Did I mention that it was an eleven and a half hour flight?
Within an hour I am hoarse from silly voices and have cramp in my cheeks from pulling so many ‘funny’ faces. I am exhausted and so too is my repertoire of amusing diversions for baby. She starts to whimper. Oh God. I sense muscles clench and teeth grit across the cabin.
We’re not too far over the Atlantic: I consider the swim ashore but an air steward wearing trousers that are a little too snug bars the emergency exit. He smiles in a way that only air stewards in tight pants can. I am petrified. He too seems a little rigid. I am stuck. In my panic, I grab Baby. A miracle happens.
As she clears the height of the seats, she catches sight of our fellow travellers. She likes people. She beams. She grins from ear to ear. And then she scrunches up her little nose and smiles some more. The cabin melts.
Until this time, I’d only managed one glance back at other passengers. They glared back as if to say: “This is an eleven and a half hour flight. You’ve brought a baby. Are you out of your mind?” I didn’t think they’d appreciate me agreeing so readily. I quickly formulated a defensive strategy: I pretended to be Polish. It worked fine until I was rumbled by a huge burly miner from Gdansk. My knowledge of eastern European languages isn’t great but I think she threatened to add my name to the long tattooed list on her rippling forearm. It was enough to make me sit down and stare at the unmoving map of our journey. Time to destination: 40 days and 40 nights.
Now though, the vision of a flying lynch mob had transformed. I look out over a sea of smiling faces. Waving ripples across the rows. Women have gone gooey. Even the blokes seem pleasantly distracted. Periodically girls come over to coo. I am holding The Golden Child.
And so the remaining journey passed.
Completely unexpectedly, we do not feel the need to rush off the plane when it touches down. There is no howling horde chasing us. Instead a queue forms. Seriously. A queue of adoring women. Each one wanting a stroke and cuddle. To give, that is, not receive. Sadly, it is nothing to do with me. It is the Papal Infant on my lap.
You are a lucky, lucky man.
With an adorable child.
I hope your luck holds for the return!
Posted by: LondonGirl | Tuesday, 20 March 2007 at 05:14 PM
I can't argue with you, LondonGirl. I don't know what I've done to deserve her. And there's always creme de cassis with a drop of lemonade for the journey home! c.
Posted by: Carlton | Tuesday, 20 March 2007 at 09:41 PM
You must have done something right in a previous life to be deserving of such luck!
Posted by: Mrs RW | Wednesday, 21 March 2007 at 04:29 AM