[John Whitworth]

Yes, Jayne, it's O'Leary I mean. It was the name Ryanair that threw me. No, Don, I've never flown in the fellow's planes. I go by the fat Greek, though actually Stelios is a Cypriot and anyway he doesn't own the airline any more. That's Easyjet, known by the passengers as Squeezyjet. It's lucky I have short legs. The BEST airline I ever went by was an American job that took me to Texas. Great people. The pilot looked just like Wild Bill Hickock.

[basil ransome-davies]

These days I find actually flying is the least of it. I seem to have the kind of face that attracts suspicion from the steroid-abusing bouncers, groping perverts & toxic little Hitlers who constitute airport security. I've not had my prostate felt by them yet, but feeling that it's only a matter of time I've virtually discontinued air travel. Fortunately I only visit western Europe these days, so it's no big sacrifice.

[Ann Drysdale]

I have only flown two or three times. For work, and with someone else paying. I was once sent on a bucketshop flight to teach in foreign parts and was terrified. It didn't help that I was flying to Crete, location of the first-ever air disaster. I decided, high above the ruins of Knossos, that I'm not in the least afraid of flying. I'm afraid of falling.

[John Whitworth]

That would be Icarus syndrome, Ann. Oh I forgot to say, nice one David. Here's an airport one.

In a Jam

We’re booked to go by Squalidair.
The plane (you’ve guessed it) isn’t there
For hours and hours and God knows why.
Without a plane we cannot fly.

I love a ship, a train, a car.
I cannot love a winged cigar,
Plus passport/ticket/visa crap,
Plus baggage magicked off the map,

Nor yet the deserts we have made
Where aeroplanes can ply their trade:
The tacky bars, the pricey shops,
The toilets blocked with horrid slops,

The queues that snake from here to here,
The smell of sweat, the stink of fear,
The fear we do not care to name,
Of crashing in a sheet of flame.

[basil ransome-davies]

That pretty much says it all, John.

[Mary Meriam]

Wow, John, that's a doozy.

[Roger Slater]

APOLOGY

I'm sorry that I missed your bash.
I truly meant to come.
First the bus did not arrive,
so I stuck out my thumb

and stood beside the road all day
in hopes that car or truck
would kindly offer me a lift.
It turns out, no such luck.

I went back home and grabbed my bike.
Alas, the chain was busted.
My car was in the body shop.
My motorcycle? Rusted.

I really meant it when I said
I'd come, when we last talked,
and since you live next door to me,
I guess I should have walked.

[Martin Elster]

Bob, that's absolutely hilarious.

[Roger Slater]

Thanks, Martin!


TRAVEL HOLD-UP

The passengers were seated.
We rolled out from the gate.
Our plane was next for take-off.
For once, we were not late.

The Spectator was laid out
to be read upon my lap.
That dreadful "Competition"
always helps me with my nap.

But all at once my cellphone,
which was actually my son's,
began to blare a rap song
whose refrain was "bombs and guns."

The officers had questions.
By the end, they didn't doubt me,
but when at last I was released,
the plane had left without me.

[basil ransome-davies]

When trains are late you wait. There is no choice.
At home you get the ranting Tannoy's voice
forbidding this and that, the Coke machine,
the platform staff's routine dyspeptic mien,
the sodden toilet and that sullen air –
so very Brit – of muttering despair....
The bats are out, a swooping crew. At noon,
chewing my trail mix by a salt lagoon,
I viewed a plankton-tinted chorus line –
those miracles of elegant design,
flamingos. Them, the quiet delta, me;
I savour the recalled epiphany
over a Fundador and a cigar,
the cheerful uproar of the station bar
my comfort zone. The Sitges train is late
by – ooh, at least an hour now. I can wait.