Special shout out for everyone's favourite airline BA who recently supplied me with a chicken casserole that appeared to have been made from half-chewed lumps of pencil eraser that had been drowned in value brand mix-your-own wallpaper paste. OK, it's an inflight meal, and all the airlines are in a competition to trawl the benthic depths of despairing unedibles and drop them, sometimes literally, into passengers' laps. Seriously, all the execs get together once a year to compare notes and award themselves points. I mean, what are you going to do, call Deliveroo.
It was the return flight that really excelled. Once upon a time, you'd get an actual thing that at least tried to pass itself off as breakfast. It might not have been great but it was something. This time they flung a cold, clammy corpse of a croissant my way, slathered in the poor cousin of Monsieur Boursin, the one they pretend died as a child and keep in the barn. Or it might have been unset plaster of Paris to stick with the theme. It certainly stuck to my teeth. I've been expecting to pass an anatomically correct cast of the inside of my colon for the last two days.
It's possibly wrong to have gin for breakfast, but sometimes you need to self-medicate.
