Business takes the biscuit
When it comes to flying, those flat-out fabulous chairs make it all worth it
T HERE was little possibility of deep-vein thrombosis on early passenger aircraft. In the 1930s and ’40s, seating was similar to that of a plush railway carriage and, although turbulence was an issue (the stewardesses apparently ran around with euphemistically named “burp cups”), passengers could spend the night in a sleeping berth, with sheets and blankets, while the stewardess discreetly drew the curtain at the guests’ convenience.
Air travel these days means submitting to a journey that can only be described as harmful to both your mental and physical wellbeing, which is why the enviable upgrade is always front of mind.
My first international business-class trip took place on El Al. The flight was 10 hours. The security clearance had taken almost as long. A flight attendant came through the economy cabin with an old-fashioned credit card machine. I thought he was selling duty free.
It then dawned on me that he was flogging leftover business-class seats. “How much?” I asked. He told me. My eyes watered but I brought out my credit card and he led me through the magic curtains.
The seat, similar to my dentist’s chair, was comfortable, the wine was terrible, the food passable and the service friendly. At the end of the trip I was given a pair of sunglasses with bright blue frames. I still have them.
My second turn left was Air Madagascar. I knew someone who knew someone. I got a bright red Lazy Boy, a bottle of wine and an economy meal (someone had miscounted).
Third time I hit pay dirt. British Airways — the first airline to decide that not only first-class passengers deserve a proper bed — had created a cosy, six-foot pocket of privacy specially for me and anyone else who managed to pay, trade or wangle their way into Club Class.
My “area” — so much more than a seat — was ergonomic perfection, with buttons that moved windows up, TVs out, lights on and chairs down, sideways and along. In a stroke of architectural genius, BA had seated passengers head to tail, separated by an opaque window, which meant never having to say you’re sorry for clambering over your neighbour. I had a cotton quilt and a pillow.
I also had Chris, who was determined to give me a good time, starting with a bottomless glass of Taittinger. I had a menu, on which, instead of “chicken or fish?” I had tiger prawns and fillet of beef in a brandy sauce, a cheese platter and endless plates of ice cream.
If I’d had the urge (and the room), I could have snapped my fingers at 3am and Chris would have rushed over with a tray of shortbread and Drambuie.
On the return leg of that vacation, the first stretch from Miami to Heathrow was managed by American Airlines. Together with a herd of miserable passengers, I
You realise six hours of decent sleep is a steal at R20 000
flew the nine hours to Heathrow on a narrow seat with a droopy bottom. I don’t know if I got chicken or fish — both looked like burnt mince. I arrived at Heathrow having lost six hours and large chunks of my mind and waited seven hours for my flight to OR Tambo. By boarding time, I hadn’t slept for 36 hours.
“I’m not going to say turn left,’’ said the jolly BA attendant at the aircraft door, “I’m going to say turn up.” I almost wept.
There I was, at the top of the plane, almost alongside the captain, with another Chris waiting to pander to my every need. But I no longer cared. I didn’t want Buck’s Fizz or lobster or Sandra Bullock. I wanted to lie down and sleep.
And this is when you realise that six hours of decent sleep is a steal at R20 000, and that, should they ask, you’d willingly throw in the keys to your new Land Rover Discovery 4.
I’m too old, too tired and too fat to cope with post-economy sciatica. In future it’s fly and lie or stay home and look local.