When flying was fun and sex was spontaneous (and the other way around!)

What sombre resignation on the half-full flight across the desultory Channel last night.

Plugged in, passive, passengers sat, obediently following the safety protocol.

Not a GnT was swallowed. Not a baby bawled.

The only stirring came with the information that, due to a faulty stairlift, we would have to stay on the aircraft for the foreseeable:

“Bloody French”. “Yeah — typical!”. “Merde!” Etc.

I was in my twenties in the eighties — when flying was fun and sex was spontaneous (and the other way around!)

Early in the decade, I was a student in Edinburgh and, as I qualified for a full living allowance and as there were no fees and because I worked nights, — I was the richest I have ever been.

I don’t know whether it was the infernal cold, the porridge or the frequent wee drams, but there was always a lot of sex going on — so, when the lover and I boarded a charter flight to the Canaries one dismal January, it was understood that, of course we would be joining the Mile High Club en route!

The plane was basic, squat and loud — talking required shouting. Passengers sat in rows of three, facing each other like on a train.

Opposite us was a hairy hippy couple with a child. They glanced through their fringes at us as The Lover and I got up to go to the toilets at the same time. They shook their…