You make a reservation. The tickets appear super good value until you add tax, a fuel charge, a charge for a seat, a premium for being allowed to take anything with you, an extra charge to allow the flight crew to smile at you, and you still convince yourself you've still got a good deal.
From that moment on you get a daily email: "Your Flight to Vienna," it states in capital letters before going on to sell you anything from a hotel to bicycle hire to a sandwich. If you are not extra vigilant then you could accidentally swipe away the one email that tells you your flight times have changed. Luckily, I'm Mrs Read-Everything, so I spotted the important change in details. "Your flight time on EZ4564£ has changed: Old time 6.25. New time 6.20."
"Our flight time has changed," I told the Long Suffering Husband.
"Oh, 6.20. That's early. Shall we book a hotel at Gatwick the night before?"
Any sane person would treat themselves, right? So we pushed the boat out and booked a Premier Inn Summer Special parking package.
You won't get a better night's sleep, anywhere. Lenny Henry recommends the beds. The LSH does a Princess and the Pea impression, complaining about how high and hard the mattress is. The hotel has thought about the aircraft noise and hired a troupe of Tyrollean clog dancers to stay in the room above you and drown out the engine noises.
The alarm goes off at 4am and you sit up and say, "Thank goodness for that. It's finally morning."
You both swear that the other did get some sleep because you heard snoring, although that could have been the clog dancers.
Luckily, the half hour bus journey from the car park to the airport gives the LSH a chance for a good sleep.
The bus arrives at the North Terminal. You get off and check your boarding passes that you printed off yourself for a small extra cost. South Terminal! Phew! There's a shuttle train! What luxury! You don't even have to sit down.
A small queue (how we love to queue) at security. People are complaining about having to give the contents of their hip flasks to the security guards and saying things like, "I can't go to France without my deodorant. What do you mean by saying I can buy some? Do they even have deodorant in France?" The man behind me walks through the metal detector with his hands in the air and his trousers slip to his thighs. He's not quite sure if he's allowed to hoik them up again and so he clamps his knees together and waddles through. The female security guard rolls her eyes and I laugh. The man behind me (who isn't the LSH because he is still struggling to get his belt off) is arguing about removing his coat.
"Why do I have to take it off?"
"It's a good idea,sir."
"It's weird, though. I'd rather just keep it on."
"You can if you want, Sir but the metal studs on it will set off the metal detector."
He decides to leave it on. Lights flash and he has to take it off, go through again and he still gets a friendly pat down.
"I don't get it ," says the LSH
"Maybe he longed for human contact."
"I don't see why people have to argue; belts, coats shoes, what does it matter?. Just take it all off."
That would certainly make security more interesting. Strip naked. Walk through with your hands in the air shouting, "Nothing to declare."
Included in the extra charges for an Easy-jet flight is a health premium. Their boarding gates are always the furthest away and you have paid for the privilege of that extra walking time. You wave to the North Terminal as you walk past.
Due to good planning we arrive at gate 2448 ten minutes before 6.20 and sit, watching the parents placing their children in the baggage check cages to make sure that they will fit into the overhead lockers. At 6.45 they call our flight and people run to get into the queue.
"Quick, we're already late, we might miss it."
Every woman who gets to the front of the queue panics and tries to shove her handbag into her luggage.
The wife of the actor from New Tricks tries to argue the toss.
"Forty five pounds for a handbag."
We suspect she is an actor too. The woman would be great in The Importance of Being Ernest. I was planning to do my coat up over my bag and suffer the indignation of the cabin crew asking when my menopause-baby was due but when we heard the reply I decided to shove it in my backpack.
"We don't agree with it either madam but we don't make the rules. No, I can't pretend I haven't seen it if you hide it under your coat."
It was a bit of a squeeze but in it went and we smugly passed through the gate with only one sideways look at my passport photo. I could tell she was thinking, "Are you sure this I your passport? This photo looks like the babysitter bandit from the Simpsons," but she was only programmed to challenge handbags.
Being in the back of the airplane gives another added bonus for Easy-jet customers: that wonderful smell of engine fuel, as you have to step onto the Tarmac and climb the steps. No tunnel entrance to the plane for you. When your backpack is full to bursting the zip will work its way loose and you will leave a trail of those extra large sanitary towels (that you carry everywhere when you reach that unpredictable age) until a nice Polish man politely taps you on the shoulder and tells you that your bag is open. Before we are on the plane all the women have taken their handbags out of their other luggage and retrieved their lost items from the runway.
Flying can be a trauma for the anxious (which I'm not) and for people who think too much (which I am). The improbability of getting that great metal thing full of people into the sky never fails to cross my mind. The toilet at the back is out of order and I fear that the queue of people for the front one will cause the plane to tip forward. The flap on the wing gives me a little wave of reassurance.
Why is there writing on the wing warning you not to walk on that part?
Then there's the noise of the electric screwdriver and although you 'know' that they are removing the staircase you can't help wondering, as it's Easy-jet, if something has fallen off that they must hastily fix. The Captain comes on the tannoy to tell us that he's sorry that we boarded late but he's certain that he can make the time up if he "doesn't spare the horses." Binty, behind us, (yes, really - Binty) frets that she doesn't want him speeding. Parents, who haven't managed to stow their babies safely in the overhead lockers spend the whole flight doing the two foot shuffle, moving further back in the plane to avoid the toilet queue.
Someone opens the overhead locker to remove their baby and can't get the bag back in. The LSH comments on how to manoeuvre the bags for a perfect fit but the stewardess comes to the rescue.
"You could be a flight attendant with those skills," I suggest.
"Yes. Except I couldn't wear the heels," he agrees
"Or put your hair in a bun."
You finally arrive in Vienna and can't wait to do it all again, in reverse in two days time.
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