The captain was so annoyed by the delayed take off, to be blamed upon some baggage handler down the chain of command, that he promised us he was going to use every possible shortcut in the European skies, to match the scheduled arrival time.

I wanted to tell the steward to tell the captain not to worry, it was my return flight so no hurry at all, and no one ever gets connecting flights at our arrival airport anyway. But I just kept reading my book, which may look like 50 Degrees from a distance, I can see it in the knowing looks other women throw at me (men are blissfully unaware of the existence of 50 Degrees), but it definitely is not. Not all thirty-something women readying bulky novels with a grey cover in August are reading 50 Degrees you know.

Then the captain addressed us again trough the intercom, to describe the weather at our destination as “very nice, 37 degrees”, clearly forgetting that clear skies no wind in a small Mediterranean airport, that is to say very nice weather from the point of view of an aviator in charge of a landing, mean that your passengers are going to spend the night there, in the 37 degrees, they are not flying back with you, you know, cruising comfortably at 30 thousand feet above the burnt land, to your rainy country to spend a lovely night sleeping soundly under a duvet.

I wanted to go to the flight deck, the pointy end as Douglas Richardson likes to call it, tap the captain on the shoulder and tell him, but unfortunately this is now illegal under anti terrorism laws.

So I waited for the airplane to come to a complete stop, for the seat belts sign to switch off, and then I looked for the one with the four epaulets on the arm. I found him on the top of the stairway, he was looking up into the yellowing, sickening sky, blue eyes without wearing shades, a strange grin on his face. I gave him a stern look, then I gave a stern look to his epaulets, and bid goodbye.

I went down the steps and walked the heat radiating tarmac.