless.

The cab arrived within minutes and I jumped inside, trying to control my breathing.

“What time do you need to be at the airport?” the driver asked.

“10.25am,” I answered him. “If I’m not there by then I won’t be able to check in.”

The driver looked worried. I began to sweat.

We arrived at the airport at 10.20am. I had five minutes to spare. I punched the air with relief and went to the automatic check-in.

YOU CANNOT GET ON THE PLANE it told me (or words to that effect, I began hyperventilating at that point).

“WHY???” I asked it, nearly sobbing.

BECAUSE I AM CRUEL AND WISH TO MAKE YOU SUFFER it said. (I may be making this part up.)

I went to the counter, sobbing for real now.

“I can’t check in,” I told the lady. She looked kind and I knew she would help me.

“That’s because you’re late,” she said coldly. I realised she was an evil ice queen and my tears turned to hatred.

“But I’m on time,” I said. “The flight is at 10.55!”

“It was changed to 10.50,” she told me. “The notification was sent to the person who booked the flight.”

“But that wasn’t me!” I cried.

“That’s protocol,” said the Ice Queen. She made my tears run cold.

I paid $100 and got on the next flight, a mere ninety-minutes of mindless hell later. I bought myself an egg sandwich to eat on board, and killed time by reading about celebrity cellulite.

We boarded the plane, and I began eating my sandwich, only to choke on it about four bites in. I tried to cough it up but my eyes started watering and I couldn’t catch my breath. I was dying! I was dying!

Artist's (pretty accurate except for Spongebob) impression of me

I looked around desperately. The two young men to my left studiously ignored the crazy, middle aged choking woman. The two women to my right were pointedly staring out the window. God forbid they should notice the passenger expiring in the seat across the aisle.

So I got out of my seat and ran up to the front of the plane, shouting “Hit me! Hit me!” to the flight attendants.

They did, and I survived. I also scored the entire front row all to myself. Extra leg room and all. I think the crew wanted to keep me away from the other passengers.

Air travel is so tiresome.