Plane Trauma

The preview audiences for The Queen and I (the Australian version) laughed their socks off. But the first-night audience only laughed one sock off and the newspaper critics kept both socks resolutely on; to say that they loathed the play would be a gross understatement. I sat up in bed in my hotel room in Melbourne and read the reviews, then sank back on to the pillows while words such as ‘puerile’, ‘unfunny' and ‘sitcom' danced in front of my eyes. I think at some stage I might have pulled the blankets over my head and whimpered. I know that when I emerged into the daylight I looked longingly towards the minibar, where instant oblivion – in the form of strong alcohol – resided, but as it was only 8.30 in the morning I made myself a cup of tea instead. I then did my packing and left for the airport.

I had delayed my return to England by one day because I wanted a smoking flight, but when I checked in, a clean-cut youth informed me that the flight was now non-smoking. I nearly burst into tears (if there are any children reading this, never put a cigarette between your lips. Never. You will have a permanent cough, you will stink, and you will humiliate yourself in front of youths at airport check-in desks). The entire airport is non-smoking, so I stood outside in the company of other addicts and smoked many cigarettes until the ‘now boarding' sign flashed. Each fag tasted disgusting, but an addict is addicted, so they had to be smoked.

‘What about willpower?’ I hear you mutter. ‘What about it?’ I reply. I have no willpower. The part of my brain that controls willpower has been invaded by the nicotine-craving gang, and they take no prisoners.

The plane took off normally enough, but as we began to climb I noticed some discomfort in my ears. My fellow passengers began shaking their heads and poking their ears with their fingers. Babies began to scream. By the time the captain announced that the plane had reached its cruising height of 35,000 feet I thought my head was going to burst. Then the oxygen masks came down. The only time I had seen that happen before was on aeroplane-disaster movies. Being English, I kept my head, though I did turn to the man in the grey suit next to me and smile. A novelist would have called it a wry smile. Mr Grey Suit raised his eyebrows and took the oxygen mask dangling in front of him and placed the rubber mouthpiece over his mouth. I did the same. No oxygen came out. The cabin crew were nowhere to be seen, and the captain was now worryingly silent. Meanwhile, the pressure inside my head was becoming intolerable. The cause could have been delayed shock brought on by the terrible reviews, but I've had bad reviews before without my head bursting.

Diagonally opposite me sat a man who could have been the fattest man in Australia on his way to represent his country in an international fat man competition. He had more chins than Niagara has falls, and they were almost as wet. He mopped at his face with a white handkerchief that could have doubled as a sail for a small ship. He caught my eye and said, ‘I could use a drink.’ I took my mouth away from the mask and gave another of my wry smiles. I saw him press the button for the stewardess, but nobody came. Had the entire crew parachuted to safety? Eventually the captain turned on his intercom. There was the sound of ragged, heavy breathing. Was he having some sort of seizure?

‘This is your captain. We are…’, then more ragged breathing. Meanwhile, I filled in the gaps. I am a dramatist, after all. I might be a discredited and reviled one, but I am still able to dramatize. I imagined the captain barely alive, the co-pilot dead.

The captain finally managed to control himself. ‘There is a fault with the cabin pressure,’ he said, ‘and also with the oxygen supply.’ We would be making a fast descent to 10,000 feet and would then fly over the sea to jettison our fuel. ‘For an emergency landing,’ groaned the fattest man in Australia. The wobbly descent lasted long enough for me to write an overwrought and dramatic letter of farewell to my family, and for the fattest man in Australia to struggle out of his seat and help himself, me and Mr Grey Suit to a miniature gin. We didn't bother with the ice and lemon. After ditching its fuel the plane flew shakily back to Melbourne and landed, escorted by emergency vehicles.

In the transit lounge I asked an airport official if a small section could be roped off so that the thirty or so smokers on the flight could light up and repair their jangled nerves. ‘No,’ she said severely. ‘It's the Health and Safety rules.’ I gave a wry smile.