I love travelling, but hate the travel &mdash the military-industrial regimen of lining up to check in, lining up to clear security, lining up again to board the flight. And, worst of all, cramming my creaking 6 foot 5 inch frame into a chair meant for pygmies, particularly such pygmies as do not mind hours of physical intimacy with complete strangers. In an alchemy measured in inches &mdash 1.2 inch extra seat width, 7 inches extra seat pitch, 0.5 inches of plastic partition &mdash a business class ticket transforms my grim apprehension of long-haul flights into pleasurable anticipation of a private little bubble floating 10 km above the earth.
The fine bubbles proffered at the beginning of the flight help you cut loose from the clamour of the airport, and I&rsquove never &mdash ever &mdash refused a glass of bubbly. As soon as the announcements permit, I recline the seat as far back as it will go, plug the headphones in, and check out the entertainment system. I&rsquom learning from my son, whose primary criterion for rating an airline is the selection of its movies, and the JAL playlist has plenty to offer, even if I find the first choice, 12 Years a Slave, claustrophobic in its intensity and violence, and switch mid-way to The Dallas Buyer&rsquos Club, a gripping docu-drama of an early HIV victim forcing the US government&rsquos hand on introduction of anti-retroviral drugs.
I turn away the snacks and the liquor trolley, but select a Bordeaux to go with my dinner. The wine is deep and satisfying, but my vegetarian status means I get a quite unremarkable Indian meal of rice, dal and paneer. I lean over the partition that separates me from another travel writer, Kruttika, who is clearly relishing her bento box &mdash eyes travelling from the decorative offerings in their little squares, to the brief, tantalising descriptions, chopsticks pausing in mid-air as a new flavour is experienced. We conscientious objectors have our moments of defeat.
I return to my bubble, wiggle my toes in the ample air space above the fuselage floor, and select Rush. My son would approve of this selection, a depiction of the rivalry between the golden-haired racing champion James Hunt, and the buck-toothed Niki Lauda, nicknamed The Rat. Since you&rsquove probably never heard of James Hunt, you know who prevailed, but the film is extremely absorbing, and I only looked up once, when I realise my throat was parched.
That&rsquos all you really have to do, look up once &mdash JAL cabin staff are attentive to a fault, and within seconds, chilled water was at my elbow, served with a smile, and the economical, graceful gestures that are a hallmark of Japanese deportment.
Back into the bubble. Ok, I don&rsquot really mind the travel.
