The Red Horse

The first proper memory I have of being on a plane was from a trip back to England to see family when I was about 10. The whole experience of flying back then was an adventure, every aspect exciting. Laying out the clothes I wanted to wear on the plane the day prior to flying, that first smell of aeroplane fuel as you near the airport, and the baby corns that I’m sure were in every airplane meal I ate as a kid.

But probably the most vivid memory I have of that first big flight was creeping up and down the deadly quiet aisles in the middle of the night, exploring the plane and gawking at the other passengers. Most would quite sensibly be trying to sleep but of course there were always a handful of other restless souls.

A few awkwardly craning their necks, peering over the seat in front of them to see the in-flight movie on the ceiling mounted monitors. Those reading their books, their faces bathed in light reflected from the single lamp overhead. The exhausted parents trying to calm an agitated child. None of these things were spectacular in any way. I’d seen people sleep, watch TV and read books plenty before. But add in the wonder of this all taking place inside a tube of metal flying through the air at speeds and heights more than I could comprehend and sleep was not going to be a priority.