WE got off to a rocky start. It was the school holidays and, 40 minutes into the journey from London to the Greek island of Corfu, a flight attendant for the economy-class cabin came over the loudspeaker. There are 28 children on this flight,' she said. 'If parents can't keep their kids out of the aisles, we won't be able to continue the beverage service.'
You could see her point, but people did raise their eyes to the air-conditioning spigots. Then there was a fandango by the lavatories and the long and short of it was that the voice came again: 'Due to health and safety, there will be no more tea and coffee available.' Laughter rose from the cabin, scattered at first, then-chillingly-louder and more united. My husband looked around, interested. He leaned over our children. 'We could make some friends on this plane.'
Later, in the queue for immigration, the woman behind us was going to write a letter to the airline. 'What do they expect?' she said. 'It's Easter. Of course there are families. I wondered how many of them, like me, had seen the ITV adaptation of The Durrells or read Gerald Durrell's memoir on which it was based and felt sold on the salubrious, real-life story of the mother who took her four children out of England in the 1930s and settled in Corfu. It's an evergreen fantasy making tracks for a simpler life and one that works overtime in the chasm of a three-week school holiday. Who wouldn't be susceptible to a verdant island hemmed with deserted beaches, mountains in the middle and (these days) plentiful coolers of almond-crusted Magnums everywhere? I bet the flight attendants have a dartboard with Durrell on it.
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