29th September, '06

Blurry-eyed,
he looks up at the
steward, who has arrived
to check on
‘white knuckles’
in seat 4B.

“Everything alright, Sir?”
he asks, with a ridiculous
grin, as he flicks
the light switch. A hush
descends
on rows three to six;
a couple discreetly point
and whisper,
their gaze
dousing the embers
of his pride; he imagines
himself reeking of sweat
and vomit,
as they shift
from side to side,
their cold accusatory
glances seemingly intensified
in the light.

The worm moves
another inch
while the steward
metamorphoses into a butterfly.

“We have a fine
selection on our menu, Sir,
this evening,”
it says, as it flaps
a solitary wing.

“May I suggest opening
with claustrophobia,
followed by
finely matured agoraphobia,
served alongside a
healthy fear of
heights, finally washed
down with a warm
shot of turbulence.

I hope you will agree, Sir,
that it is quite an enticing
spread, nothing but
the finest,
the best in its class,
we here at BA like
to think of every meal
as being your last.”