Back to Bleedin' Blighty, part 1

I was hot. I had a headache and my daughter needed to be changed. Her diaper had blown up as big as a zeppelin, only heavier, warmer. The attendant returned wearing blue plastic gloves. She grabbed my package of squelchy diaper, popped it in a bag, then wagged a blue plastic finger at me.
“I really must ask you to strap yourself in, sir.”
“Yes, alright, but—”
The plane squeaked, the sound of foam polystyrene packaging slowly being twisted and torn. I was feeling a little anxious.
”Is it supposed to sound like that, the plane?”
“Oh, what, the squeaking? I know, I know, they do that, don’t they? Everything’s made of plastic now, isn’t it?” Thinking she had reassured me, the perky attendant turned her attention to Frances before scurrying back down the gangway.
“You’ll have to strap yourself in too, madam.”
“Did you sleep?” Frances asked me kindly.
“No. I drank. Headache.”
“Twit.”