The Flight

Ready for take-off

In spite of some concern the night before we left that we could possibly die a fiery death on the flight to Heathrow, everyone was very excited and ready with individual neck pillows on take-off.

The flight was mostly fine. No one slept, but there were enough portable video game systems and books that it was OK with me. It would have been perfect, but about 20 minutes from landing, Henry sat up, wide-eyed, and said "I don't feel good!" And before you could punch open a vomit bag, he spewed repeatedly on himself and Simon (Amelia and I were spared, hence my rating of the flight as "mostly fine.")

The flight attendants were no help, because they were by that time secure in their jump seats, so we were left to wipe the boys down with those flimsy airline blankets and a handiwipe left over from dinner.

After vomiting so prolifically, Henry felt better, enough so that he was able to consume a Tayto crisp sandwich (potato chips on buttered white bread) on the flight to Dublin.

As for customs and security, all went through easily except for me. I beeped going through the metal detector, which required two body scans, because apparently the slightly shiny threads in my t-shirt messed with the scanner. After I was subjected to a full-body, under-the-underwire pat-down--I was next in line after the woman in the full burqa (no joke)--they let me go.

Welcome to the Eurozone!