11 months ago Funny, General

We’re all going on a Summer Holiday, no more worries for a week or two…well that’s not strictly true is it. Being ‘glutened’ in Britain isn’t always a barrel of laughs, but being ‘glutened’ in a hot, humid, foreign country is another matter all together. Curled up on the moist bathroom tiles of our Mexican abode, throwing up the remnants of that mis-sold taco is not how I intend to spend our vacay.

So here we are, plane on the tarmac. My husband Terry sits in adjoining aisle; I’ve sensed something a little off about him today. Now, our Terry isn’t the most confident flyer but no, this is something different. There’s a fear in his eyes, the kind of fear I know only too well. He’s forgotten my gluten free snacks. Again.

The engines start to rumble, he starts to fumble through the hand luggage. Give up Terry, you know as well as I do that the goodies are on the kitchen work top. Stop this façade and come clean, you useless troll. I look over, correction, I GLARE over. He avoids eye contact for a good 4 minutes but by now my eyes are burning a hole in the side of his head, he’s fighting a losing battle. I start to question my analysis. Maybe he’s cheated? Perhaps he’s gambled away all of our savings? I’d take a combination of the two over a ‘glutening’ 35,000 ft above the Atlantic any day. Is that so wrong?

At last, he gives in – my suspicions dyed-in-the-wool. “I’m sorry” he mouths to me, in that pathetically timid whisper of his. I’m mid-way through the most impressive scowl of my life, when the plane begins to accelerate. Both the plane and my marriage are now up in the air, with my gluten-free goodies nothing but a distant memory. 12 hours to go, you can do this Mindy. Perhaps the in-flight entertainment can help take my mind off it. Oh they’re showing Ratatouille, flipping fantastic.

We’re now two hours into the flight from hell and I hear the distant clatter of the food trolley; a young, attractive flight attendant at the helm. After what feels like a lifetime, she reaches my aisle. “Hello Madam, Would you like Lasagne or a selection of sandwiches?” “Are there any gluten free options?” I retort. “We do have a risotto but unfortunately there are limited numbers for people who made us aware of their intolerance in advance. This should’ve been clear when booking the flight”. Being a Brit, I’m forbidden to actually voice my severe resentment for situation I currently find myself in, but what I can provide is another gut-wrenching scowl, sending the hostess scurrying on down the plane. Not before serving Terry his Lasagne, the worthless swine.

I’d just about come to accept my tragic state of affairs when in my peripheral I notice a child deep in slumber. He can’t be more than 3 or 4, but this isn’t what caught my eye. It was the packet of pickled onion Monster Munch resting on his tray. I feel my hand make its way slowly toward the packet, as if moving of its own free will. What have I become…



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