Musings Outward Bound: We are off to Toronto to see our Canadian branch, flying British Airways...

Ive been here before... you know, flown places with BA. The initials, BA, say it all, especially when it comes to allocating leg space to passengers... BA = Bugger All. This ones a 787 Dreamliner, straight out of the box. The captains just been on the intercom, boasting that its brand new. Brand new? The tops missing off my armrest. My right elbows jammed in among the cogs and wires of the mechanism. Dreamliner... Now where do I put my feet? I was watching a film just now on this personal video thing they give you these days. Suddenly the screen flies back and arrives on the end of my nose, like something leaping out of a 3D film. I thought it was a poltergeist. But it turns out that the dude in front cant support his body any longer. So, at the poke of a button, he prostrates himself and sends the back of his chair, which includes my TV and table, flying through my space. Hes trapped me in a straightjacket. The only way out is to hurl the back of my seat at the bloke behind. If everyone does it, itll be like the collapse of a domino run. Now its victual time. This woman dragging the trolley tells me I can either have chicken or Vegetable Bolognese. Its what my granny called Hobsons choice. Vegetable Bolognese? Thats like saying, Vegetable Pork Chop. The alternative is chicken. Now dont get me wrong. I love chickens. When I was a kid I nursed day-old chicks until they were big enough to kill the cat. Chickens grow into Hens. They lay eggs and things. They look beautiful going round on spits in butchers shops. They smell even better. But... and its a big but... where has this chicken come from? What are its credentials? OK. So I sound faddy. And I am now. I didnt used to be. I would eat anything they put before me. No questions asked. Faddy is a luxury that comes with age. I now have the time and money to worry about animal welfare. I like to think my lamb chop has gambolled in a meadow and my chicken can tell tales of outwitting Reynard the fox. So I only do certificated free range these days. OK, so the free range animal that I am eating is reluctant to be on the end of my fork. But, at least, it had a happy, if unavoidably, short life. But... Vegetable Lasagne? I settle for chicken. Six sleepless hours later, the woman returns with her trolley and a second meal. Theres no choice this time, Chicken sandwich, take it or leave it... Motorists: Back in the UK, in my beloved roll as a pedestrian, motorists are my pet hate. They charge around in their steel missiles like Roman conquerors in chariots, sending sheets of filthy water over the poor peasants fighting the wind and rain on the pavement. What really annoys me is when I arrive at a pedestrian crossing and find that no one has pressed the button. Then, when I press it, someone says, I never do that, in case I inconvenience the drivers. What!? Inconvenience that lot, sat there in their mobile palaces, listening to the radio, talking on their mobiles; left home at the last minute, so now theyre charging along, cursing inanimate traffic lights

and cyclists while blasting each other out of the way... Youve got to be joking mate. Press that so and so button and make em stop. Ive stuff to do. But its not like that on other side of the Atlantic; not in Canada anyway. The motorists just tootle along and stop at every intersection. And if a pedestrian wants to cross the road, the motorist waits and lets him amble across. On a busy road, when motorists want to turn into a side-street, they stop and give the pedestrians right of way. Sometimes theyll be there for ages, waiting to turn while people just wander across the road in front of them, and nobody dreams of giving way to them. Coming from the UK I find this difficult to live with. Im used to halfcrazed drivers bullying and honking me out of the way. Im full of inhibitions. I feel quite guilty and find myself giving them little waves and mouthing, Sorry...Thank you... Poor drivers, I think. Nobody cares about them. Funny how the mind works. The Pie: I was out shopping with Liz, and we were wondering what we would get for the evening meal. We ended up in Maxis Deli on Bloor Street. Now that really is a shop worth looking into. Theres a glass -covered displaycounter that goes on forever, full of all kinds of delicious dishes. Being me, I spot the pie. This is no ordinary pie. This is the mother of all pies, as my old friend, Sadam, would say. The little card by its side announces that it is, Silverside, simmered in Guinness. But it is the pastry that mesmerises me. Im a pastry connoisseur. I come from Manchester. They weaned me on homemade meat-and-potato pie. After a few pints of beer, my soul still guides me to the chippy for pie and chips. But of all the pies I have ever seen, I know, instinctively, this is the best. That pastry is melt in the mouth short-crust and silverside, slow simmered in stout say no more. Thats what were having, I tell Liz. There are six of us, so well need two. Now Liz is a thrifty housewife. And thats good. But it has its drawbacks. One will be enough, she tells me, with some nice vegetables. But... One! she decides. Comes the long awaited mealtime and my loved-one places my plate before me. But... my piece of pie is a mere slither. If it was wine, it would be the gulp they give you to see if its corked. I look at Izzys plate. She too, has a slither. Then Dizs and Lizs plates slithers! The best pie I have come across in my life, and were down to slithers. I told Liz we needed two. Then come Dans and Charlies, aged 12, portions. And they are comparatively massive; man sized helpings. What the...? I do some crafty scrutiny and mental arithmetic. Liz has given Dan and Charlie, age 12, a quarter of the whole pie each. She has given me, the senior, a quarter of the remaining half. Whats that about? The way to a mans heart, I muse... I bite my tongue. I might as well. Theres precious little pie. In my other world we had a thing called pecking order. You got points for being male. Then you got extra points for age. I didnt agree with that system, but its all the rage again these days. They call it positive discrimination. My old granny will be spinning in her grave.

The Toilet: When you think about it, toilets, everywhere in the world, fill the same function. So youd expect them all to be pretty much the same. But theyre not. They vary from country to country. I dont know why. I can only think that it has something to do with evacuation procedures. Without going into any unnecessary detail, in the UK you aim everything into a cupful of water at the bottom of the pedestal, then try to flush it down with another cupful of water from the cistern. In Canada, on the other hand, the pedestal is half full of water, so your target area is vastly enhanced, and the flush turns into a whirlpool that sucks everything into oblivion before half filling the pedestal again much more efficient. Ah but, in the UK the pedestal is designed like a throne, so you sit like a king, or queen, in state. So there is no problem until you come to the flushing bit. While in Canada, the pedestal is designed like a footstool, so the problem, at least when your joints begin to creak, is getting yourself down there, then hauling yourself back up. But thats not the problem today. Im in Toronto airport and I need the loo. Right, I go into the first gents I see and head for the cubicles. The first one is empty but theres no paper. I try the second; the door is part open, but there is someone in there, and he is trying exclude the world by keeping one leg straight out, jamming the door with his foot while trying to perform his number twos. There is either no lock on the door, or this bloke is some kind of masochist. I head for the third and final cubicle. Its almost the same story , except this dude has got the door jammed part closed with a massive rucksack. Hes either on the toilet or squatting. I leave that place behind and continue my trapes to the distant boarding gate. Then, spotting another toilet, I wheel in and head for the first cubicle. Its empty; with paper; great! I lower myself onto the dwarfsized pedestal then Yaah! My dangly-bits are suddenly submerged in ice-cold water. This is a problem. I dont want these bits in there when the other bits arrive. And, worryingly, how do I dry them? The economy paper they have in these places has about as much substance as cappuccino-froth. In the split second that all these thoughts fly through my mind, the toilet gives an automatic flush, and my buttocks are now immersed in that same ice cold water. I leap up. Damn! No wonder these people call it a Washroom. But Ive nothing to dry myself with. If I pull my trousers up now, Ill look as if Ive wet myself. But I still need the loo. Stupidly, I squat down. But the same thing happens over again; dangly bits submerged; automatic flush; even wetter buttocks. I leap up and listen. No other toilet is flushing. Neither is this one. But once bitten, twice shy. Out comes my handkerchief. Ill try my luck on the plane. Homeward bound: This is the same plane I flew out in; different seat. Were getting ready for take-off and there is already a bit of commotion a few seats down. The steward is bending over these people and trying to reason with them. Now this big fat woman has stood up and agreed to follow him to the back of the plane. Youll be fine back here, he assures her. You will get a full row to yourself. No wonder she has a self-satisfied smile. The two

people she left behind have now stood up and are sorting themselves out. Neither of them would qualify as a sylph. Now I see whats happened. This obese woman has sat down on the middle seat and seeped over the people on either side of her. Then, half crushed, half suffocated, theyve pushed the help-button and summoned the steward who has gone all diplomatic and led the problem away. Thats all very well, but she now gets a full row to herself, without paying extra. Thats not right. What about us anorexics? Weve worked hard to look like the boys from the Burma Railway. All that exercise on five a day. This is how class warfare begins. The solution to the problem is staring us in the face. In Toronto airport you put your hand-luggage into a frame at the check-in desk. If it fits pass. If it doesnt, it goes in the hold and you pay extra. So why not have a buttock-box as well? OK madam, your handluggage is fine. Now wedge your backside in this... At an opportune moment I nip to the toilet. There is already somebody in there. I wait for ages. In the meantime, a queue forms behind me. Then, after a wrestling match with the door, this woman emerges, like a glassy-eyed zombie, then staggers off down the cabin. I step inside... Ah, the place is covered in spew. There is nowhere to sit or stand. I decide to abandon ship. I give a cheery smile and nod to the next person in the queue. All yours, I tell her.