Features

Frequent traveller: No-fly zone

30 Apr 2013 by BusinessTraveller

In which our correspondent finds there’s nothing like being grounded to make you want to take to the skies…

So I’ve got a confession to make – the kind any self-respecting frequent flyer doesn’t admit to very often. For the past couple of months, I’ve not actually been anywhere.

That’s right – not a single airport has passed my radar. No Heathrow Express, no Hayes bypass, no First Capital Connect down to Gatwick. No power-walking through Schiphol, queuing at JFK or strolling around Changi. No frisks at security, dragons at the lounge or taxi sharks in arrivals.

And, no, I’ve not been sacked, or made redundant. Rather, I have simply imposed a little mini-ban on myself. To be honest, and it’s not something I usually share with Joe Public, I have a bit of a medical condition. Don’t worry, it’s not contagious, just in case you find yourself sitting next to me on a flight (oh, if only you knew who I was!). But it does flare up occasionally, and after a particularly stressful string of trips over the winter, I was feeling a little… jaded.

Drop-dead glamourpuss just the right side of middle age I may look to the outside world (okay, my mirror), but I was in need of a little time-out. Thankfully, my bosses have been supportive, dividing up my trips among the team while I content myself with a little light video-conferencing.

It took some getting used to, but I have to say it was pure bliss. On Sunday evenings, instead of being 12,000 feet up en route to Asia, or cramming three days of clothes into an overnight bag to meet the carry-on restrictions of our preferred short-hop airline, I was watching Songs of Praise, Countryfile and the Antiques Roadshow. Under a blanket on the sofa, with a proper brew. Aside from the nagging fear I was turning into my mother, I couldn’t have been happier.

Visiting the supermarket was a similar treat. Normally, I only buy the bare essentials to last a couple of days, because if I’m jetting off somewhere it’s only going to go mouldy. And normally I’m too knackered to cook so I settle for a couple of ready meals. But once I found myself with full evenings at my disposal, and a bit more energy to get creative, I was soon perusing the aisles with gusto, piling up my trolley with all sorts of delights. A bit odd, you might think, to take so much pleasure in getting the groceries in, but when you’ve got used to horsemeat lasagne for one – and really, I don’t see what the fuss is about, I’ve eaten a lot worse in long-haul economy – you make the most of it.

Illustration by Ben Southan

Frequent Traveller @BenSouthan

Meanwhile, I’ve made it home for my father’s birthday for the first time in four years, my friends have started to invite me to things again, my house is a palace, my skin has cleared up (yes, pimples at my age are ridiculous but aircraft cabins and hotel air con don’t exactly help matters), my bills are all paid, my car starts first time, I’m getting seven hours’ straight sleep a night, and I’ve even had a few dates with the same man without having to consult next month’s diary for a spare window (don’t get excited, it just meant I got bored of him quicker).

In other words, I’ve got a life. And, yet, after about six weeks of it, I started to get a bit… niggly. Nothing major at first, just a slight feeling of unease leaving work on a Friday with the whole weekend stretching empty ahead. A few wistful glances at the travel classifieds in the paper; a stab of jealousy at the besuited woman wheeling her sleek four-wheeler through Victoria station.

Then the feelings began to get a bit more intense. Sulking at missing out on the client awards do in Hong Kong; heart sinking at yet another dull dinner party invitation, with no good reason for turning it down; even irritation at the queues in Waitrose now I wasn’t using the baskets-only line.

And, then, irritation started bordering on violence. A Tourette’s-style outburst in the office at the static miles total on my loyalty scheme update; a screaming match with my colleague for sealing my deal in Moscow. Even – and I’m not proud of this one – a broken TV remote control, after throwing it on the floor at the sight of Aled Jones.

The upshot of it all? I’m back in the game. If there’s a trip on the cards, I’m taking it. If there’s a new contract to be drawn up, I’m on it, and if there’s a crazy multi-sector back-to-back round-the-world roadshow to attend, I’m up for it. Thank heavens my health condition seems to have righted itself, because my bags are packed. And I’m going… everywhere.

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