Australian traveller (that’s me!) tells of her flight saga

by Claire Isaac

A whingeing seatmate. An unexpected health problem. That’s just the start of a flight story so bad you’ll barely believe it’s true.

The best flight of my life didn’t start out quite as well as you’d think.

I was flying to London on my way to a wedding in Majorca, a trip to Plymouth in Devon where I grew up, a few days of eating in Barcelona and then two weeks in New York.

I was pumped. I was raring to go.

I was fragrant.

Fragrant in that I had spritzed my Angel by Thierry Mugler eau de toilette all over me, feeling fresh and exuding the perfumed air of someone who travelled in style, my scarf jauntily wrapped around my neck like a seasoned traveller who knew a scarf would come in handy and jazz up even the plainest of outfits.

I waltzed down the plane towards my exit row seat — glad I’d booked extra leg room for such a long haul. A mature-age woman sitting in the middle seat winced as I wafted towards her. She coughed. And coughed again.

“Your perfume,” she choked.

“Yes,” I said, smiling.

“It is making me choke,” she choked.

She motioned to the stewardess. Everyone in the plane craned their necks to see what was happening. What I was doing to some poor old lady. The stewardess came over to see what the noise was. That noise was the sound of someone having an asthma attack.**

After minutes of me wrapping my scarf tightly around me, embarrassed at the fuss I was causing and unsure about what to do, the woman was whisked to the other side of the plane as two very sweet, never-left-the-country, Akubra wearing blokes swapped places with her, arriving in the vacant seats, grinning at me and asking “Who did you just try and kill?” and “I hope you won’t try that with us!”.

The people seated behind joined in. Oh how we laughed. The stewardess brought me a business class toiletries pack and some pyjamas.

“Sorry for that fuss” she said. I smiled.

Later, she brought me a cheese plate. “Sorry again!” she whispered.

“Cheese?” I said to the Akubra wearer.

“Have you poisoned it?” he asked.

Later that night, as everyone slept, I stretched my aching legs and tried to balance them on my overnight bag. I rubbed my knee, and startled, found a lump behind it. I got up and made my way toward the galley where the stewardesses were gathered. I told one of them I had a lump behind my knee. She felt it. We both felt it.

She suggested I go lie down on the floor with my legs raised on my chair. I went back to my seat and she helped me lie down beside the door, legs up on my seat, head on a pillow. Interrupting the queue for the toilet as I took up valuable space, I tried to look sick enough to need the extra room.

“Cup of tea?” she offered.

“Thanks” I whispered, feebly.

The Akubra wearers were beside themselves.

“Do you normally do this?” they asked.

There was an announcement over the PA: “If there is a doctor on board, could you please make yourself known to a member of the cabin crew.”

Yes that was for me.

And behold. There were 50 doctors on board. Going to a conference in Monaco.

Result!

There was a stampede from the upper deck. Actually I don’t know if that is true, but one came down and the stewardess came back to me — “Come with me” she said, crouching down to talk to me as I lay with my head near the door of the plane. I got up and walked with her. A man in the galley smiled and asked if it was OK if he touched my leg. I wondered if I was asleep. But I let him cop a feel anyway.

“Nothing to worry about, I think your socks are too tight,” he said, motioning at the attractive compression socks I was wearing.

“Should I, erm, take them off?” I asked.

I went back to my seat, pulled my socks off with a flourish, pulled the blanket and pillow up from the floor and sat back down. The Akubra wearers were startled.

“No one’s about to die,” I smiled.

“Phew” they said. And went back to watching Harry Potter.

Fast forward about 30 minutes and nothing much had changed.

Knee — lumpy.

Akubras — on.

Lights — off.

Harry — still a boy wizard.

An old man made his way down the aisle towards the toilets. Conveniently located just close to where I was sitting. And then, suddenly, he was on the floor — his legs buckling. The Akubra wearers were closest and helped him up … he was OK. Just a little light-headed.

Everyone looked at me. I knew what they were thinking. I turned away. Tutting.

Then, two minutes later, he fell heavily. On. To. Us. The two Akubra wearers grabbed him as he fell awkwardly across our row, obviously in need of assistance. We rang the call bell, and the same doctor and stewardess came running, propping him sideways where I’d been lying minutes before, and giving him oxygen.

The Akubra wearers were hysterical. They were practically arresting me on the spot. “What did you do?” they hissed with glee.

“I don’t know!” I said, this time almost believing it was me.

About 15 minutes later he went back to his seat, right as rain. And we landed in Dubai, 15 hours into the journey. What could possibly happen next? Well, let me tell you. I got back on the plane and — lo and behold — old asthma face (hereafter referred to as AF) was back in her seat. I stiffened as I walked up the aisle.

“Did you reapply?” she yelled as I just got within hearing …

“Sorry?” I stumbled.

“Did you reapply?”

I paused. I had sprayed more perfume on to counter the 15 hours-on-a-plane aroma, yes. But I wasn’t going to tell her that.

“No.” I lied.

“Good” she smirked. She sniffed. “I can’t smell you now.”

People who had just joined the flight in Dubai were staring, no doubt thinking I must have stunk on the first leg. I wanted to yell, “It’s Angel perfume, and it’s lovely.”

But instead I sat down, wafting my scarf to and fro surreptitiously in the hope that it would cause her some distress. The new cabin crew were on board, and the steward sitting opposite me for takeoff began chatting. He was called James, and he spoke to old asthma-head and her hubby for a while, who told him they’d been moved to the other side of the plane for the first part of their journey but that they were back now and all seemed well. We all breathed a sigh of relief (hers was somewhat laboured) He asked me where I was going.

“London, Barcelona … and New York eventually but first Majorca for a wedding,” I said.

“Oh, whose wedding?” he asked, leaning forward eagerly, presumably because the conversation didn’t revolve around an old lady’s breathing issues.

“Some gay friends of mine …” I began.

“Not Tony and Paul?” he started ...

“YES!” I squealed.

“Oh my goodness! I’m going to that wedding too!!” he exclaimed.

Turned out he was dating the groom’s cousin. Sadly, I can’t remember which groom. Dinner was served and miniature bottles of wine were thrust at me from every direction. James made it his mission to give me extra everything. I had bread rolls stuffed in crevices and extra chocolate bars in my iPad case. It was extraordinary. Old mate and her hubby couldn’t even get a second G & T. Shame.

Dessert from business class was proffered. But I couldn’t eat it. The woman and her hubby looked on longingly. The 14 miniature bottles of wine had made me tired (just joking, it wasn’t 14, it more like 10) and once my tray had been cleared (first of course), I settled down for the rest of the flight to London, hoping for some sleep.

Sometime later I was awoken by someone tapping me. It was James. There was another tap, and some rustling in the bag containing my business class pyjamas.

“I’ve just put a present in your bag, something from first class” he whispered conspiratorially.

I smiled, “Thank you so much” I said. “You’ve been too kind!”

“No!” he disagreed. “and now we can have a boogie at the wedding!”

“Hoorah!” I said. “You’re on!”

He went away and minutes later I couldn’t stand it, I had to know what he’d smuggled into my luggage. I looked. Two bottles — full sized — of Tattinger champagne were sitting in my plastic bag. I grinned like a fool. I looked around. The lady and her hubby were watching me.

“I’ve had a very good flight!” I said to them, as I wrapped my scarf around me a little tighter against the cold, wafting just a little bit of perfume as I did so. “A very good flight!”

**or pretending to, we will never know.

*this originally appeared on News.com.au