The Leg Travels Business


I was due to go on holiday tomorrow, and the first part of the journey involves a ‘no-frills’ airline.  ‘No-frills’ means ‘no service’, so I was concerned that my crocked leg, permanently braced at a constant zero degrees, would count as a frill (i.e it might require some service).

I found this on the Easyjet website, under Carrier’s Regulations:

‘Adult passengers travelling with lower limbs in cast, waist and/or full leg plaster, must purchase three seats in total, per journey, to travel.’

British Airways require only one extra seat, presumably because the seats are wider.  Prof Shiro Yamamoto (who once made a 2-day trip from Tokyo to London to buy a violin), tells me one extra seat is also necessary per cello.

But two seats.  That’ll cost ya.

The insurance company was helpful – the extra seats are cheaper than a cancelled holiday for five, so I bought the extra seats.  My body now has one reserved seat, my leg has two.  Never in my life have I pampered a limb quite so shamelessly.  The body goes coach and the leg goes business – or even better, I have a first class leg.

I wish I’d thought of this earlier.  I’ve always taken my legs for granted, on an epic scale.  In the next few months alone I had plans to tour the Pyrennees on foot with Bruno, and to cycle up the Tourmalet in early October with Virtual Tom.  I’m also open to impromtu displays of leg negligence, and would love to have taken part in an August Alpine ultra-marathon like this (for an excellent cause, please give generously).

Even then, I wouldn’t have said thankyou.  Until now.  I’ve offered my damaged leg two seats of its own on a plane.  The other leg is getting jealous – I can feel the tendon tightening, plotting revenge.  I make a point of thanking it for standing me up.  It seems to help.