I flew to Portugal at the beginning of the month to see the Frenchie household, in the actual flesh, in their new residence, in a totally different location than my last pre covid visit.
I say I flew but what I actually did was shopped, ate and drank my way to Portugal, on a plane. There was a special offer, two Aperol Spritz for 9€. Seeing as the soft drink I requested wasn’t available, double Aperol Spritz it was, accompanied by pretzels and a twix. In flight might be the only time that sort of mix is acceptable.
I don’t like flying. I’m always sure that I’ll die. Nibbles help with that weird gut feeling that I only experience pre and during flights. The often excessive quantities of beauty products I purchase on board aren’t as easy to explain away. Who needs anti ageing face serums in the face of imminent death? Me apparently. Perhaps the choosing and eventual purchase of these bits of loveliness constitute distraction, much like the multiple hours of movies and tv shows I download onto my iPad to watch on the journey, and the book I take with me to read but ultimately ignore.
How long was the flight? Not that long.
It’s been a while since I was on a plane, once in the air I was transfixed by the beauty of clouds and thought how disappointing it is that you can’t land on them. That would lessen the odds of falling from the sky to certain death substantially, during some weather conditions and altitudes at least.
On arrival the post brexit queueing issue rendered me keen to find a brexiteer to kick.
The gentleman at passport control asked if this was a holiday trip. Yes, I’ve come to visit my sister. Where does she live? he asked casually. I didn’t know. Somewhere near here. She moved recently from Madeira. It’s my first visit. My brother in-law is picking me up, I gabbled. I felt like I was behaving suspiciously or like I had dementia. Who travels abroad with no idea of their final destination?
Anyhow he let me through.
Frenchie and I hadn’t been in a room together, in the real world, for two years and eight months. However if you’re expecting a tale of tears and high emotion you’re in the wrong place. After the initial, hello and hug, or even during the initial hello and hug, everything was just as it always has been, as it always should be, as if we’d met mere days before.
It rained for a large part of my visit which gave us plentiful time to talk shite, laugh at our own jokes and binge watch an historical drama that played fast and loose with historical fact. We fact checked its accuracy on Google during and after. The Googling was as entertaining as the show itself.
Now that’s what I call a sisterly holiday, that’s my kind of break, that’s even my kind of tv.
This is a sketch of Catherine of Aragon aged approx 16 with the very mature, very tall, 10 year old, saucy letter writing Prince Henry, as portrayed in the Spanish Princess
fat tart 