Sunday, 11 September 2011
So here I am, winging my way over central Europe c/o the lovely Mr. Thomas Cook towards Antalya and then on to Side. Mr. Cook and I have a love/hate relationship - I love his charter flight prices and I hate everything else about him. Mr. Cook is a bastard. He kept me waiting an hour and a half in check in and then immediately posted a final boarding call, making me run to the gate without a bottle of Havana Club. Of course I arrived at the gate to find a queue and sod all else happening. So now I'm stuck in a metal tube with a bunch of people I wouldn't like in real life wondering (a) is it me? Am I just a huge misanthrope and (b) why does anyone order meals on a flight to Turkey? You are a few hours away from one of the world's finest cuisines, a properly self sufficient country with the very best and freshest ingredients and you choose to fill yourself up with salted gloop to stave off boredom? I'm going hungry. I'm going to eat the bake off myself this week, and that requires preparation and discipline. And elasticated waistbands.