I refuse to apologise that I usually am fortunate enough to fly comfortably in business or first class when on a long-haul flight.
Often working just hours after stepping off a plane in China, India or Saudi Arabia means it really does pay to be travelling at the front of the aeroplane.
But, for quasi-anthropological reasons, and in a vain attempt to keep myself grounded, on my recent sojourn I decided I’d brave it and fly premium economy. Or as British Airways would have us call it ‘World Traveller Plus’.
We all know air travel isn’t what it once was. The glamour and verve it used to have in its hey-day has well been quashed.
Even first and business (sorry, ‘Club World’) have rough edges that would make Concorde’s former staff wince.
I was flying to Shanghai, which is a 10-hour outbound flight and 12-hour return. I prayed I would cope with premium economy.
Having just updated my full catalogue of medical vaccinations I felt it was the right time for this adventure.
Upon arrival at the airport I made a beeline for the terminal map to ensure I didn’t end up walking through the ‘turning left’ queue by default.
What would be more embarrassing for my Bond-esque mission than falling at the first hurdle?
Now, I am not stupid.
I usually travel in a jacket, but I rightly guessed that the cabin crew attending to the premium economy passengers may not have the space or time to be able to hang and care for the jacket during the flight so it didn’t crease. I wasn’t going to risk suffocating the delicate threads in a sweaty overhead locker, thank you very much.
I dressed down. I had Googled pictures of the premium economy cabin and its inhabitants in advance to ascertain the sartorial form.
Thus, ladies and gentleman, I wore denim and, somewhat confusingly, a sports shoe.
I wanted to burst into a light jog around the airport due to how relaxed and breathable my feet now felt.
Although my frequent flyer miles mean I can access the nicer lounges I felt I should do this properly and resist.
It was the first time I’d properly studied Heathrow’s newest edifice.
Really, Terminal 5 is just one big high-vis, glassy orgy.
There are some nice enough shops and restaurants, catering for the middle market, notably Gordon Ramsay’s Plane Food, which lived up to its name.
Once onboard I did the walk of shame straight through the Club World cabin to find seat 23D in premium economy.
I thought I may have gone too far and ventured into economy but having popped my head through into the next portion of the plane I realised that people did have it worse than me. I said a little prayer for them.
Before takeoff we were presented with the menu.
It didn’t look too bad. We’d start with something called ‘char siu pork with kao fu’ (I assumed the typist had a sticky keyboard that day) before moving onto ‘pan-fried fillet of beef with red wine jus, potatoes au gratin, baby carrots and asparagus’ and then ending with the increasingly prolific ‘opera cake with vanilla sauce’ and cheese and biscuits.
In business (pictured) or first class, passengers can have their steak cooked to their liking
After takeoff the drinks trolley came.
I had to pour my own wine. (The whole journey was an interesting assessment in seeing what perks are taken away due to the lesser price of the airfare.)
And then, in media res, something bizarre happened. One of the cabin crew decided to change from her kitten heels into her ‘practical shoes’, quite boldly in the aisle for all to see.
I checked if the in-flight entertainment was broken, which may have explained this demi-comedy, but it was not.
The meal service shortly followed. I was genuinely looking forward to my beef.
Upon ordering (the other option was cod) I asked the stewardess, quite normally, if it could please come medium rare. She laughed.
The food tray (plastic) arrived. For those, like me, wondering what exactly ‘char siu pork with kao fu’ is, I am afraid, having eaten it, the mystery lingers.
The beef was nowhere near medium rare and my baby carrots were in close competition with the asparagus as to which could be soggier.
Opera cake was more Gilbert and Sullivan than Monteverdi, although the nicest part of the meal.
The over advertised ‘cheese and biscuits’ was nothing more than some miniature crackers and something called a ‘Baby Bell’.
In conclusion, you can’t polish a turd but you can call it World Traveller Plus.
