All up in the air

I love flying. It’s a good job as well, seeing as I’ve racked up 28 hrs in the air and traveled 14,103 miles in the last month.

I especially love flying at night. It’s a bit like going to bed but better. Sure, you’re in a virtual coffin of discomfort that only tilts back half an inch, but its socially acceptable to drink (for free!) in your little pod and by the time you’ve read a few pages, drawn that woman sat in the next aisle and grabbed a few hours sleep you wake up on the other side of the world.

I took off this time from Heathrow Terminal 5, which despite all its opening troubles is fantastic. It was only 8.30 but pitch black as I boarded the plane. I hadn’t felt any nervousness or excitement like normal (a fact that can probably be attributed to having barely had time to breathe in 3 weeks) but as we bumped along the runway and lifted off the ground I felt a wave of mild and transient euphoria pass through me on its way to the excitable little kid to my left.

England looks beautiful from above at night, especially when you fly east over London and see the sprawling urban hub alive with a million slowly diminishing lights. The higher we climbed, the hazier the city became, until the vague mist of illumination gave way to total darkness.

That’s the only problem with living on an island; ten minutes of glorious inland views and then you’re over the blank vastness of the sea, an hankering for a gratis mini JD bottle.

It’s no wonder we drink so much on planes.