“Quick, check for pyjama smugglers!” (QANTAS Boeing 747, Perth, Australia)
Upon setting foot on the moon, Neil Armstrong proclaimed “That’s one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.” Earlier, after summiting Everest, Sir Edmund Hillary had uttered the less famous “We knocked the bastard off.” When I recently conquered the most-pointy of pointy-ends and attained the comfiest of comfy seats, my first words from the first class cabin were “…like, awesome.”
Although I had been blessed by business class, first class had remained an elusive Nirvana hidden behind heavy grey curtains. Having enjoyed the luxuries of the second cabin, I would console myself that first class couldn’t possibly be better than the splendours of its less aristocratic neighbour. Much the same way as someone claims that their rusted 1988 Ford Pinto is just as good as a Lamborghini Countach because both get you from A to B, I claimed that first class held no interest.
They’re both lies.
My upgrade had come moments before boarding and “Mr Adventure Blogger” had been directed to the left, through those curtains and into a sumptuous secluded cabin of barely a dozen enormous thrones. The only thing missing was a chocolate fountain and toga-clad serving wenches. I was divested of my jacket, handed pyjamas and asked if I wanted a drink. Although craving water, in my desperate bid to blend in, I instead requested champagne. My attendant slipped away.
When no one was looking, I buried my trashy war novel in my carry-on and retrieved a more classy freshly-purchased historical biography. I then attempted to look intelligent, important and thoroughly unimpressed.
“I’m sorry sir, but I’m afraid we only have Dom Perignon.” My attendant gravely announced upon his return.
I politely stammered that it would do and was handed a tall glass flute of bubbling bliss. My companions had changed into their pyjamas, but I resisted the temptation lest the moment I slipped into something more comfortable, the airline realised the error of their ways and slipped me into something less comfortable: economy.
My seat was more sophisticated than an early NASA spacecraft and more intimidating. I could barely find the seatbelt never mind the reading light or hidden magazine bay, and the thought of trying to master the controls in the massive armrest left me in a cold sweat. Straining my eyes to the very corners of their sockets, I attempted to follow the examples of my nonchalant companions.
Once the door was closed and I felt safe from eviction, I grabbed my jammies and disappeared into the spacious washroom. I slipped out of my clothes, hung them on a hanger, sampled all the hand lotions, aftershaves and towels and grabbed a chocolate truffle on the return to my seat. My clothes were whisked away to a wardrobe and I was handed a very large a la carte menu to select from while my glass was re-filled.
After a fantastic feast served on a large tray that had mysteriously materialised from deep within the recesses of my chair and which was adorned with a crisp white table cloth, cutlery and small silver condiments tray, I was presented with a dessert trolley of staggering variety. My attempt to feign disinterest was under severe siege. I fought to maintain my outward stoicism but the profiteroles, tartlets and ice creams taunted until I nearly lunged like a malnourished Great White after a juicy Ahi. Clearly, this was a standard test to see if I belonged. With shaking fingers and a twitching eye, I denied my bourgeoisie tendencies and selected the smallest of delicate pastries…and emphasising my right of abode, a glass of dessert wine.
With dinner cleared away, an assistant came to make my bed. As I sat on a neighbouring vacant seat, mine was reclined fully flat and prepared with fluffy pillows, blankets and sheets. The lights were dimmed, and I slipped into a 35,000 foot slumber, gently rocked by light turbulence.
After an equally impressive freshly-prepared breakfast, my clothes were returned to me from the wardrobe. When everyone else was distracted, I quietly stuffed my souvenir pyjamas and toiletry bag into my carry-on. The aircraft taxied to the gate, and while the creased, bedraggled, exhausted and smelly masses were held back, Mr Adventure Blogger was thanked for his patronage, wished a safe journey and directed to immigration ahead of the heaving hordes.
It was only when I collected my luggage from the carousel that my fraud was rumbled. As my fellow Firsties gathered their Louis Vuitton luggage, the absence of a gold ‘Priority’ tag on my well-worn nylon number stood out like a ball gown at a Monster Truck race. There was an audible gasp from my former fellow pointy-enders and looks of distinct disdain that I encroached on their royal realm and was actually merely one of… those. I collected my bag, and with my pyjamas hanging out of my carry-on, slinked away to the airport shuttle and my budget hotel beyond.
Photo and post by: Simon Vaughan