The dishy blond at British Airways First Class check-in was beside herself in apology. “I’m so very sorry, Mr Oliver, but your flight to New York tonight is overbooked. Would you be willing to take Concorde instead - at the same cost, of course?” Remarkably, my assent was not instamatic. As a midlevel Seagram flunky, I worried a Bronfman, one of the company’s owners, or other grand Poobah could be on that plane and my presence would result in a career-ending event. When I named a few names, she replied, “Well, I can’t say who’s on the aeroplane, Sir, but you’ll have no worries, I assure you. Enjoy the flight, Mr Oliver”. It was a glamorous affair and one was pampered beyond measure, I assure you, but, during the flight, privations occurred. I recount them now.
© 2024 John Oliver
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