‘Why don’t you people just go home?’ lamented a ground hostess to me.
‘That,’ I said, ‘is what I am trying to do.’
Twelve hours later, when we finally boarded our flight home, the plane was nowhere near as full as it had been first thing in the morning. Everyone looked white and anxious. We bucked up and gave a collective sigh. There had been an article the day before in the New York Times about humour. It had suggested that, two months after 9/11, so-called ‘foxhole humour’ was not helping anyone to deal with the tragedy. It declared that ‘Humour soothes the soul, yet it also trivialises’, and went on to make laughing something of a no-go area. I was thinking about that when the captain came on the tannoy. He was a new man as I presume the previous fellow had gone off duty.
‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen and welcome aboard delayed flight X. My name is Captain English and I’m incredibly competent (or words to that effect) and I do hope you have a good flight.’ He paused slightly and continued, ‘I know many of you are seasoned international travellers and you don’t often watch the safety demonstration but perhaps today …
And a curious thing happened. Throughout the great airliner you could suddenly spot the British because they laughed and laughed. And in that moment I knew one thing for sure: I was going home.
On 18 June 2002, with much enjoyment, I opened in a new play at the Palace Theatre, Watford.
On 28 August 2002, after much soul-searching, I finally applied for my British passport.
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Gladys Reunited Page 32
