The Airbus A321 Jet Plane

Up far too early and had a giant fryup, not only a traditional breakfast, but also to empty the fridge. Fitting in a quick 10 minutes in the park, we argued over last minute hats and got in the car for 1030.
We know the way to Nanna's house very well indeed and it's compulsory to get held up at Chichester which has a load of roundabouts on its bypass, which slows everything down. In fact, the bypass needs a bypass. Then it was Worthing's turn to hold us up but then we turned left and the M23 took us to Gatwick in no time at all. The long-stay car park has a clearly signposted left turn so we ignored it and went through the drop-off only slots under the terminal building, went round the roundabout you first thought of and had another go.
Parking in a bush, we just missed the freebus and after 3 drop-off only buses had gone past, we finally escaped the amorous wasp that had taken a liking to Jof and were ferried to the terminal. During book-in the tannoy went off "Bing Bong hneurr matarg hroonle white courtesy phone proodle" and we threw away my unopened orange juice and went through bag check and had toastie paninis. We got to Gate 21 with 2 minutes to spare and boarded the plane. Of course we had to sit in the plane for 40 minutes before we were allowed to take off but then an Aer Linctus plane and the last A380 left and we took off over Dover and invaded France aerially, not for the first time.
The Alps were big and lumpy with snow caps and rodding great glacial valleys and that's where I had my first airline meal at 35,000 feet, travelling at 560 mph. I didn't bother with the cheese biscuits or the bread roll but the hot chicken was OK and the chocolate mousse was full of millionaires shortbread.
Meanwhile the cocktails (2 for £7) were taking effect on the rowdy crowd behind us and we kept dropping things and Jof got bored and angry. The flight seemed to go on and on but we descended at dusk and the end of the runway is practically in the sea. We got a Tropical Wumph (which is the wave of vastly hotter air that hits you as you go down the ladder) and a flatbus took us post haste to the terminal building. The security guard barely even glanced at my passport and we waited ages for the luggage carousel. Outside the air temperature was 37 degrees C and I was wrong to wear long trousers. Last time (1953) Jof was in Crete she was 16 and her Dad didn't like the heat and left the holiday a week early. The coach went down endless side roads with half completed buildings and dropped us off at the Stella Palace Hotel after 10pm. A burly bellhop drove us to our room in an electric golf cart and we opened the door 8th time lucky. In the basement restaurant (Poseidon, god of the deep, geddit?) we found a tentacle-tastic all-night buffet and I decided then and there that I would not like any of it. We were too late (11pm) for free drinks on our all-inclusive holiday and explored the pools and listened to the Greek songstress murdering Michael Jackson songs. We made it as far as the sea before giving up and going to bed after midnight.
We are told not to put toilet paper down the toilet because Greek sewers and drainage systems can't cope. This is immensely off-putting. So the first thing I did was crap mightily and fill the bowl with paper ...