I quaff my cheerless, over-steeped styrofoam cup of tea and strain desperately around my poor neighbor to see my darling Anglaterre, if only for a moment. I know we are flying above the cliffs of Dover, even if I can’t see them. I think our steward is becoming a little cross, which I cannot blame him for after this third trash run and fourth drink circulation and second meal processional. It takes a special kind of patience to ask and respond to the same questions a hundred times. I would know, I am a teacher. And everything, as previously noted, is more difficult when breathing the recycled breath of those same imbeciles for hours on end.

The fellow in the excessive down puffer stands up and swings his legs, reminding me about fluid retention and cankles I (forgot those are a thing) and I wish fervently that they would give us room to do yoga on airplanes, or at least turn a  blind eye to sticking one’s legs up above the seat if one is physically privileged enough to do so.

The pink veil of dawn is pulling back over the fair green face of Europe. It is hedged and hilly countryside, white farmhouses with brown, chimneyed rooftops are visible at intervals through the storybook clouds. It looks EXACTLY like it should. Provincial is the word.

The plane slants, which, more than the optimistic announcements of imminent arrival, means business. Blessed be! At last, sweet delivery from the cosseted captivity of this wretched and accursed Boeing 767… to Paris!