The plane, the plane

Let me open this post on a positive note by congratulating the catering staff of this afternoon's Qantas flight from Coffs Harbour to Sydney. You have won,  hands down,  this month's wasted effort award. Absolutely no one ate anything that you put in the light refreshment box.  The par-frozen capsicum and fetta muffin was insulted perfectly by the dried cranberries that were,  mysteriously only 55% cranberry and the whole thing was bottomed out with a cup of coffee whose "best before" date was exactly a week before Neil Armstrong's famous stroll on the lunar surface. You have done your profession proud. In the best traditions of airline catering everywhere you have put hours of planning and work into a red cardboard box the contents of which will remain untouched by human hands.

But it was a great team effort right from the start this afternoon. The security guys at the airport were diligent in ensuring that my belt buckle didn't contain explosives and that I wasn't going to hijack the aircraft with a spring loaded blade concealed - a la James Bond - in my mobile phone.

As I boarded the aircraft the stewardess - who had a face that said "just try to read your magazine during the safety demonstration and we'll see how well the ejector seats work" - helpfully solved my illiteracy problems by reading both my name and seat number to me from my boarding pass. It's a service you don't get on budget airlines and, in some places,  there are departure lounges full of bemused travelers, unsure of their destination,  their seat number or even their own names;  stuck forever in the luminescent hell of an airport terminal. 

Even once I'd find my seat - 6A- deceptively sandwiched between rows 5 and 7 - the service didn't stop.  I was reminded by the helpful staff that my luggage should,  in fact,  be in the luggage rack - not balanced precariously on the windowsill, the only other available space on a plane that size - and what the sign above my head showing a fastened seat belt actually meant. 

A light refreshment was served - but I've gone into that fine moment already.

As we landed in Sydney - and pleased I and my fellow passengers were to be told that the Sydney flight had in fact gone to a location of the same name - I was reminded of the local time  (which was the same as the local time at home), informed that the weather was fine (a fact I couldn't discern for myself due to being dazzled by the sunlight streaming in through the windows) and abjured to hold onto the handrails while descending the steps, not to blow myself to kingdom come by lighting up next to the refueling truck and to breathe in and out at regular intervals throughout my journey across the tarmac and at all times while in the terminal building.

The whole customer service experience was topped off by being reminded that my baggage would be available from the baggage claim area,  that taxis departed from the taxi rank in front of the terminal and that Avis is in the business of renting cars to unsuspecting passers-by. 

All in all, a superb waste of time,  food, packaging and oxygen; a model of domestic airline service.