Third

Just got back from Cyprus. I might write something about that later, but one thing at a time. I want to write about the flights there and back.

Thomas Cook. Thomas shitting Cook. The flight out was bad. At first they put us in seats right in front of the toilets, with about 8 inches of leg room. I shit you not. My knees were up around my ears. When we showed the air host how cramped we were, he found us seats with 9 inches of leg room, and the option to recline. (Option to recline declined, as usual.)

It felt like being in a crate, and my legs didn't stop itching for two days afterwards (I meant to look up the symptoms of DVT, but I forgot.) But it got worse because these tiny screens came down and we got the soundtrack to some corporate videos starring staff members in uniform and a management gimp in an open-necked shirt piped into the whole cabin. Thomas Cook clearly don't want you to miss out on their brand message just because you're too tight to stump up for headphones.

During the flight they offered food (does peperami count?), beverages, gifts and fragrances, and scratch cards. So desperately naff and down-at-heel. The average age of the travellers, by the way, was well up in the sixties. I felt young. I was waiting to be invited into the cockpit to sit on the pilot's lap.

There's more, but it's too dull. Eight days later we arrive at Paphos airport for the return leg. What happened is not all Thomas Cook's fault, but I'm still never going to fly with them again. The computers were down. After a while of standing still in raggedy lines, we were organised into a check-in free-for-all. London first, then Manchester, then Newcastle, as it should be. Our luggage went into the hold without any purple stickers on, so the luggage dude had to run round the back and stick some on. There were no signs about taking liquids on board, so me and Ching Li were talking about how security varies from airport to airport. Then we had our olive oil and balsamic vinegar impounded. Gutted. I felt like such a noob, and here am I, a seasoned traveller. Funnily enough, I realised when we landed in London that I had my penknife in my jacket pocket. Balsamic vinegar, no. Knives, yes.

Stroke of luck then. We were randomly allocated the seats by the emergency exit. This was like a dream come true. We could sit like normal people all the way home. Of course it was too good to be true. We could hear one of the cabin crew talking about double bookings, then he came over and told us some people had paid extra for these seats, and we had been given them by mistake. Normally, I would curse my luck, and accept the free drink he offered. But I feel more able to say no to stuff as I get older, and I became quite passive assertive. I didn't look him in the eye or anything, but I did sort of whine about how unfair it was, and how shit the leg room was. Eventually, he got tired of my bleating and went and offered some sort of deal to the displaced extra-payers. It seems they sucked up the free booze offer, because the doors closed and we set off for home.

Apart from a pair of oompa-loompa wrestling champions grappling us from behind whenever they got up for the toilet, the flight was bloody lovely. I had my shoes off any my legs all over the place, and I soon forgot about feeling bad for the people who should have had our seats.

Then we landed, and waited for the little guy with the steps to show up. He took ages. This rough bird like Janice from The Sopranos, only without the grace and with some horrible sunglasses, became the spokeswoman of the moaning set. Loudly, she wondered when they were going to let us off the plane. Then there was a tap at the door (I liked that) and we were ready to get off. Janice tried to muscle past me to the door, but I dropped a shoulder and kept her at bay.

Sorry this is so long. Just one more chapter to go.

No bags. Steps. Buses. No luggage. We waited for yonks. Absolute yonks. Finally, a self-appointed delegation went to the luggage people's desk and watched them make phone calls and complain about their day. A woman said they should make an announcement, even if they didn't have anything to announce. I wholeheartedly agreed, and would have told her so, but she was foreign and I didn't want to encourage her.

An announcement was made. There had been an incident on the plane and they had had to stop unloading. Incident? Snake infestation? Scooby Doo ghost? We got our bags nearly three hours late. Bloody crap.

Side note: people stand too close to the baggage carousel. You should stand back so everyone can see the luggage, then move forward in an orderly and dignified fashion when your cases appear. It seems obvious to me, but the instinct to press forward as much as possible - in traffic jams, at tube train doors - is as hard to break as the urge to fart when you piss, it seems.

I think that's it. Thomas Cook. Absolute rubbish. Never going to fly with them again. Ever.