Please Fasten your Seatbelt…

With 15 flights under my belt (or wings) this month and a circadium rhythm that is pulsating double time, I thought it was time to push aside my departure lounge coffee and share my thoughts on the glamorous world of the jet-set traveller.

Admittedly this has been a month more weighted in the clouds than normal. My journeys have chartered me across timezones and continents and checked me in everywhere from upper deck to chicken coop along the way, but it is this changing travel class that has made me wonder...when flying, just how much are we treated by where we are seated?

At the top end zen of the travel ladder is fast track security, priority passes and peeled grapes in the lounge. AKA the exec-mecca. No stress. No mess. Zero sleeplessness. When flying 'First' I can quite easily clear check-in to departure gate faster than Usain Bolt blind-folded. My familiarity with airports means I have a precision routine that removes my liquids, laptop, shoes, belt and jacket, in that order, with every step as if the security lane was a catwalk that leads me seamlessly to the exec lounge to grab a few zzzz’s over jazz and fizz before being quite literally ushered to my leather seat (soon to be extended to a bed). Air hostessing for the gold-card holder is as we knew it before the spills of the no-frills – the butler-esque, personalised silver service that treats your taste buds with food that fulfils as if it was cooked from your grand-mother’s secret recipe. High priced yes, but high life ohhh-yes.

At the bottom end, be prepared for slow to no-go.

Sitting in the bedlam of London’s Heathrow at mid-term break is a flashback to the summer of holiday hoards. Security lines are 3 times longer than normal and move at snail pace as the city-break masses grind movement to a halt. A lack of security readiness is not cured by an apology (so probably best to save it) but be the perpetrator of the body search grid-lock and do not expect pleasantry of any sorts.

Pre-flight coffee is further delayed by the barista queue for kiddie frapps and smoothies and if you are lucky enough to find a seat you are likely to acquire some form of jammy hand print on one or more of your gadgets or your dry clean only suit. Probably both.

On board the sardine-packed tin, I’m not sure if there is a lack of journeying respect for fellow travellers or if it is in fact the folly of infrequent flying, but there should be rules for head-butting with a recliner seat and limits on the number of toilet visits you take if you choose to sit at an economy window.

So as I impatiently tap my foot in the queue to retrieve my overhead hand luggage I wonder...Is the trick of travelling dependent on the ticket you travel on, or have we commoditised travel in the air to the point that nobody cares? I certainly do. Do you?

‘Til next time, Pandora