The flight to Krakow was scheduled at the rather painful time of 7.30am, and we showed up at Dublin Airport at around 5.45am – other than a curiously relaxed security screening that failed to find the 150ml canister of deodorant (a banned substance for the past year or so) that one of our group had in his carry-on luggage, there was nothing unusual about the beginning of the journey.
I was looking forward to taking a nap on the plane, as I had only slept for 2 hours the night before, but despite being absolutely knackered, I couldn’t slip into a gentle slumber. All of a sudden, my eyes opened, my mind snapped into to full alertness, but my energy levels utterly vanished. I mumbled something to my brother, who was seated to my right, about not feeling good and then frantically began searching for a sick bag. Upon finding one, I immediately retched into it, much to the delight of the gentleman seated to my left, and very much within the splash zone, should things get messy. It took immense effort to keep the bag held up to my mouth, as all my strength had immediately dissipated.
Despite making a fuss, nothing actually materialized in the sick bag. My brother put his hand up to my remarkably sweaty forehead and pronounced that I was “stone cold”. Within a few moments, my energy came back and I wandered up to the bathroom, in case another wave struck, clutching my sick-bag should the queue prove too taxing. After a minute or two of sitting in the tiny toilet, with nothing happening, and the cold-sweat gone, I began to feel a little silly – not to mention ignorant towards my fellow passengers. I sat back down and fell asleep.
I awoke shortly after in a cold sweat, again lacking in energy drained. The sick-bag was still clutched in my hand, which was fortunate, as I had it quarter-filled in a few seconds. During – and before – the episode, I wanted to get up and make my way to the toilet, but my legs were a dead weight. Within a minute or so of the purge I managed to drunkenly stumble towards the front of the plane and sheepishly ask the stewardess where I should dispose of my breakfast. She responded with a surprising amount of sympathy, and told me to use the bin in the toilet – where I took up residence for a few more moments. Once again I dawdled for a few moments, but left after nothing happened.
After stepping out of the tiny room, I was greeted by another stewardess, who lathered me up with sympathy before asking if I was “sick from last night, or food poisoning”. She offered me some Motillium and told me to sit in the much-coveted exit row while she dug out the stomach-settling pill. She sat opposite me and ran through the symptoms – “clamminess, nausea, vomiting” (yup, yup, yup), then gave me the pill and a glass of water that she repeatedly told me to “sip slowly” with exaggerated gestures in a kindly manner.
I held out another two hours or so until we got to the hotel, then sunk into my comfortable routine of sleeping, waking up in a cold sweat, then regurgitating as I swore at the porcelain. In between bouts I imagined a contraption for people in similar quandaries, who have to use both “ends” at once, and don’t want to have to “hotswap” whilst on the toilet. Prototyping begins this Autumn. You heard it here first.
Moral of this story? Aer Lingus stewardesses: keep up the good work! Soho Coffee in Dublin Airport: go fuck yourself.
€9.45 for food poisoning? Bargain!
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1 comment:
So...now you know what it's like to be revoltingly, disgustingly hungover. All the fun you're missing out on.
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