I damnt near dialled a radio phone-in the other day.
Too shy, too shy to actually make the call, herewith is what would have been my contribution.
Jeremy Vine was telling the story of that terrifying flight from Aberdeen, which had to abort its first landing at Heathrow because of high winds. Film shows the aircraft tipping to one side, a wing and tail almost hitting the ground.
Oor ain South Aberdeen MP Stephen Flynn, who was on board, testified to how frightening it was, praising the skill of the pilot in such a dangerous situation. Then, Vine invited listeners to share their own hairy flight experiences.
A pucklie years ago I treated my quine to a shopping and show weekend in London. It was around the time BA was cutting back on free hospitality. Rumour had it, the full English breakfasts were being ditched to save dosh. Outrage.
How I adored the luxury of that meal. The delish aroma round the cabin of a fry-up about to be served; finishing the last morsel nearing Heathrow.
On to our plane, took off bang on time. Minutes into the flight – just after a bittie of a sudden up-and-downy shoogle – I nudged my quine: “Eeeha! They’re still serving hot breakfasts. I can smell the cooking.”
Sure enough, the cabin was filled with the glorious hum of bacon. Moo waterin’, I peered aboot to see how long we’d to wait for the trays to reach us. No sign yet of anyone being served. I was ravishing, as my mum used to say.
I can still smell the guff o’ the grillin’ gulls
The smell of frying was getting stronger, but still no sign of cabin crew. Something else was a bit odd. The plane seemed to be banking to the side and then – fit the? – heading in the opposite direction. Like, back towards Aberdeen.
Ye gods, I panicked, had the pilot and co-pilot been up there just flappin’ their wee arms?
Here comes the pilot’s voice. Not charming and jokey as they usually are, but a bit grim. Apologies but the plane had suffered a bird strike soon after take-off. He’d decided to return to Dyce to assess the damage.
As the passengers let out a collective moan about the delay, some even scraiking: “Keep going!”, my quine hissed: “That’s not bacon you smelled. It was sauteed seagull!” I was cowkin’.
Once we’d landed and waited a whilie, the pilot came back on: “There’s been significant damage to one of the engines. Not to put too fine a point on it, we’re lucky we got back safely.”
Ye gods, I panicked, had he and the co-pilot been up there just flappin’ their wee arms? Sez he: “You’ll have to disembark while we change planes.”
All a bit shook, we tottered back into the airport, to be told we’d a couple of hours’ wait for another plane. Sitting beside us was another mum-and-daughter en route to a London weekend – in brisk argument. The mum was refusing to get on the next flight, in fact protesting she’d maybe never fly again.
Now past noon, I was tiddlin’ masellie lest we’d be late for the theatre. As it happened, we made it with minutes to spare. To fill in the time at Aberdeen, my quine offered to treat me to my aborted full English. Was she kiddin’?
And I can still smell the guff o’ the grillin’ gulls.
Moreen Simpson is a former assistant editor of The Press & Journal and started her journalism career in 1970
