When the Great Shift hit, it had been fifteen years since my retirement as an commercial pilot. One moment I'm sharing a meal in the south of France with my wife. The next instant I’m standing in a plane. The atmosphere is one of bewildered panic, turning to pandemonium as everyone starts talking all at once, staring around themselves in disbelief, and groping themselves en mass.
A lifetime of training tells me not to panic in a crisis and I try to remember that as I glance down and see the valley of my own cleavage bulging out of the low-cut uniform. The blue dress is pulled tight over broad hips. Perched atop a pair of glossy red heels, my slender ankles ache, as if they're 10 hours into a long shift.
Am I an… air stewardess?
The plane lurches. I'm tossed hard against one wall. Thankfully this body comes with plenty of padding. The passengers are screaming now. The tannoy dings.
“Uh. Um. Either I’m having one wild dream or this is your captain speaking,” comes the terrified voice.
The plane begins to bank alarmingly, the ground swinging into view on the left of the aircraft, blue sky to the right. Now the Captain is screaming. “Oh fuck. Oh fuck. That’s not meant to- Oh fuck. Does anyone know how to fly a plane?!”
Kicking away the heels, I ford my way through the people spilling into the aisles, racing for the cockpit.
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