Saved by the Queen

The Ryanair flight back from Manchester from Dublin should have been straight forward. After a three day break in the Lake District with my old friend Lucy, we boarded the flight. Lucy had not flown for ten years because she has a fear of flying. More specifically, of the actual take off.

We shuffled onto the blue and yellow plane and found the only seats available for us. They were on the wing of the aircraft. Lucy began to panic, "Isn't this the most dangerous place to sit?" she asked the slick young Italian air steward. "I do not know about that" "But you must know!" "I do not know about that" "But you are the air steward!" "I don't know about that. Sit down please".  We sat down. I did up her buckle and slipped a sedative into her mouth. She was dribbling with fear before the pilot had even started the engine. 

That was until a few moments later, a young man sat down in the seat the other side of me. He was agitated. Sweaty. Wringing his hands together and playing with the gold Claddagh ring on his middle finger. I looked at Lucy to my left, eyes wide open. Fixed on the emergency escape plan clutched in her hands. She was slipping slowly into what could be mistaken for a catatonic state.  The drugs that her doctor had given her were working. I could relax. The flight attendants started to go through the emergency escape procedure.

Suddenly, I became aware of the guy to my left slowly rocking to and fro, head in hands. "Are you OK?" I asked him. "I hate this shit. Flying. I go feckin' bezerk when we land. Can't help it. Last time I did this, I swear feckin' cold air came in. Like there was a feckin' leak. The sides of the plane started splitting open as we came into land. That's what it looked like to me anyway. No-one else saw it. But I did. I hate the feckin' landing bit. I go a bit feckin' crazy, see?" I could see alright. It was a feckin' disaster. The poor man, a bar man from Dublin, was petrified.  

What should have been a simple 40 minute flight was turning into an episode of One Flew Over The Cuckoos nest. I had two of the most terrified people on the planet at that moment beside me. Lucy to my right frozen rigid at the thought of taking off and the young psychotic man to my left trembling with fear at the idea of  landing.

Lucy put the inflight magazine over her face as the plane prepared for take off. She did not inhale for a full five minutes. I did not attempt to move the magazine, there was a chance she'd lash out. As we crossed the Irish sea, it dawned on me that there would be a ten minute period when neither neighbour would be terrified. Somewhere between taking off and landing. Ceasing the opportunity, in a Dr Phil kind of way, half way into the short flight, I nudged them both and introduced them to each other. They chatted furiously about their fear of flying. "It's so real" "no-one else understands".  The conversation was interrupted by a Ryanair angel pushing a drinks trolley. 

The order went in. Two whiskies for the man to my left, a diet coke for me and a gin and tonic for Lucy. I opened the bottles for him and watched as he threw them both down his neck. Soon, the pilot announced that we were ten minutes away from landing. "Do you want one of her tablets?" I asked him, pointing at Lucy who standing up in her chair,  pointing at a man a few rows behind us and shouting out "Oh he's LOVELY. LOOK Annie. LOOK! Looks like Colin Farrell! Would you? Could you?" "Shhh. SIT DOWN" I hissed, grabbing her by her jumper, forcing her back into the chair and clicking her in. She had survived take off, now she was in a trance like euphoric state. Unlike the man to my left who was quivering and looking worryingly angry.

I had to distract him, all I knew about him was that he was a barman. "What's your favorite drink?" "Wha? Wha? Er, whiskey". "Have you ever served anyone famous?" "Wha?" "LOOK AT ME. CONCENTRATE. HAVE YOU SERVED ANYONE FAMOUS?" we could feel the plane getting lower. Every time there was a strange noise, he jumped up, terrified.  I repeated my question, "HAVE YOU SERVED ANYONE FAMOUS?" "What? Oh, I, uh" he was looking around with terror. "Bill Clinton. Bill Clinton! I served BILL CLINTON". Now he was getting really tense, other passengers turned to see what the fuss was about.

Even I was beginning to panic now. This stranger had warned me that he went 'bezerk' when the plane landed. I was the passenger sitting next to the crazy guy on the plane. I had to act fast, this man looked like he was about to kill someone. How could I calm him down? It had to be something that would shock him out of his fear. Fresh from the UK, where every single thing from teapots to slippers were covered in a Union Jack for the Queen's Jubilee, I was inspired by HRH. "LOOK INTO MY EYES! Have you ever served the Queen?" "Wha?" "THE QUEEN! Have you ever served the Queen of England?"

He looked nervously at the door to the cockpit. "Wha?" "THE QUEEN OF ENGLAND. ELIZABETH THE SECOND". Pulling at the gold gain around his neck he muttered, "NO! Can you feel cold air coming into the plane?" getting angry. "Did you see her on the TV?" "wha?"  "WHAT WAS SHE WEARING WHEN  SHE VISITED THE GUINNESS STOREHOUSE IN DUBLIN?" "Wha?" "WHAT COLOUR WAS HER DRESS?" "I can feel cold air. Theres a leak". I tool his face into my hands. "LOOK AT ME!" He tugged at the cross around his neck, trying to see past my face and out of the window. I blocked his view. "I dunno, green?" "NO, try again" "Red?" "No" "Grey?" "NO!""Feckin' PURPLE?" "NO!" "ORANGE?" "NO!" "FECKIN' WHITE?" "NO!" "BROWN?" NO!" "Feckin' black?" "NO!"

The plane was about to land. A loud bang and a bumpy noise and we hit tarmac.  He fell back into the chair, I let out a sigh. Lucy was almost asleep on the other side.  "What color was the feckin' dress anyways?" he asked as he got up to leave. The truth was that I didn't know, I didn't care. I was exhausted.  But as you can see here, if anyone asks you, you'll know it was feckin' blue. 

Angry Birds.

When my teenage daughter isn’t squeezing spots she does not know what to do with her hands. I mean it. It is something that I became aware of this week when we went to see the doctor about her feet.

Arriving twenty minutes early, I suggested to her that we nip into a nearby department store to buy her a few much needed t-shirts for the summer. Unfortunately she did not hear me. She was walking ten metres behind, plugged into her Ipod. Her face was twisted with anger and her hands, usually squeezing spots, were on her hips.  Her fists clenched like she wanted a fight. “What are you listening too?” I mouthed. She ignored me and marched past. I pulled out an earplug and seizing the moment, stuck it into my ear. It was Katie Perry, ‘Firework’, hardly the kind of music to make you want to punch someone. Not like Ten Inch Nails or Iron Maiden.

“Are you feeling ok?” I asked. “SHUT UP” she replied, plugging herself back into Katie Perry. Hands back on hips, she followed me into the chemist dragging her feet like two enormous sandbags with her. “Do you need anything from here?” I asked, hovering about beside the sanitary products. “NO”. Every day I hope that this behaviour is hormone related. It never is. Purchasing headache tablets and odour eaters we headed to the foot expert.

“Take off your shoes and walk up and down,” the doctor said to my daughter. She did as she was told. Hands on hips, frowning and dragging her feet along like two dead bodies. “Now listen to ME,” said the expert with a stern authority that made me shudder. “If you don’t do what I say, your feet will never get better. Do you understand?” My daughter, hands still on hips grunted.  “Pick up your feet”. She did. I looked at the expert and wondered if the rumours were true. Someone told me this woman was a wild punk rocker in the Eighties.  Would she ever have expected, years later, to be wearing Ecco shoes, Marks and Spencer twin set and a white coat and shouting at flat footed moody teens. Half an hour later, orthotics ordered we left.

Moments later, my daughter was again ten metres behind me. Hands on hips, a face like thunder and feet like lead. I couldn’t help myself. I waited for her to catch up and pulled out her music (To a teenager that is like switching off their life support machine). “If you walk along with your hands on your hips, you look so, so angry. Please, just for today, can you not walk along with your hands like that?” 

Fists clenched and still on firmly hips she yelled, “WHAT ELSE AM I SUPPOSED TO DO WITH THEM? Her reply caught me on the hop. I had not thought about it. What do other teenagers do? I looked around. A teenager walked by, a male, with hands in his pockets. My teenager has no pockets. Another couple, teenager girls, walked by with their arms folded. “That?” I said, pointing at them. She rolled her eyes and kept her hands firmly in their place.  Another teenager walked by with a cigarette in one hand and a can of lager in the other.  Luckily my teenager didn’t see, she was too busy starring at her face in a shop window.

Once home I asked friends what their teenagers did with their hands. Almost all the mothers of boys gave the same answer, “Always in their pockets” except one. “He hangs them there, at the side. Never moves them, even when he runs. Like two wooden oars. Lifeless. Drives me mad”.  Was my daughter the only one to walk with them, fist clenched, on her hips? I was feeling paranoid. Perhaps she should take up boxing. Ireland is producing top female boxers at the moment.  Is this how boxers like Katie Taylor walk?

My sister came up with the solution. “I’d probably do the same if I didn’t have a handbag to hold onto”. HANDBAGS? Then it dawned on me. That is why women carry handbags. Because if we didn’t, we’d go around with our hands on our hips looking like we wanted a fight because out teenage daughters are driving us insane.  Now all I had to do was convince my daughter that she wanted a handbag and she'd not walk around like an angry bird. A new handbag wouldn’t go down well. She wears hoodies, slippers and leggings all day and would be quite happy carrying her belongings in a shopping trolley or a bin liner. 

Just as I was about to begin my handbag search, a safety conscious friend offered me some words of warning. She said that my daughter could end up with a severe facial injury.  “If she trips over and is holding onto a handbag with both hands, she’ll not break her fall will she? She could end up with a broken nose. Think about what you are doing. Could you live with the guilt?”  

So now I am left considering my options. Do I bite my tongue and say nothing about the 'fisty hips' for the next few years or do I buy her a handbag putting her at risk of a serious head injury if she falls? Someone please sent up a forum for parents on this serious matter. Before I start throwing punches.