“Your ticket is upgradable,” the nice lady at the check-in informed me. “Do you wish to upgrade?”
“Thank you, but no,” I replied, shaking my head (thinking yes, YES please. Do I want to upgrade? Of course I do! Who wouldn’t?)
But, no matter how tempted I was by the free-flowing wine, champers, gourmet cuisine, canapés, flat-bed and acres of legroom on offer in the A380’s upper deck, it was never going to happen. There was no upgrade for the boys, and they’re too young to sit by themselves (there’s always next year!).
So, instead, I leapt on Son2’s conversational freight train for the 7-hour journey from London to Dubai:
“Mummy, what country are we flying over? What’s the smallest country, Mummy? … Is Dubai bigger than England? … Are we in space? If we’re not in space, is the upstairs in space? When are we there?” …
[The moment my eyes closed] MUMMY! WHEN.are.we.THERE? [Bringing me back to earth, or at least 37,000 feet above it, in a snap.] Is it nighttime in Dubai? I’m hungry Mummy! (Me: “They just served you a kids’ meal, and you didn’t want it!’ said through gritted teeth.) Is there wifi? Can I watch YouTube? How fast is the wind, Mummy? Is England still bigger than Dubai?”
Until I could see his mouth moving, but couldn’t really hear what he was saying and could do nothing but nod at whatever his moving lips were trying to assault me with.
Whereas Son1 plugged himself into the in-flight entertainment and watched back-to-back movies, with a couple of iPad breaks. Oh the difference being nearly three years older makes.