Taking off

In this world of political correctness, part of the fun of people-watching is over because even if others conform to the stereotypes of their nationality, we are not really supposed to mention it. But it works both ways, and every time I get on a flight from Here to There I notice what a British stereotype I can be.

Yesterday - or thereabouts - I had been playing that popular British sport How to queue nicely while waiting to board a British Airways flight to America. This meant that when my fellow passengers broke the rules and committed the heinous crime of queue jumping, I gave them the appropriate Evil Look and stepped forward to claim my rightful place in the queue - even though the flight wasn't exactly going to take off without me. And when the lady standing behind me, who culturally (and I say this from years of experience of her country) had no concept of personal space, and seemed to want to cuddle up to me while queuing, I would give her the appropriate Glare of Irritation and take a step forward to create the required space between us - only for her to step forward too, filling the space immediately. Who knows, maybe a space threatens to turn into a vortex and suck up the universe, and I am just ignorant of such things and she was fact saving all life on earth by nestling up to me.

Once boarded I was sat next to two women, a pleasant New Zealander heading home, and a graceful German who despite having legs that stretched up to her earlobes was able to curl up in the foetal position and sleep, hidden under a blue blanket, for most of the flight. But of course we hadn't got to the sleep stage yet. First our flight had to go through the traditional delay, with a wait of one hour and twenty minutes during which time the New Zealander simply pulled out a book and read, even though she faced missing a connection. The poor German girl, however, succeeded in getting very agitated, giving regular updates on how much time had passed and how terrible the delay was; I suppose that is the curse of coming from a country where transport tends to be efficient. I just had the expression 'mustn't grumble' going on in my head.

Towards the end of the flight, when the final rounds of tea and coffee were going on, as the steward reached me and I said, "Tea please" a look of mutual understanding passed between us. There didn't seem to be many other Brits in my part of the plane, and to me it sounded as though my accent and desire for tea conveyed something that only he could understand.

"It's a good Northern brew," he told me with a smile. But the words meant so much more than that. He was my drug dealer and he knew it. He gave it out but he also had intimate knowledge of the pleasure that it gave. Aye get it down yer neck girl. It'll do you good - put hairs on yer chest that brew will. That's what it meant. And if I wanted to dabble in the hard stuff, I could always have a chunky Kitkat on the side.

When he collected my cup he asked if I had enjoyed the flight. "Yes thanks," I said. ".....and that was a good cuppa." I looked him in the eye hoping he could read my mind. He was the man with the pot (of tea), and he had me hooked. What I wanted to say was any chance of another? but the flight was coming in to land and so I knew it was futile.

He just smiled at me, as one stereotype to another, and moved on.