Strayaday

I’d rather slit my wrists than be forced into an Australia Day BBQ with my usual co-passengers on Qantas.

It’d be somewhere on the North Shore. The men would be wearing polo shirts over their guts, linen shorts and leather boat shoes with no socks. The women would be wearing whatever they are told they should wear to BBQs this season and plenty of makeup over their botoxed facades. The talk would be of golf, real estate, their kids’ schools, and the next OS holiday destination.

But as a rule these guys do make the better flying companions. Better than the swill on Virgin, Jetstar or Tiger.

What makes them better is that they fly a lot, they are aware of their environment, they have manners, and there is a least some attempt to minimise the collective angst.

Except on Australia Day. Qantas had been invaded by the spouses and children of the usual professionals. It’s hell in a tin can.

Which tells me two things…

Firstly, what makes Qantas better than the rest is simply that the inmates fly a lot and have learned to collectively chill a bit.

And, secondly, that what I hate about flying is being so close to people that I really don’t want within a 10km radius of my person.