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You might think
that if you took private jets, a ludicrously expensive habit
I have recently become hooked on, the catering would be memorable.
Caviare here, vintage Krug there, an air hostess who made
Christie Brinkley look ugly. No such luck. At a cost of about
30 times that of a shuttle fare, on my trip to Dublin, the
co-pilot turned and said: "Do you want anything?"
"Anything" was the plastic tray of cling-wrapped
this-and-thats on rolls, or some cakes and fruit, plus usual
drinks. At least the this-and-thats were fresh. On the trip
from Dublin to Inverness amazing variety was provided by chocolate
muffins in a Pizza Hut bag. So much for the high life.
The only thing I pine for when private jetting is the little
games I play with British Airways cabin crews. Pointing to
something on my food tray, I say: "What do you think
that is?" They're terribly sweet. They taste, offer
a view, ask the pilots and other staff, and come back with
multiple answers. It passes the time splendidly. As for the
waiting, walking, lack of information and delays at airports,
that I can live without.
I was going to Dublin
to address the Trinity College Philosophical Society on the
subject I am most expert on: me. I'd asked them to book dinner |
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