First thing was brushing the teeth in the ladies' room with the toothbrush I nicked off the stewardess. The mini non-weapon of mass destruction toothpaste tasted like chalk and all the brush bristles came out in my mouth, but that was OK.
But I still smelt sweaty and didn’t want to rely on the Fanny Shower thinger they use as toilet paper so I slipped into the prayer room the Muslim women use to cleanse themselves before prayer. I know that Mohammed might not have approved of it, but let’s face it he wouldn’t have wanted to sit next to me on an airplane for another 7 hours either.
So I washed up quickly hoping no one noticed me (the exposed butt crack being a dead giveaway that wasn’t, in fact, a devout Muslim).
But my t-shirt still smelt kinda gross.
Luckily I remembered my brother had given me a present before we left, that I had quickly tucked into my handbag. I had asked him to bring me a nice top back from Durban – “something weird and hippyish” – while he was on vacation there.
Unfortunately when I took the shirt out of the wrapping I realized he didn’t choose something I would consider weird. He choose something Yoko Ono would consider weird. Something i (although would love to wear in my own free time) did not want my boss to see me in the first time she met me in person.
I didn't realize why all the women ushered their children out of the room at this point. But I suppose a camera flashing in the shower stall would spook me too.
SoI decided to salvage the sweatier shirt by running into the perfume store at the last minute and spraying myself to high heaven with the first thing I could find.
Did I choose the delicate Celine Dion perfume I was eyeing for myself? Or one of the tried and trusted brands I love?
I grabbed “Sex Appeal” by Jovan. You know how most perfumes describe themselves as "wisps of hyacinth" and "floral notes"? Sex Appeal smells like ball sweat. With hints of chalk.
There were 50 Indian people flying to Gatwick all praying to Ganesh that they don’t have to sit next to me.