Sparx: Urgh. I hate take offs.

If I had any food in my stomach I’m sure I’d be nauseous right now. It’s that awful compression sensation, like your brain and your guts and all the rest of your internal organs are determined to remain left behind whilst your skeleton is spirited into the sky...that gets me every time. Ethan doesn’t look too good in the seat next to me either if I’m honest; I can almost smell the sweat from here...or actually, that might be me.

Don’t think anyone noticed me casually stretching and checking under my arms – yeah, I reek. Not sure what I was expecting, I’ve been wearing the same denim jeans and pale grey shirt for the last twenty four hours, at least... same boxers too. I can’t really remember when I had a shower before then either. Nice going Sparx, you ladies man you.

 “Pssst, Mel-  argh!”- I’d moved to lean forwards through the gap between the girls’ seats, just as the aeroplane  veered off to the left (or at least that’s what it felt like, although I’m pretty sure that’s impossible) and ramming my face into the not-so-comfortable INSTRUCTIONS FOR EMERGENCY sign on the back of her chair. Well that hurt like something that hurt a lot. A LOT.

“Do you gnow whur the toylet ish?” I asked through a slightly smushed nose, although I like to think I still sounded effortlessly in control, as always, naturally.

And, naturally, they both started giggling like the giggling fools they are; Erica less so, although it was pretty easy to see that's cause she’s less caffeinated than Mels (note to self, buy her a coffee when the trolley comes down) and Mels in a higher chorus, again which I put down to the sugar overload.

“It’s just up at the front, but you can’t go till they say you can get up and use mobile phones and all that” she replied, still smiling at me rubbing my smarting face – not that I’d tell them how much it hurt of course.

I guess I couldn’t ask them for a mirror – anything with effeminate connotations has to be regarded with deep suspicion when your name is Gaylord. Just my good luck that the sign binged off at that point, my cue to spring up and slip out to the toilet, narrowly beating a five year old with a face of immense concentration, and only feeling slightly guilty for it...

And not a moment sooner. In the most masculine way possible, what is up with my hair?! Staring out of the mirror was a perfect picture of a teenage boy – screwing my tired blue eyes up against the light, with my blue boxers only slightly, accidentally, on show, one hand was automatically trying to calm the bird’s nest that was on top of my head; not literally a bird's nest of course. On a normal day I like to think that I tread the line between attractively scruffy and “dragged through a hedge” (although as far as shortish, dirty blonde hair goes it’s hard to get it wrong) – but was I up all night rubbing my head against a palm tree or something?! Which I definitely don’t remember doing, by the way.

A quick finger comb and a splash of water on my face and I felt remotely better, albeit resigned to the fact there wasn’t much I could do about the smell. Time to let that kid, erm, relieve himself, and get back to the gang...

No sooner had I sat down than the girls turned round and both shoved their hands up against their faces with an “ARGH!” that sounded comically low in their “boy” voices.

“Yeah, real funny girls” I scowled, “Now get some sleep.”

The End

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