A minibus with wings
Air France, said the reservation. And the check-in counter, and the boarding pass.
And the crew's uniforms at the gate. One of them looked at my boarding pass, then projected "Le six" across the queue to her colleague entering boarding pass numbers into a machine.
So imagine my surprise when the terminal bus delivered me in front of a Dornier 328-100 by Scot Airlines - operated by Air France (or was that Air France - operated by Scot Airlines, I never know which one is which).
31 seats. 11 passengers. One cabin crew. One pilot. No make it two - it had to be two, as mid-flight the pilot crossed the aisle to go to the toilet at the back).
Somebody had thrown up tartan everywhere. The seat and the crew were upholstered with the same material. That, ladies and gentlemen, is what I call classy.
I was sitting right next to the propeller. I feared the worst. But as the plane flew right over the O2, so low I could make out what was on the circular screens around it, and then over fireworks, and pitch after pitch of little men playing football, I was giddy with excitement.
Our lovely Michelle (both on the way there and back, probably sleeps on the plane in tartan PJs under a tartan duvet) was charming. She offered me a free newspaper (choice of four), and drinks. Being a Ryanair boy, I almost cried for being showered with such luxuries.
I think I might treasure the Air France cocktail napkin forever.
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