Free The Mini Break by Jane Costello

of this dazzling array of anecdotes, of which the Internet is awash, I still wouldn’t bring the bag. It’s so big and so ugly that even if you’d told me if I
was destined to be marooned on a desert island and my only possible chance of escape was using it as a makeshift kayak, I’d prefer to take my chances with the breaststroke.
    I clear my throat and deliberately lower my voice before answering her. ‘Of course I have.’ It comes out like Barry White on steroids.
    ‘What about the Acidophilus I gave you? You know, to cope with digesting the shellfish.’
    ‘Yes, I’ve taken lots of those,’ I reply, meaning none. My mum loves health supplements. It’s never occurred to her that the human body could possibly function without
the existence of Holland & Barrett.
    Nicola returns to her seat with a plate full of rye bread, cheese and other goodies, the sight of which makes me feel as though I’ll fall into a coma if I don’t eat.
    ‘Mum, I have to go.’
    ‘But I haven’t mentioned the glucosamine sulphate!’
    ‘Flight’s being called. Speak soon! Love you!’ I press ‘End’.
    ‘Haven’t you got some nosh yet?’ Meredith asks. ‘We’re going to have to go to the gate soon. You’d better get in there quick.’
    I race to the brunch bar, and a cloud of wanton gluttony descends on me. It’s not merely that I’m hungry and that before me is an array of goodies that could rival one of Henry
VIII’s feasts. It’s that it’s
free
.
    I tell myself not to be such a pleb about this, but then I reason that I
am
on holiday and therefore, hungry or not, I’m allowed to pile up my plate.
    There’s only one large dinner plate left and, as I reach to pick it up, a bony hand gets there first. Its owner is an anatomical skeleton dressed head to toe in Prada; a woman so skinny
that she’d surely need three weeks to make her way through one of these platefuls. She pouts. I narrow my eyes. But she’s obviously used to this sort of stand-off so, wimp that I am, I
back off. I’m then left with the choice of looking like an insufferable greedy guts and
asking
for a big plate, or settling for an infuriatingly modest one.
    I sniff and opt for the latter.
    I start with a croissant. Which looks lovely, so I have two. Then I spot some little madeleine-type things and add those, then a dollop of honey. If I was sensible, I’d stop there. But
there’s something in my Irish-Liverpool ancestry that means I’m genetically programmed to behave like the best I’m used to is half a rancid potato, so I add a little coconut cake
and a pot of jam. Then I realise I have two handily empty pockets and so add two more pots – they’re so cute! – leaving plate-space free for a couple more items.
    By now I’m in almost a hypnotic state, as if having an out-of-body experience as my hand frenziedly reaches out and grabs item after item. It’s only when I’ve paused for breath
that I realise I’ve created a culinary version of Buckaroo on my plate – it’s piled so high, it’s now difficult to move without the entire thing collapsing. I’m still
considering my options when I note that my neighbour, the skeleton, has allowed herself to go wild with three slices of melon, which sit in solitary confinement on her oversized plate.
    I decide it is time to return to my seat. I do so as carefully as I can, holding my breath, with the stealth of a tightrope walker, baby-step by baby-step, glancing cautiously from my plate to
my destination . . . as an announcement is made: ‘British Airways would like to apologise for a delay to flight BA—’
    At which point my ears fail me. ‘Was that ours?’ I holler to Nicola, increasing my speed. At least, I attempt to: instead, a human-shaped brick wall suddenly appears from nowhere,
upending my pastry goodies and spilling lavish amounts of Bucks Fizz down my front.
    ‘Oh God!’ I shriek, temporarily immobile as a wave of embarrassment overcomes me and I glare,