InterflugIL62

Ok, no soup for you as well!

All in fun guys

You get a 2 week break so enjoy it.

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Chairman of feed the AA Flight Attendants Foundation,
Interflug customer service department, SXF.
AA Plat,Lifetime Gold, UA P/E, Marriott Silver, Sheraton Gold,
Hilton Silver(for now)

Kiwi Flyer

Thats okay, I dont want your soup. I think its overrated. I hear its just last months "chef's special" with waste water and stale bread added.

InterflugIL62

Yeah yeah, ha ha. LOL

So how is the weather in Auckland now? summer, eh?

We just went to a travel luncheon and she talked about New Zealand with a slide show, they just came back.

How is Auckland in the summer?

------------------
Chairman of feed the AA Flight Attendants Foundation,
Interflug customer service department, SXF.
AA Plat,Lifetime Gold, UA P/E, Marriott Silver, Sheraton Gold,
Hilton Silver(for now)

mad_atta

GoldFlyer, please don't leave us like this! Or have you eloped with the captain (or whoever that silly music-loving, drink-stealing man in your private changing room was..)?

GoldFlyer

I promise on my Mother's hillocky grave that I will get yo all to LHR this week. I've already got a special bottle at home to lubricate the literary thoughts.

mad_atta

Do take care with that lubrication, GoldFlyer sweetie - KY usually leads one into temptation rather than inspiration!

kanebear

...and horribly messy/ruined keyboards if you're into that sort of thing.

InterflugIL62

Oh my gosh! naughty naughty people

Well, you get a 2 week break, enjoy, for when I get back, it is going to be go time!
LOL take care

------------------
Chairman of feed the AA Flight Attendants Foundation,
Interflug customer service department, SXF.
AA Plat,Lifetime Gold, UA P/E, Marriott Silver, Sheraton Gold,
Hilton Silver(for now)

GoldFlyer

I feel a dark, persuasive mood overcoming this thread the likes I’ve not experienced since, well, ok, last weekend.

Slightly pink in the cheeks I will push on and recommend that KY is not my lubricant of choice. Should you wish to delve into those “private arenas” I recommend you email me directly for some “personal tips” save this extravagant thread be shot down some where over the Middle East. TRAGIC.

KaneBear, welcome aboard and do remember that moving around the aeroplane is hazardous especially if you have slippery paws. Mother was fastidious about all things to do with the keyboard and undertook a regime of careful fingering prior to giving any performance. I’ve carried that with me and follow her careful instructions to the letter or should that be digit.

Interfug, I’ve no idea where you are off to, it sounds as if it may be Mars given some of your posts but poppet, my best wishes love for a speedy recovery. Those “health farms” are wonderful nowadays. Mother had a permanent booking at a terrific place where sensory depravation by way of blackout windows, fabulous cocktails and steady pulsing music soon restored her to her more “relaxed self”. Best of luck and I am so looking forward to your tales that will include Moi as the star attraction!

To all my passengers, I’ve been busy, very busy and although I was tempted to give you another snippet of an instalment to keep you baited, I thought no. Let them wait and eat, nothing. Mother has had such an influence over me its spooky. I want to take you all the way in what will be the last, series ending instalment so trust me it will be very worth it. Of course, as it will be the last, I remain “fluid” is there any other way to be? So like a lobster in the ocean, I feed off your “casts” and hope to incorporate your comments into my commentary.

GoldFlyer

Prologue to Arrival (apologies to ABBA)

The final episode is almost ready and prior to it, a few words.

What a journey, it gives a real sense to the pioneering days of the constellation aircraft that took weeks to fly from the antipodes to the old dart all those years ago. Here we all are about to land at LHR, prior to which a few thankyou’s, as any nominee would wish to make on the penultimate edition to an epic that commenced way back on January 15. Around 20,000 words, more than 30 pages and I can only guess but perhaps at least 12 bottles of wine, I will admit to no more, ½ a bottle of Vodka and a bottle of Moet on one very special night, we are about to place our seats in the upright position and stow away our tray tables. .

In my acceptance speech, the Oscars are but a breath away, I first of all want to thank my very first friend who took my bait way back when this epic was but a meagre embryo and the rambling effects of too much time in the sun and a few too many beverages at the local, Dam Taat, like a coach to an Olympic athlete, you have driven me, cajoled and inspired me to strive bigger, larger and consume more. Mr. Kee We, the assistant coach and a cyber friend. I would like to thank for your many comments and hope we can perhaps meet up at the Grand Kayak for a Champagne and well, no don’t try the food, you first of course.

Thadocta, well, like a fire cracker on New Years Eve, I have you to thank for the delightful email from the Grand Head Master, Randy Petersen and a special mention on “TalkMail” which exposed my rantings to the entire planet and attracted no end of attention. Sorry about that tennis ball and I reckon you and Mother will be perfect in the volatile atmosphere of a heavenly set on that big court in the sky, way beyond the fussing of us mortals here on earth scrambling for that elusive upgrade into a business class. Why do they bother when it is so much better in the pointy end?

Pucci Galore and Merri, such insular creatures that they never venture beyond the comforts of East Enders and a cosy log fire that is the BA forum. A shame really, as I was anticipating a heady exchange of wit and prose to add fuel to this report but I feel we managed without them without any loss or credibility. Those English are so, well, staid and predictable they will never know what the rest of the world thinks and knows about them. As with most things British, we allow them to live on in a fantasy of toy town, low rise, bad weather and underground while the rest of the planet enjoys the delights of the great outdoors and beaches of sand rather than rock. We acknowledge them nonetheless for their contribution to what is the marvellous language that is, “English”.

To my other contributors, QF WP my apologies to Mrs. QF WP for keeping her awake at night and you away from your betrothed at such an early stage of your marriage – plenty of time to catch up. To my sometime characters, responders and those spooky types that “lurk” in the shadows but never materialise thanks so much. It has been a challenge at times and, at other times a snip. You have each and all given inspiration to turn this epic 20,000 word trip report into a great deal of fun for me and I hope and think you to.

InterflugIL62

Yeah, ah huh. What recovery? lest you mean from the jetlag as I am tired, thanks for caring. In the BA lounge at LGW thinking of my revenge for you , kidding.

As for Vous as the star lead, get real mate , you may be the star victim. We are talking Interflug, it may hurt. And no, you are not going to be staring in this real trip report, that is for me, thank you. Next one, you will get your turn, he he he LOL.

_________________

Oh gosh these people are loud.

Yacking on their cell phones one would think they were giving a concert.

Where is the dang duct tape when you need it?!?!?!

Take care flower person

mad_atta

My dear GoldFlyer, honoured as I am that my alter ego got a mention in your Oscar acceptance speech, it does seem just a smidgeon premature given that the closing scenes of your epic have yet to be released to the baying hounds of public opinion. The suspense is palpable! FT Chat is alive with speculation!! InterflugIL62 is quaking in his ugg boots!!! Master of suspense that you are, I can only beg for mercy: please, it's time to put us out of our misery...

GoldFlyer

Part 15

Grabbing the Champagne bottle I turn in a huff, outraged at the cheek some people have. I most certainly think myself a generous type and would happily have shared a drink had he asked. I suppose he was caught up in the music he was listening to I tell myself as a way to explain him away. Leaving the change room, I notice that Mr and Mrs. W-P are certainly getting acquainted judging by the noise emanating from their boudoir of the moment and my spirits lift at the thought of a young couple embarking on a honeymoon so obviously into each other. Looking around at the seats nearby, the other passengers appear to be enjoying the sound show too - so much more than the communal screen to which most of the “WHY” cabin are so mesmerised. Love is in the air I think to myself as I make my way back to my bed.

Passing by Mr. Flub, who appears to have passed out and is in another of those wretched posture positions that will guarantee him a stiff neck and shirt full of saliva, I ease his girly magazine “Große Frauen in Krankenschwesteruniform” from his hands and lay it provocatively open to the centrefold upon his chest. Such flirtations remind me again of Mother and her love of all things dress-up although Frau Clench should really see a specialist about what would normally be hidden under her nurse’s apron. I walk down to my sanctuary and my awaiting bed. The cabin is dark and the ceiling is festooned with an array of tiny lights that remind me of a kaleidoscope I once had as a small boy. I have a final sipette of Champagne and crawl contentedly into my bed. Sleep will be on a cloud tonight as I look hazily to the ceiling as if under the influence of a drug that is drawing me into unconsciousness. Sleep is dreamy yet fitful with lurid figures dancing around me like a macabre ritual of light, shapes and form reaching at me and passing through my body. I had experienced such sensations once before at a special party Mother had arranged as part of her therapy to move on from her grief at Fathers early calling to God.

I was supposed to have been visiting my cousin, a right prat of a man who raves incessantly about the latest this and the best that, none of which I am interested in as it all seems like glossy mainstream guff that quickly identifies him as a man of today but somehow so yesterday. After enduring a few hours of tatty costume changes from outfits that looked as if they had been sewn inside out or not at all and listening to him strangle the English language with what he thought was “street cred” speak I stormed out. One “KEEWL” too many I suppose. Back home the party seemed rather quiet as everyone seemed to have disappeared into Mothers room. I grabbed a glass and helped myself to a large glass of punch and went to bed only to lie there into the morning light watching the pattern on the ceiling rise and contort into a colour spectrum that I assumed was the effect of the party lights Mother had strung throughout the house. Next morning my jaw ached as if I had been chewing toffee all night and skin like a blotchy adolescent.

I woke bolt upright, covered in sweat and with the same aching jaw. At first I thought I was back in our home but realised soon the familiar surrounds of the aircraft cabin although my vision seemed blurred and distorted. My thoughts raced back to my operational upgrade and I felt at my body again, looking for signs of entry. Horror and guilt rake me as I see upon my hands the dark brown smear of faeces. I’m embarrassed, ashamed and worried and sob deeply at my compromised position. Without thinking I clasp my head in my soiled hands wishing childlike for Mothers help. This trip is a nightmare I think to myself and I long for the quietly luxurious comforts of my harbour- side home and my loyal, understanding staff. It is then that I feel the skin on my face seems to be peeling away. Rough angry layers hanging loosely from my cheeks. I’m convinced I have contracted some bizarre tropical disease, Ebola perhaps! I jump from my bed screaming blue murder.

Help Me, Help ME, I’M GOING TO DIE.”

I drop to the floor, submitting to my certain fate of bleeding to death, as I know from the National Geographic channel that death from Ebola is as assured as a beige frock in a Giorgio Armani fashion show. The lights in the cabin blare into full beam and in my dying fog I see faces surrounding me. Amongst them I vaguely make out the troubled looks of Purser her hair a riot of colour, her lips pulsating and contracting like a flange on a large machine. Verity is next to her, a face like stone ghost like and skeletal, her voice rising and subsiding and her jaw jutting like a freak. My consciousness leaves me. Mother, we will be united again soon are my last thoughts.

A cold shiver grips my body and I waken, anticipating the reunification of mother and son.

“Purser” I scream. As the realisation descends upon me that I am still of this earth.

“Mr. GoldFlyer, you seem to be having a reaction to something but you look to be recovering.” Purser exclaims.

I search around and realise that I am back in my bed, Purser has a cloth in hand and I sink in embarrassment at the thought of being “changed” as an adult like a baby. I reach for my face with my hands and feel that my skin appears normal. My voice sputters out,

“Purser, I am so ashamed, you should not have had top clean me up as so. I feel like a child.”

“Mr. Goldflyer Purser says, I am the one to apologise, it appears you overlooked the chocolates placed on your pillow and they have unfortunately melted and created rather a mess.”

A deep sigh of relief washes over me and a pink tinge brightens my cheeks where once the dark stain of a Ferrero Roche foil once clung in a convincing charade of death by some exotic parasite. Purser was fabulous and after a little smirking and licking of chocolate fingers departed and reappeared with a clean pair of pyjamas for me to change to. Such a sweetie I thought but a real shame about that hair that seems to change colour every time I try to focus on it. The lights are dimmed once more and my embarrassed self sits in silence for a moment to allow the rest of the cabin to settle in and find a distraction that didn’t involve me. Sensing my moment I gather my clean pyjamas, near finished bottle and make my way to the change room.

The vastness of this aeroplane still leaves me wondering why the change room is so far away but I soldier on in the dim light and flickering of colours that are now starting to make me think I have food poisoning. Into the change room and my thirsty friend is still there but something seems not so right. He looks a little confused and is sitting upright in just his trousers, sweating profusely, swaying and holding his hand out in front of his face almost trance like. I decide that I should see if he is feeling ok and tap him on the shoulder. A mistake as it happens and my presence startles the life from him and he springs menacingly to his feet and crash tackles me to the floor. Stunned, I look up and see my assailant blocking the door with his bulk; his eyes are crazed like a lunatic. I momentarily take my eye of him as the flickering lights on the consoles that line the wall draw my attention and drag me deep within their workings. So pretty I think, their individual simplicity combining together to make a complex maze of tunnels, angles and colour combinations. Regaining my presence I notice my assailant appears to be experiencing the same effect although now he has slumped to the floor against the door. Speak to him I say to myself.

“Ant the leghts so Amazong loik a flunnel”

My mouth is dry and parched, my tongue feels like that of a giraffe, my lips tingle and what I tried to say came out in such a jumble that my co-inhabitant burst into hysterical laughter. I realised how silly it all was and joined in. I grab for the Champagne bottle and offer my new friend a drink, as he appears to be suffering the same malaise. The next few minutes are spent communicating in slightly disabled conversation but I gather enough to realise that I am not at all in the change room (which evokes more fits of laughter) but in the cockpit and my friend is First Officer, although I’m sure he said orificer to begin with. Who knows, it was funny at the time.

Eager to show me around First Orificer Kane Bear invites me to sit at the wheel as he demonstrates the capability of the aeroplane. We start by increasing the temperature in the “WHY” cabin worried that all that closeness should not go unpunished. Besides, it’s cold outside. Flicking on the fasten seatbelt sign, we then decide also that the dim lighting may be dangerous and engage the full overhead cabin lights, just in case. The whole aeroplane flies by itself basically once you program all the gadgets about where you want to go but for good measure we decide that no trip to London is complete without a trip up the river Thames and a respectful visit to Your Excellency, so why not have a little sightseeing before landing. A few jigs at the computer and our city tour is arranged. We’re both satisfied that we have planned an arrival like no other. I blabbered on about how Mother would so approve of our little exploits. My tiredness once again begins to take hold and I decide it’s time to change out of my choc coating into something fresh. Kane too thinks he should smarten up as Captain Gaucho is soon to return from his rest and may suspect something awry. We tidy the cockpit and exchange numbers in London, The Horror Day Inn sounds dreadful and I suggest he drop by the Dor for high tea with me while in London. Kane gives me a big hug like a long lost friend and I dwell momentarily at how we had gone from adversaries to mates in such a short time. Champagne is truly the ultimate social lubricant I decide and this vintage is the definitive.

Beyond the cockpit door the dazzling lights of the “WHY” cabin and incredible humidity strikes me immediately. I smile to myself as I walk past the wretched travellers all sweating, their faces puffy and raging red like ripe tomatoes - strapped to their seats fanning each other with the in-flight magazine and talking animatedly to anyone within earshot. I feel a sense of accomplishment that Kane and I have drawn people together through adversity, life is like that and I know these people will remember and build on their unfortunate predicament. I swagger and sway my way down to the cool haven of First and a sleep as inviting and comforting as the sound of the foil crackle of a Valium bursting forth from it’s sterile little pouch.

Taking my seat I notice Quentin back from his “visitation” with his new wife and he too, starring at the light show on the ceiling. A quick nod and as I curl comfortably into my bed, sleep comes quickly and dreams are as real and disturbing as the “closed” sign on the bottle shop door. Mother figures prominently in most and why wouldn’t she, a woman of great strength and determination, I just wish she wore something different to the black rubber tutu and hiking boots that pervaded each scene.

Disturbed at the visions of Mother prancing around like a black glossy swan with a gaggle of suitors in hot pursuit I decide a little television may take my mind off the randy consorts.

“Oh heavens above” I gasp, that dreadful Flight Path movie is showing again. It must have been sold as part of a job lot and too tired and dazed to work out the controls I settle in and watch mesmerized by the little plane that appears to be the main character, inching slowly over what appears to be the Mediterranean Sea. At least the scenery looks to have changed from the last time I watched this and in a quiet kind of way, I found the slow pace restful and could almost connect with the direction of the movie. I shudder to think that I have succumbed to such twaddle and drift off once more.
I call to Mother,

“Stay away from the door! It will kill you!”

A gentle hand presses upon my shoulder and I realise I was dreaming. Verity is crouching beside me with a kindly smile and suggests that I have had a bad dream.

“Something you drank perhaps?” as wry smile creeps over her face.

Looking around, the dim pre-dawn light is washing through the cabin and Verity asks if I would like to freshen up with a shower prior to breakfast. A shower, well who would have thought and I nod my head agreeably. Verity heads off and returns with a shower package and indicates with her hand towards the shower suite. Well why didn’t I know about this before I feel like saying but bite my tongue at my rudeness and the sight of Mother with a cat-o-nine-tails still swirling in my head.

The shower is wonderful and I take my time to shave as well and lay out fresh clothes. As I leave to return to my seat the voice of F.O. Bear crackles over the sound system wishing everyone a very good morning and hoping everyone has managed to get some rest. I smile away at our so far undetected foul play and listen on as Mr. Bear gives details of our landing into London that joyously has the prospect of snow.

Verity has laid out a treat before me and I am so glad to see the reassuring fizz of a clean glass of Champagne, bubbles skipping happily to the surface in anticipation of a new day. Breakfast is delicious although my mouth feels a bit raw. The poached eggs with smoked salmon and Hollandaise Sauce are top notch and I tuck in appreciatively. The plates cleared I gaze out my windows gaily festooned with little curtains. Below, the landscape is dewy and winter like in the muted morning light. My trip is almost complete and as I pop a calming pill in anticipation of my arrival reflect on the epic journey that has drawn me from one seasonal extremity to the other in such a short time. I marvel at the ingenuity of the human race to invent machines to serve them, make the world as small as a big city and as accessible and comfortable as your boarding pass will allow.

Mr. Fry stops by and thanks me so much for flying AA and wishes me a Merry Christmas.

“Oh, I’m definitely merry.” I retort and raise my glass in a show of camaraderie.

The English Countryside appears before us and I wonder about our little deviation, planned just hours before. Will we catch a rare glimpse of H. M. taking the pooches for an early morning pee amongst the roses? And a close hello with the murky waters of the River Thames, it matters not. It’s not about the destination Mother said but the manner in which you arrive.

Cheers!

Kiwi Flyer

Bravo

QF WP

Thunderous applause errupts from all corners of FT as this epic draws to a climactic end (well, it appears so for me, anyway).

Thank you, Goldflyer, now truly I can say I have joined the "mile high club"