Look! A tiny plane with a cute awning!

Flight #1 Palm Springs to San Francisco.

Where was the brass band?
Last time I was on a plane this tiny was flying from Jaipur to Delhi. It was like being in a Poirot film.
I promise the following is true, darling. I may have lied to you in the past, but not today.
The air hostess was an Ex Miss World. She teetered around on huge heels practically bent double on the tiny plane, handing out pristine white boxes of immaculate cucumber sandwiches.
The fucking Maharaji of fucking Jaipur was on board. Yes. Poirot enough for you yet? We saw him on TV in Delhi later and shat our pants in joy. Probably literally.
But our fave people were an Italian producer and director, dressed in raw silk Nehru jackets, they were so chic. The producer only carried the film script. And the director carried (oh yes) a single bottle of extra virgin olive oil. Yes. fucking yes. Oh fuckity fuckity yes. How fucking Poirot is that? BOOM!

Incidentally, I'm not sure if I am the cock shadow or the mound of sand shadow at the bottom of the screen. As far as I know I am travelling alone so this is a bit weird. I think I'd rather be a cock. But then most people think I already am.

Also my body clock is so fucked.
I'm eating a very garlicky pesto pasta salad with yoghurt and muesli right now. It's 11.30am. God help me.

Flight is delayed, so sneaking around looking for charging points. Have found some in a different boarding lounge. There are Japanese stewardesses getting ready for the next flight.
I've noticed that they bow to the room before leaving it. Even when it's empty. It's so lovely I might cry.