The terrorist

Anyway, at that age Dick and I actually enjoyed the old Dakota bouncing around
and roaring like a banshee. (I use that simile loosely, never having heard a
banshee’s roar, but I think you get the picture). We also enjoyed the
attention we used to get from the hosties (stewardess’) even more, but
that’s another story.
To be honest, on this trip I was more concerned about my personal plumbing than
anything else. I hadn’t had a crap for a couple of days and I was feeling
uncomfortably bloated. I‘m usually fairly conservative about my use of
the lavatories in flight – and that’s just for my bladder. I imagined
being stuck on the lavatory, (have you noticed that’s an almost exclusively
airline term for a toilet?) trying to move some enormous motion with a queue
stretching down the aisle waiting impatiently for me to finish..
I adjusted my watch to Australian time. Only three hours to go.
About an hour out of Melbourne I was starting to take much more notice of the
woman over the aisle and one up. She was perhaps Indian, but her skin was quite
light in colour. Maybe Sri Lankan? Tamil perhaps? She was middle-aged and wearing
a beige or camel toned pants suit with a head scarf that she perpetually adjusted.
She wore formal looking thongs/jandals /flip-flops on her feet with a gold studs.
She looked reasonably prosperous.
She’d been calling the hosties quite regularly for this and that, but
she was always very grateful for their attention and I didn’t get the
impression the hosties thought she was being a pest.
Something was troubling her though and she was becoming increasingly agitated.
Her headscarf was being adjusted every minute or so and she was pestering the
blonde girl sitting beside her with the headphones on about something.
Then the hosties came round with baskets of boiled lollies, (which, I’m
qualified to observe, is a hangover from the good old NAC days). She demanded
a handful of lollies and the hostie obliged without demur.
Then she stood up and opened the overhead locker and pulled out a quite large
bag, the size of a sports bag, and put it down on the floor with the end jutting
out into the aisle. She didn’t close the locker.
It was at this point I noticed that she was missing the top joint of the middle
two fingers on her right hand. My mind leapt to the conclusion that the missing
fingers were as the result of an explosives training mishap and that she was
an al-Qaeda or Taliban operative preparing to trigger a bomb as we were coming
in to land over Melbourne. No wonder she was agitated!
However unlikely this all was, everybody else was so busy distracting themselves
in one way or another that I was the only person on the plane awake to what
was going on. Surely the hosties would notice the open locker and the bag she
was now grimly holding onto?
A toddler came down towards the rear of the plane followed by its parent. She
was looking curiously at everybody as she toddled past. As she passed by my
terrorist’s seat the lady made an effort to smile and engage her attention,
but, as often is the way of children, her efforts were ignored. Maybe my terrorist
was having second thoughts. Maybe this innocent child had convinced her of the
futility of her masters’ cause. I only wished the child had been more
responsive.
The fasten seatbelts sign came on. A hostie came down the aisle – and
finally noticed the open locker and the bag with the bomb. She returned the
bag to the locker and closed it firmly. My terrorist lady looked slightly chastened
but otherwise untroubled.
I relaxed but kept my eye on the woman anyway. I noticed she hadn’t done
her seatbelt up. The otherwise efficient hosties made a couple more sweeps of
the passengers but failed to notice her unsecured belt. I kept stum. This woman
had kept me entertained for the best part of an hour and the show wasn’t
over yet.
It was obvious to me now that her growing agitation was at the prospect of the
landing and sure enough, when the plane slewed slightly on touchdown my terrorist
lady gasped as she was thrown forward into the seat in front of her.
The show was over. I left the plane relieved but unrelieved, if you take my
meaning. Shit for brains. Anyway, I finally mastered the Smartgate thing and
was out of Customs before I knew it. I missed my connecting train, otherwise
I would’ve been home in record time. Bugger records – I’m just happy
to be alive.

For all the poop on my NZ trip, go to April’s ASR