Flying high (almost) all alone up in the sky...
WE think the TV satire W1A, the series that lampoons the BBC, is one of the funniest programmes around but a friend hates it. Fair enough. So how come he seems to know so much about each episode, I asked? “Ophelia Lovibond,” he sighed.
The poor man’s smitten and, looking at our picture of the winsome actress, who can blame him? HERE’S a nice story. Did you see the happy smile of the lady who enjoyed the privacy of being the sole passenger of Jet2 flight from Glasgow to Crete last Sunday? It was an end of season flight and only two other passengers had booked seats but they didn’t show up.
With tact and generosity delivering positive PR other airlines would kill for (BA and Ryanair would probably have turfed her off and cancelled the flight) Jet2 put Karon Grieve, right, in the front row, gave her free meals and drinks and treated her to a one-on-one personalised commentary from the pilot about the countries they were flying over.
Karon is a romantic novelist and was flying to Crete for a month to work on her latest book. What a brilliant start she’s got.
“The handsome captain gave her a seductive smile and escorted her to the front row of the otherwise empty plane. ‘Just for you, Karon,’ he breathed. ‘Mario will bring us some champagne. Meanwhile, we can get to know each other. You’re staying on Crete for a month? How wonderful. I have a beach house there. It’s very romantic. Would you like to stay with me?’
“She knew she’d say yes. He was tall and muscular in his uniform; she imagined what he’d look like without it as he stood there on the beach, his rippling suntanned torso tempting her into the sparkling waves. She was suddenly breathless.”
Good luck, Karon. In every way. THAT fount of etiquette, The Lady magazine, has spoken. Dinner parties have changed from their hedonistic heyday. Considerate guests should now leave by 10pm on a weeknight, 11.15pm at the weekend. Post-dinner drinks must be politely declined. Thanks for that useful tip. I dimly remember dinner parties, don’t you? Seen through a hazy mist of 1970s and early 1980s get-togethers, when friends from work assembled all dressed up around your table and you fed them home-made chicken liver pate, roast lamb infused with garlic, and – oh you masochists – a choice of TWO desserts; chocolate mousse or lemon meringue pie. All made by your own fair hands on an increasingly panicky, tearful Saturday afternoon. Do you know what I remember most? Not the joy of cooking or the scintillating conversation of amusing guests. But the sheer snobbery and terror of it all. One dreaded feeling inadequate, or appearing naffly suburban (like the hostess in the sublime TV play Abigail’s Party). Oh, and someone usually turned up and belatedly told you they were vegetarian. All you could serve them was melba toast without pate (God, do you remember the faff of making melba toast?) and roast potatoes with no lamb. But then children came along and dinner vanished along with sleep. Now, an impromptu dinner for guests at our house usually involves our children, their friends and a dozen pizzas. Thank heaven for Domino’s. I ASK this every year at the end of October: WHY are the clocks going back tonight, plunging us into early-evening Stygian gloom? It’s because otherwise Scotland wouldn’t blow the candles out until about 11am. Fair enough. So why can’t we copy the US and Europe and have separate time zones? If Labour promised to do that, I might actually consider voting for Corbyn.