There are some things we just don’t talk about but are so natural and in some cases, confronting, you have to wonder why (because they’re confronting I guess). For example toilet breaks are never written into the script in American films whereas the Europeans love them. Like Kim Jong Un, Hollywood’s elite don’t excrete – neat slogan eh? Well at least most of them think their shit doesn’t stink which gets me to the topic of the day which I will approach in my usual roundabout way.
If you’re in a frequent flyer program, you’ll know how airlines send you those “Help us to help you” forms to fill out or direct you to the profile page on the website. This is so we can tell them we like opera of polo or flower arranging. Why, I’m not sure. My boss did get invited to a golf tournament once by an airline but that’s the only time in 30 years of travel I’ve heard of anything like that happening. And it was about 30 years ago. If an airline is thinking of slinging one my way, can I go to the Superbowl? Cheers.
In said profile, I always put that I want an aisle seat on the lower deck (for double decker planes you understand). But all airlines number their seats differently so unless you ask at check in, you don’t necessarily know where you’re sitting until you get there. Why don’t I ask? Because I bloody forget.
So I’m in 11H which is an aisle seat (woo hoo) but upper deck and right at the front against the bulkhead. That’s right the front row is row 11. I had to get up at 4.15am to get down to Sydney to catch this plane to Singapore so I’m grumpy. And then there’s the smell, which brings us back to where we started.
Smells on planes can be lumped (or wafted) into two groups – those you make and those others make. They can also be ranked according to desirability. At one extreme we have smoke, for obvious reasons and at the other extreme is the alluring scent a Singapore Girl leaves as she floats by. Personal odours are way down at the smoke end.
I once heard English doctor/writer/actor/comic/etc Jonathan Miller being interviewed and he commented on the propensity for air travel to make him fart and the “fact” that that they were “strangely odourless” (his comment). This puzzled me for many years because (1) he’s a medical doctor (2) he’s wrong and (3) assuming the first two assertions are correct, why can’t he smell his own farts. I’m also assuming all olfactory components are present and accounted for.
Anyone who has travelled at least a few times will be aware of that situation when someone drops one and there is nowhere to hide. Fortunately it doesn’t last as long as if you are in a closed room or heaven forbid, in a lift. This is because the air-conditioning in an aeroplane is strong enough to suck the dermis (that’s your second layer of skin) out through your pores.
Having pondered this riddle for many years and refused to ask for expert advice (I don’t ask for directions either), I decided it was because air is pumped into the cabin at the top and sucked out through vents at floor level. This means any olfactory nastiness emanating from the trouser region has to battle against the wind (excuse the pun) to get as high as your nose. But God help your feet.
This theory prevailed in my mind until on one subsequent trip I accidentally listened to the safety demonstration. Apparently a row of floor lights will guide you to an exit if someone in first class has accidentally set his polyester track-suit on fire and the plane has filled with smoke. You hit the floor and as the kids’ saying goes “get down low and go go go”. So much for the theory because this scenario assumes the smoke is being sucked up not down. Of course it’s only relevant in the event of a tracksuit mishap while on the ground. If you’re more than a few metres off the ground and it’s anything other than a smouldering tracksuit, forget it.
So why don’t Jonathan Miller’s farts smell. I have no idea. Maybe he only eats rose petals.
We are now going to leave smells and get onto toilets (another execrable pun which is also almost a pun itself). And if we go right back to the start, this was the original rationale for writing this piece. So let’s cut to the cheese, sorry chase. (I’m on a roll).
Seat 11C isn’t so bad except for what I’ve already said and for one other thing. The convenience is about a foot away from my feet. There is a flimsy inch thick wall between us but it’s not enough to disguise the whoosh which sweeps from the little room immediately in front of me then under my seat (below the floor – this is Singapore Airlines after all) to who knows where.
At the start of the flight it whooshed three times over a few minutes and no one emerged. Funny what you notice isn’t it? But something else slowly emerged and then they wheeled out the brunch trolley. The eggs thought it was their birthday. Harmonizing sulphurous fumes everywhere. Eventually the person who had been sitting (presumably) immediately in front of me barrelled through the door and hastily resumed his seat, having despatched….no no no, we’re not going there.
But some things are indelibly seared into your brain, never to be expunged. And one of them is pushing open an unlocked toilet door only to see a lady who forgot to lock said door squatting on the seat. Needless to say, having a complete stranger barging in on what is generally a most private moment is a reason for considerable dismay and apparently a justification for peeing on the floor. One needs to be very light on one’s feet in this circumstance.
So the upshot is, if I’m unfortunate enough to get a seat next to the khasi and someone steps through that door, I shut my eyes, put my fingers in my ears, thumbs up my nose and think of England.