Come Fly With Me

Earlier this year I went on an American road trip and documented my travels in my online column for Jones and Jones. This one is all about how shit I am at flying.

“This week I received an award. A highly prestigious, well-recognised and competitively sought after prize. That’s right folks; it’s the honour of ‘Most Disorganised Woman of the Year’. After narrowly escaping missing my flight and arriving in LA complete with a hangover but no clean underwear, I feel that this time I truly deserve it. I’d also like to thank my lifelong talent in procrastination and all-round, general air headedness for helping me take home the trophy and promise to keep it gleaming on my mantelpiece forevermore, as a permanent reminder to plan better next time.

I think a large chunk of the ill-preparation for this trip comes down to my fear of flying which has slightly overshadowed everything else. In my head I was fully convinced there was no way the plane would ever land safely and therefore what does it matter if I pack the night before, bleary eyed on minimal sleep and miss out most of the essentials? My method was to scoop half my wardrobe, half my housemate’s wardrobe and the top layer of my laundry basket into an offensive canary yellow suitcase, sit on it until the darn thing zipped up and then kick back with a congratulatory glass of vino before passing out with exhaustion.

This fear of flying/denial of all plane related activity is also why as I should have been getting onto an airport bound train, I was instead sat in Natural Nails (the least natural of salons) down the road from my house, umming and ahhing over whether or not I can pull off an acrylic pointed tip a la Rihanna (turns out I can, they look effin’ fabulous – thank you for asking). I had to sprint to the station, spent the duration of the journey to Heathrow trying not to throw up and eventually made it on time by the absolute skin of my teeth, after being scrutinized by a passport inspector who asked whether or not I’m a natural blonde as displayed in my photograph but no longer by my locks.

As the plane took off and my knuckles turned white, reality hit. I had to formulate a survival plan to make it through the next eleven hours on this mechanical sky beast without vomming on the lady next to me or crying hysterically. I decided to do whatever would make me feel most at home; ordered a bottle of white, nestled under a blanket and watched Disney films until Mr Sandman paid me a visit with some shut eye (Frozen is actually not as bad as expected by the way). It seemed to have worked as half a day later I wobbled off the plane and into the heated City of Angels where I am now, writing this at 6am on a balcony, slurping an enormous sleep-combating slushie from the Taco Bell next door whilst my sink-washed underwear dries over the bath tub. God bless you America, we’re gonna get it on so hard.”

Originally published via Jones and Jones Fashion, April 2014 (jonesandjonesfashion.com)

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