Nixta Sinks

You'd feel sick too

I'm normally falling foul of some illness or another. Historically, I'm known by my doctor friends (and anyone they introduce/mentioned me to) as The Hypochondriac. So in the last year I've tried to deal with it and stop being such a pussy. Cat. And so I haven't considered myself ill for quite a while now. Probably not a whole year, but surely not far off, which for me is a record.

But now I am, and just as I was successfully employing my mind-over-matter techniques that have served me so well of late, I got on a plane to New York and KABLAMMO!, there went my efforts to fight off this bastard that three weeks of non-stop overworking had allowed a look-in. Not only does airline air smell, it's dry and must be designed purely to send your sinuses into spasms. Not to mention of course its propensity for sharing lovingly between all passengers anything sneezed or coughed. I like to think I mowed down many more infants than I caught colds, and I hold that thought dear.

A quick chat with the walking google, Owen, left me in the capably sarcastic hands of The Economist to deride the airline industry. Nothing new to me, but reiterates that surely it's time to stop being so tedious about all their little rules. But since they have the rules, it leaves me with a dilemma. If you hate being on that plane just for 7 hours, imagine those poor bastard stewards and stewardesses that have to do it again very very soon, all the time putting up with your whining and endless requests and complaints about the headphones and the baby in the next aisle. No wonder they all look 20 years older than they are with that crap air and stress the whole time. But what if you hear the chap behind you talking on the phone as the pilot announces that we're not quite at the gate yet and would you please not use your phones? I believe the correct response is to ram it down his throat.