One of the casualties of my beloved no-set-plan traveling is there are often few to zero good seats left by the time I choose where I’m going next, and first-class prices by that time are usually a full-on fuggetaboutit.
Up until a week ago I was planning to go to Sri Lanka instead of Bali, and my last minute switcheroo was muchly complicated by the fact that I sprained the hell out of my ankle hiking through Australia’s jungley bits.
So I decide to play the pity card and see if I can’t get myself in the roomy emergency exit row, but the lady at the check-in counter informs me I can’t sit there with an injury and here’s your last-minute, last-row, middle seat assignment, Ms. Lateyface.
So I hobble through security, slip into the bathroom, discard my ace bandage and approach the nice lady at the gate doing my best not to walk like I have a rake up my ass to see if I can please have an exit row seat. I’m 6’1” you see. I really need the extra leg room. Plus I have really strong ankles.
The thought did cross my mind that what if we did indeed have an emergency landing and countless innocent people perished due to my big baked potato foot being in their way of a safe exit? Or that I’d be arrested for attempting such a selfish crime. Or that I’d get busted by stupidly posting it on my blog which is why I’m not telling you what happened.
I got said balloon foot whilst on a hiking, wine tasting and kangaroo spotting excursion with Ashlee after an awesome evening out on the town with her stunning partner, Brad, who I only seem to have this semi- lousy picture of:
We were then forced to spend the sunny afternoon at Sticks Vineyard in the Yarra Valley picnicking on wine and cheese.
We even saw several, if extremely, distant, kangaroos on the way home.