The flight back home left mid-morning from the major city airport they always chose, in order for it to be direct, as Paul preferred to not have any changes, but because of recent political sanctions from many countries, and the need to avoid flying over a large amount of land mass, the flight time had increased from the normal eleven hours, to a total of fourteen, and so, whilst it was still direct, neither of them relished that much time in the air, Paul because of his fear of flying, and his wife because of that too, knowing that every bump, any minor shake, dip, or little wobble, would have him clenching his wrists, gripping the armrests and unable to speak or open his eyes for at least fifteen minutes after even the gentlest of turbulence had passed.

For her part, Zoe loved flying, the opportunity to sit in a comfy enough chair for a period of time, no guilt to feel about not being more active, no gym to go to, no yoga classes on board obviously, and so relaxing in front of a screen packed with dozens of movies, TV series, a few daft on-board games, and the delivery of three meals, and the free-flow wine to the seat was a perfect way to spend fourteen hours, as long as her husband managed to contain his nerves, these nerves impervious to the number of times he’d flown before, or the statistical knowledge he had about flight safety, the multitude of empirical data, all meaning nothing as soon as the first bit of mild mid-air shaking came.

The flight was at 9am and because of the time difference with the UK would arrive in London at 5pm at Heathrow, which was 11pm in the time zone they were in, so they would be able to get to the hotel and sleep off the flight as soon as they got there, ready to move on to their friends the next day, who they hadn’t seen since their previous diplomatic posting on the other side of the world, where they’d worked together for five years, and loved it, until almost two years ago when they came to the posting they were in now in a much colder part of the world, and so meeting up with Sandy and Malcolm would be a great reminder of life in warmer climes, and they knew they’d have a wonderful, albeit different from how it used to be, first weekend back home, catching up with their old pals.

As usual check in and security was efficient and within half an hour of arriving at the airport they were through and at the departure gate areas with their carry-on bags in tow and closer to three hours than two remaining before take-off, so they decided to find a place for breakfast, and if time after to browse the shops and perhaps get an additional gift for Sandy and Mal, some single malt for him, perhaps a Japanese brand, that obviously couldn’t be opened that weekend, and a fancy style accessory for Sandy, ideally something purple, this being her favourite colour, but first a bite to eat, and then a quick walkaround the airport retail offerings.

They went to the usual place they ate, the breakfast options being the best, much as the lunch and dinner options were when they took flights at other times of day, and after a couple of minutes looking through the menu Zoe ordered avocado toast, making sure there was no butter and that they removed the poached egg, and Paul, allowing the airport meal to be a treat before the long flight, broke their recently agreed commitment to veganism and ordered an omelette, asking for them to just keep the vegetables in, not include the listed cheese, as some form of concession to their plant-based eating resolution, allowing one ingredient to break the rule rather than two, mumbling something about a couple of eggs not really being a health issue anyway, and murmuring the words ‘free range’.

As they waited for their staple freshly squeezed orange juices to arrive, they didn’t speak, but looked out into the airport, watching people walk towards their gates, some rushing, overtaking other passengers, with their wheeled small cases whizzing behind them, whilst others, also clearly with ample time, meandered around, stopped to look at the same menu where Paul and Zoe were dining, but made faces about the prices, and moved on, perhaps in search of an over-priced, but still much cheaper fast food alternative elsewhere in the airport, which made Paul smirk slightly when these never really potential customers scurried off.

‘Come on, Paul. It is expensive here to be fair.’

‘Not for us it’s not.’

‘That’s a little mean though. When we first met the best we could have done is share a box of fries from one of those places, and then get on our budget airline. And, we’re not quite as well off nowadays anyway.’

‘I know, I know. Sorry, you’re right, of course. The good old days when we’d have some fries and a beer to share.’

‘Yes, I suppose so, or perhaps it was the bad old days! I think we agree a fresh juice is preferable.’

‘Of course. Anyway, did you pack my flying socks?’

‘No, you know where you keep them. Are they in your carry-on or check-in bags?’

‘Wait, I thought you mentioned you packed them.’

‘I didn’t mention them once. I packed my stuff, then we did the usual run through what we might have forgotten. You didn’t mention your flying socks once. I assumed you’d packed them.’

‘No, I didn’t! Good grief, this is nightmare. You know I can’t fly without them.’

‘Paul, check your carry-on then. For crying out loud, it’s a bloody pair of old socks.’

Despite the thirty years of regular flying, the hundreds of flights he’d taken, Paul had never got used to it, never managed to allow all the knowledge he had accumulated about flight safety enter his mind enough to calm his nerves, and even meeting pilots, and other aviation experts, who’d emphatically promoted the extreme unlikelihood of serious accidents, the data such as a aircraft using 85% of its mechanisms on take-off, no extra ones during cruising, and 15% on landing, meaning any technical issues would likely occur in the first ten minutes of flight, just meant nothing to Paul, as did the reams of statistics ensuring the absence of crashes, and the fact that they chose the most reputable airlines with the highest safety records, often at extra cost, all meant nothing as soon as there was a the merest of mid-air movement during a flight.

Instead Paul, ironically, given his diplomatic role was in the science field, though not as senior as it had been in previous postings, had turned to superstition to assuage his nerves, his flying socks, which he’d owned for close to two decades, being the necessary accoutrement for all his flights, those pair of socks, navy blue, with a white airplane motif repeated all over them, long since riddled with holes, making them unwearable, continued to be a travel essential for him, no longer putting them on due to their age and disrepair, but rolled into a tight ball they’d been in, unused on his feet, not requiring a wash for over twelve years, but a vital, needed, indispensable item of packed luggage, as somehow their presence on all his flights, in Paul’s psyche, protected him from any actual danger.

Their breakfasts arrived, but rather than tuck into his omelette he told Zoe to eat her toast, whilst he rifled through the contents of his carry-on, fully opened out on the banquette seating, removing each item, his spare underwear, laptop, removed from its slipcase, the couple of books he took on board, always unlikely to read due his need to close his eyes during any inclement weather, a couple of t-shirts, spare trousers, one smart pair of shoes, and a few small toiletry items, and two pairs of fresh socks, new, hole-less, clean, and not with planes on them, and therefore not his flying socks.

‘I don’t know what I’m going to do.’

‘Paul, I get it, but you know the socks don’t make a difference, don’t you?’

‘Yes, of course I know that, but you also know how I am. I don’t know what do.’

‘Look, eat your breakfast first, before it goes completely cold, and perhaps we can look around the shops. Who knows? Maybe somewhere sells socks with planes on. Would a new pair do the trick?’

‘There’s no harm in looking I suppose. I don’t know for sure they’re not in my check-in luggage anyway, but I’d feel much better knowing there were at least some socks with planes on in our bags for sure, if possible.’

‘Okay, eat your omelette and let’s go and see what we can find.’

Ordinarily Paul was the first to finish eating any meals they had, Zoe being a much more delicate eater, carefully slicing her food, enjoying each morsel, whilst Paul wolfed his food, generally using his fork to break up his meals, only using a knife when the fork couldn’t manage it, and each subsequent bite entering his mouth whilst his previous bite was yet unswallowed, meaning he consumed most meals in a third of the time Zoe did, but this morning he barely touched his omelette, his worry overtaking his appetite Zoe could tell, even though he attempted to brush off his unwillingness to finish it as some nonsense about feeling bad he wasn’t sticking to their new dietary regime, turning her usual mild disgust at his eating to restrained impatience at his mendacity and reluctance to eat.

‘Are you going to finish your omelette?’

‘No, you’re right. I shouldn’t really be eating eggs.’

‘It’s an airport treat, right? Are you not hungry?’

‘You know, look, I’m just, well it’s my nerves to be honest. I feel a little sick.’

‘Okay, let’s go and browse the shops to try and find you some replacement socks?’

They went through a few of the stores, the first three, with their small selection of socks, selling, at best, some diamond patterned, striped, or dotted socks, but nothing with any kind of images on, and certainly not approaching anything related to flying whatsoever, but then they came across a new shop, selling only socks, a purely sock shop, with shelves, and revolving stands full of themed socks, which they decided to divide between them, being sure there must be something that would appease Paul’s fear, and could be taken on board with him.

Each rack and shelf was themed for the most part, from selected animals, foods, Paul being unamused when Zoe asked if he wanted the pair with fried eggs on, her hope at humour calming him wasted, then through to musical instruments ranging from guitars, to drums, to what looked like saxophones, then types of weather, an assortment of random household items including television socks, dartboard socks, and even coffee maker socks, which brought them to the section on transportation themed socks, which as they looked through the different shaped and coloured car;, yellow Volkswagen beetles, red Ferraris, green Minis, and also motorbikes, bicycles, ships, even helicopters, but seemingly none with planes, at which point Zoe went to ask at the counter.

‘Excuse me, do you have any socks with planes on?’

‘Ah, no, we’ve none left, I think. We do usually have a couple of designs, but out of stock at the moment. Sorry. We do have the ones with helicopters on.’

‘Paul, they’re out of stock, but there are the helicopter ones.’

‘Sorry, no. It has to be planes.’

‘Yes, sorry about that, he has a, well, he likes to have what he calls ‘flying socks’ with him on his flights.’

‘Zoe, there’s no need to bloody explain!’

‘We do have lots with different types of birds on if that helps, sir.’

‘No, socks with fucking birds on won’t fucking help!’

‘Paul!’

Paul stormed out of the shop, Zoe following him after apologising to the shop assistant, but he left at a pace she couldn’t match, and couldn’t see him, deciding perhaps he’d gone to other shops, searching for more possible sock replacements, thinking she could try to persuade him a t-shirt, a tie, any item with a plane embellished on it would do, even a small plane model, ubiquitous in airport shops, would be suitable enough, and so she trawled from one shop to the next, yet Paul wasn’t in any of them, and their time for boarding was approaching, he was nowhere in sight, so in the last shop she looked in she purchased the smallest sized toy plane they had, a small keyring with a biplane flown by a vintage aviator styled dog, and a chocolate bar with a Boeing jumbo jet emblazoned on its wrapper, then left, to head to the gate, hoping to see him there at least.

As she bolted towards their gate she glanced in each shop, café, and restaurant, quickly sweeping her eyes through the customers to see if Paul was amongst them, but no sign of him until she glanced into the airport’s only pub, an Irish bar named Mulligans they’d never stepped foot into, and saw his back, sitting at a bar, something he hadn’t done for over two years, and as she reached him putting her hand on his left shoulder, the barman placed a large whiskey in front of Paul, next to an already empty glass with barely melted ice inside it, and Paul beeped his card on the contactless pad without even acknowledging his wife’s presence, and before Zoe could speak, he’d taken his first sip, of his second drink, and let out an overly loud, satisfying gasp.

‘Paul!’

‘What? Exactly what?’

‘You can’t be serious. What are you doing?’

‘What does it look like I’m doing, Zoe? I’m having a fucking drink.’

‘Paul, please, the flight will be okay, please put the drink down. Come on.’

‘The flight. I’m not getting on the flight without my socks. You go. I’m fine.’

‘I’ve got some possible alternatives, please have a look.’

‘There are no alternatives! I don’t want to see any fucking alternatives. This drink is the alternative, alright?’

‘Paul, honestly, you can’t do this, you know you can’t. You’ve been doing so well. Please.’

Paul put down his drink, turned on his stool to look directly into Zoe’s eyes, and that fierceness she’d seen in his eyes many times before, but not in the last couple of dormant years, made her want to step back, but he took her hand that wasn’t holding the plastic bag, and gripped her wrist, not speaking, not blinking, his face showing he was preparing what to say, but she knew whatever he said would be definitive, unnegotiable, inflexible, he would be staying in the bar, not flying, and rather than waiting to hear one of his old diatribes, his rambling tirades, the kind of nonsense speeches that ultimately got them where they were now. Instead, she directed her thoughts to being on the plane, the comfort of the premium economy seat, the choice of wines she might have herself, the selection of films she might get though, what the booked vegan meals might be like, how his absence and the empty seat next to her would be an additional luxury, and when his mumbling had finished, and he released her, she said goodbye, and went to the gate, smiling at the memory from a few hours ago of popping a pair of old socks, with planes on them, in the bin.

Paul Kimm

(Image is of Mr. Kimm)