I'm sat in an airplane cabin at 14:35 on miserable Thursday afternoon. I say an airplane cabin but I really think it's a 'new-wave' Swedish Invisible-Pink-Unicorn Church cleverly disguised as an airplane cabin. Actually, it's one of these 'new', 'cheap' and 'funky' short-distance low-budget airline thingies.
But the airline and I obviously differ on the definition of their proclaimed attributes. Their interpretation of 'funky' is dressing the flight attendants in a clashing colour-combination of day-glow orange sleeveless puffer-jackets and carpet-green pinstripe-trousers. They think that this is 'cool', whereas I think they look like colour-blind Scandinavian idiots.
Anyway, we are marvellously in the air - 32k feet up. I generally am impressed. Why? Well, this plane is smaller than the average bus; I mean it has propellers. When was the last time you saw a propeller-engine airplane? I know when I did; it was in a retired plane-yard on a 1940's WWII fighter plane when I was seven.
With mid-flight approaching in this strange airplane, the beverage trolley squeaks up the aisle to pass out drinks to the thirsty church goers. Although food is an optional extra, drinks on this flight are included (figure that one out). The nice West-European gentleman methodically moves from passenger-to-passenger churning out served-beverages. "White wine for you", "Would you like ice?" "Coffee for the lady?", the usual stuff.
Now although I've travelled on close to 50 flights, I've never ordered alcohol before. Possibly because I hadn't yet properly discovered spirits but most probably because I was usually under the legal drinking age in most countries. But now I was thinking a "there's no time like the present" proverb-type thought and decided take the plunge (metaphorically).
I wait patiently as the steward professionally tends to the middle-aged German woman to my right with coffee and a generous biscuit. As he finishes, he glances my way with an "I'm-a-people-person" smile and bright pleasing eyes. "Would you like anything to drink, sir?" Being a plane-alcohol virgin, I say the only logical (naïve) thing I could think of: "Well, what do you have?" Well rehearsed and his smile unchanged, he replies "Everything, sir", smile.
Now I have been reading up on spirits for the prior 18 months, so I am quite well educated in tipple. I have also sampled quite a range wider than an average bar would stock, so I am also quite particular about my drinks. And there was only one drink I was in the mood for...
"Vermouth, please. Italian preferably; with a squeeze of fresh lime and a dash of chilled lemonade".
He looks at me for just long enough for me to know something was wrong. His smile disappears and is replaced with a deep frown between his eyes. "I'm sorry sir; you'll have to settle for vodka, whiskey or gin".
Brilliant.
But the airline and I obviously differ on the definition of their proclaimed attributes. Their interpretation of 'funky' is dressing the flight attendants in a clashing colour-combination of day-glow orange sleeveless puffer-jackets and carpet-green pinstripe-trousers. They think that this is 'cool', whereas I think they look like colour-blind Scandinavian idiots.
Anyway, we are marvellously in the air - 32k feet up. I generally am impressed. Why? Well, this plane is smaller than the average bus; I mean it has propellers. When was the last time you saw a propeller-engine airplane? I know when I did; it was in a retired plane-yard on a 1940's WWII fighter plane when I was seven.
With mid-flight approaching in this strange airplane, the beverage trolley squeaks up the aisle to pass out drinks to the thirsty church goers. Although food is an optional extra, drinks on this flight are included (figure that one out). The nice West-European gentleman methodically moves from passenger-to-passenger churning out served-beverages. "White wine for you", "Would you like ice?" "Coffee for the lady?", the usual stuff.
Now although I've travelled on close to 50 flights, I've never ordered alcohol before. Possibly because I hadn't yet properly discovered spirits but most probably because I was usually under the legal drinking age in most countries. But now I was thinking a "there's no time like the present" proverb-type thought and decided take the plunge (metaphorically).
I wait patiently as the steward professionally tends to the middle-aged German woman to my right with coffee and a generous biscuit. As he finishes, he glances my way with an "I'm-a-people-person" smile and bright pleasing eyes. "Would you like anything to drink, sir?" Being a plane-alcohol virgin, I say the only logical (naïve) thing I could think of: "Well, what do you have?" Well rehearsed and his smile unchanged, he replies "Everything, sir", smile.
Now I have been reading up on spirits for the prior 18 months, so I am quite well educated in tipple. I have also sampled quite a range wider than an average bar would stock, so I am also quite particular about my drinks. And there was only one drink I was in the mood for...
"Vermouth, please. Italian preferably; with a squeeze of fresh lime and a dash of chilled lemonade".
He looks at me for just long enough for me to know something was wrong. His smile disappears and is replaced with a deep frown between his eyes. "I'm sorry sir; you'll have to settle for vodka, whiskey or gin".
Brilliant.
