Tossing and turning in a black hole on the way home from Torremojitas
‘IHAVE started reading,’ I told Hermione, ‘about the East India Company.’ ‘I thought you only read detective novels.’ ‘Yes, dearest, that has indeed been my custom. But I finished the last book in the ‘Murder Most Melodramatic’ series. So I cast around for alternative entertainment.’
‘Entertainment? The East India Company must make for pretty grim entertainment.’
‘I use the word loosely, sweetest. I was simply looking for something meatier than one of those Colonel-Pepper-with-thesherry-decanter-in-the-gazebo jobbies.’
‘So you opted for the East India Company instead.’
‘Yes, my little sugar-lump.’
We settled back aboard MedAir flight MA116, last flight of the day out of Playa del Puerte bound for dear old dirty Dublin. After the excitement and bustle of take-off, Hermione produced a pair of eye shades along with one of those horseshoe shaped pillows they sell in airports. She wrapped the pillow around her neck, pulled the eye-shades into position and then promptly fell asleep, immediately impervious to all that was going on around her.
Cabin staff attempting to sell ‘food items’, ‘gift items’ or duty free booze failed to rouse her, their efforts met with a buzzing noise. Perish the thought that my little sun-kissed sugar-lump might snore. With her out of commission, I was left with alone with my thoughts.
First I looked back at seven days of sangria fuelled pleasure on the shores of our Spanish resort, seven blissful days of sub-tropical temperatures and constant blue skies. And then I looked forward to returning to an Ireland reportedly in the middle of a record setting sequence of rainfall.
We were due to land back on the oul sod well after midnight to face the prospect of a two hour spin back to Medders Manor through dark and wet. The drive home would require full concentration and alertness, making it imperative that I follow Hermione’s example and get some shut-eye.
Counting back the numbers from 300 usually works a treat in my own bed but proved completely ineffective at 35,000 feet. Then I thought to induce slumber instead by listing off reasons why I prefer to travel overland than by air.
One: I hate the prospect of being asked by airport security officials to take off my shoes. The odour eaters simply do not work.
Two: I hate feeling responsible for climate change which will flood Bangladesh and cause the deaths of countless penguins.
Three: I hate airport shopping, with its emphasis on expensive perfumes and big brand spirits.
Four: I hate having to weigh and measure my suitcase for fear that it will breach airline regulations in some way and attract a punitive charge doubling the cost of the holiday.
Five: I hate the thought of perishing in an air crash. The haunting suspicion lingers that some vital component will drop off the plane into the Atlantic or that the pilot will faint at a critical moment.
Six: Most of all I hate that I cannot sleep in aeroplanes. I really tried to nod off this time. I curled towards the window. But the engine vibrations thrummed on my forehead. I curled towards Hermione. But the prospect of maybe disturbing her with my thrashings was too unsettling. I curled forward. But the restless passenger in the seat in front jiggled me back to full wakefulness whenever consciousness was on the point of fading.
I even tried kneeling on the floor, facing back up the cabin. It was all to no avail. Too hot. Too crowded. Too cramped.
The time had come to reach for the East India Company. All that interminably boring stuff about the share price, about trade in spices and textiles, about nabobs and maharajahs…
In 1758 Siraj ud-Daula captured the city now known as Kolkata and 100 or so of his prisoners were held in a room so small – the infamous Black Hole of Calcutta - that most of them died. I paused and looked around at 100 or so people all held in uncomfortable close confinement. Feck it, no chance now whatever of sleeping.