I gazed at the video screen that was instructing me on what to do in the event of a water landing, struck (as I always am) by the sheer pointlessness of it. I mean, as far as I know there has only ever been one water landing by an airliner which was even remotely survivable (i.e. a gentle landing in a horizontal orientation, rather than a screaming dive vertically into the depths.) And even then less than a quarter of the passengers survived.
The fiercesome stewardess, with hair scraped back from her head in Prisoner Cell Block H style, ensured all attention remained fixed on the screen and the distressingly flame damaged plastic surround. Such things do not inspire confidence.
I was returning from Switzerland, and I was (and, if truth be told, still am) a little tipsy.
It isn't my fault.
I spend a lot of my time travelling alone and usually use the time to catch up on my reading. Alas, this time I'd made the mistake of buying Irvine Welsh's 'Filth' - a book of such unmitigated badness that I can't even be bothered to link to it. There were only so many times I could re-read my dog-eared copy of Private Eye, so I elected to indulge in my other favourite airport past-time; the airport pub-crawl.
This is a simple game, and passes the time from check-in to boarding. The purpose is to achieve as many laps of the airport as possible, stopping at every bar for a drink. My record for Basel (only 3 bars) is 2 and a half laps. I was sadly off the pace, and only achieved 2 laps before the boarding call was made and I marvelled at how full the aeroplane was.
Where had all the people come from?
While I was doing my circuit training, the airport had been deserted. More than once I'd been tempted to stand outside the empty duty-free shop in the middle and cry "Where Is Everybody?" (a temptation becoming stronger with every beer.)
I didn't, of course. I'm English, and so would probably have been more inclined to write a strongly worded letter to The Times.
