Standing Room | 19 September 2009

Flying out of JFK on 11 September was a sombre experience. As I checked out of my hotel the concierge dropped his daily niceties as a mark of respect, and instead gently urged me to ‘have a thoughtful day’. The handful of star-spangled banners that lined Madison Avenue flapped at half-mast and the skies opened as if in dark protest, chucking down apocalyptic rain and causing the traffic to crawl. As someone who suffers from an unfounded yet pathological fear of flying I decided there was only one way to step up to the plate and board my American Airlines flight to Los Angeles: vodka.

As soon as I’d gone through airport security I downed a shot of Pravda I’d slipped into my handbag. Pravda is patently an expensive brand of booze. It cost me $9.50 from the hotel mini-bar and the little glass bottle was not only frosted, but was also encrusted with a large, amethyst jewel which was surrounded by Swarovski crystals, giving it a slightly surreal, Alice in Wonderland-like quality.