KULULA is generally my airline of choice because the staff who do their in-flight announcements make light of the fact that everyone on board could die in a giant fireball at any moment.
And also because SAA has committed unspeakable atrocities against me and my luggage over the years, and I have sworn never to set foot in one of their loathsome aircraft ever again.
On my way to Durban, I tried checking in online, but cocked it up when I lashed out at a fly and knocked over my beer. Once mopping-up operations were over, I saw I had inadvertently booked a middle seat in the middle of the plane. Nobody in this section ever survives a crash. Nobody ever really survives a middle seat unscathed either. There is always a certain amount of brain or nerve damage inflicted on those who are given the seat of the damned.
We claustrophobic misanthropes suffer worse than most.
Brenda has an impressive collection of pharmaceuticals, not all of which are required as a consequence of being married to me. When I mentioned my middle-seat dilemma, she asked if I wanted a tranquilliser or something stronger. Did she mean cyanide? Probably. I said a trank would be fine, and she tossed me a half-eaten blister pack of something called Zopax. It's the kind of name Angelina Jolie might give to her next orphan.
I have never been much of a pill popper. It's too easy. If I am going to do drugs, I want them to be accompanied by clandestine rituals and exotic equipment. I want night-vision goggles and attack dogs at my feet. There must be spray-paint and musical instruments, bondage gear and whips.
It seemed unlikely that Kulula would be interested in accommodating my needs, so I turned to the internet to see what I might expect from Brenda's little helper. Zopax seems to be a robust drug, shot through with alprazolam, yet nicely balanced with delicate undertones of methylparaben and just a hint of propylparaben. Bottoms up! Literally.
"Alprazolam undergoes oxidative metabolism to metabolites and is eliminated as glucuronide conjugates." What? This is nothing more than some coked-up pervert sitting in a hot tub in Geneva making up words and laughing like a hyena.
I knew the scenario. Fifteen minutes into the flight, a stewardess with hate in her eyes and a tight smile on her lips would ask if I wanted a small salty snack (R30). Just then, the Zopax would kick in and I would start thrashing wildly in my seat. "Holy sh*t. My metabolites are conjugating! Bring me a supermodel!" Budget airlines aren't equipped to deal with that kind of behaviour.
Zopax also comes with a warning that, post-consumption, you shouldn't operate machinery or climb dangerous heights. I generally try to avoid machinery of any kind, but when these naughty little benzodiazepines ambush my neuronal membrane receptors, I'll be strapped in between two enormous mouth-breathing mutants and climbing rapidly to a height way beyond the realms of dangerous.
If you don't hear from me next week, you'll know it ended badly.