and so it begins...with a glass of wine

A glass of wine (or three)was all it took to steady my nerves. A lethal mixture of anxiety about flying and the sudden overwhelming sadness of saying goodbye to my family for 5 months caused a breif outbreak of tears which i quickly remidied with a large pinot grigio. The way i look at it, there are only two ways to relieve on-board anxiety...an orgasm or intoxication. Since i was in no hurry to join the mile high club with any of the men i could see in the departure lounge, the choice was an easy one.

I was seated next to a few guys from Uganda (i pretended i knew exactly where this was) and began the obligatory 'ummmm-ing' and 'ahhhh-ing' as they chatted about the turbulent political situation (which, after some number of glasses later, i decided i was an expert on and was passionatley inputting my point of view). I don't think i did the British rep any favours that trip as im sure my ignorance and more importantly, alcohol dependency shon through like the sun breaking the clouds at dawn.

After they left the plane i spent what must have been a good hour trying to work out just how sex-on-board was feasable...even desirable. First of all there is the logistical promblem of the positioning of the loos themsleves in relation to the stewardess' and i decided that unless the airline took to employing the blind or persons with an IQ the equivalent to a mentally retarded infant, sneaking in with someone else just wouldnt go un-noticed.

HOWEVER, more importantly, if i wanted to be penetrated in a position and lighting that would undoubtedly make me resemble a pregnant walrus who had just eaten another pregnant walrus i could initiate this myself...at home...without being in a shoe box stinking of piss. Now i accept that sometimes one just has to 'get ones end away' and if the opportunity arose up there at 20,000 feet then i probably wouldn't say no. But what i did conclude from all my detective work is that the mile high club is one institution that i do not aspire to join and instead, as i would discover later that week whilst riding a gondola in Queenstown, the quater half mile club is a much more logical fantasy.