From Mike
Mrs McFookit recently flew home from Asia. It should have been a simple journey - a long flight, yes, but nothing out of the ordinary. Instead, it became a reminder of just how far modern air travel has fallen.
There was a time when flying meant something. People dressed for it. There was a sense of occasion - of stepping into a world that felt ordered, calm, even a little bit special. You were a passenger, not a problem to be managed.
Those days are long gone.
Before Mrs McFookit even reached the gate, she was pulled aside at security. Her bag was opened, unpacked, and examined piece by piece. No real explanation beyond the usual vague reference to “prohibited items.” She stood there, watching strangers sift through her belongings, not as a customer, but as a suspect.
This is what passes for normal now.
We are told it is about safety. And of course, safety matters. But somewhere along the line, sensible precaution turned into something else: a ritual of compliance. Shoes off. Belt off. Liquids out. Laptop out. Step forward. Stand still. Arms up. Wait. Move along.
It doesn’t feel like protection. It feels like processing.
And that’s before you even board.
Her flight sat on the tarmac for nearly an hour, engines idling, passengers trapped in that peculiar limbo between departure and delay. No clear explanation. No real apology. Just silence punctuated by vague announcements.
Once in the air, the reality of modern flying set in. Seats designed for smaller times. Knees pressed forward, shoulders tucked in, sleep impossible. What was once a journey has become an endurance test, hours of discomfort at 30,000 feet.
The connecting flight managed to make things worse.
Everyone boarded. Everyone settled. Then came the announcement: a “technical issue.” Off the plane. Back into the terminal. Wait.
An hour later, a replacement aircraft arrived. No meaningful apology. No sense that anyone thought the passengers deserved one.
Just another day in the system.
And that is the point. None of this is unusual anymore. It is routine.
Modern air travel has been stripped back to its bare mechanics: move people from A to B as efficiently as possible. Everything else - comfort, dignity, courtesy - has been quietly discarded along the way.
Passengers are no longer guests. They are throughput. I travel alot. I know this feeling.
We accept it because we feel we have no choice. Because flying is often necessary. Because the system is too big to argue with. So we shuffle along, follow instructions, and endure.
But it is worth remembering that it wasn’t always like this.
Flying once carried a sense of freedom. Now it comes with queues, suspicion, delays, and discomfort. The miracle of flight remains - but the experience surrounding it has been reduced to something closer to a transaction than a journey.
Mrs McFookit eventually made it home, hours late and thoroughly worn down.
She walked into her kitchen, put the kettle on, and stood there in the quiet.
No announcements. No queues. No one telling her to step forward, step aside, or wait.
Just space. Familiarity. Control.
After everything, it felt like the greatest luxury of all.
And perhaps that is the real measure of how far things have slipped , when simply being home, unprocessed and unbothered, feels better than the journey that was meant to take you there.
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