Brittany in Britain

Chapter One: A Very Uneventful Catastrophic Turn of Events

Have you ever had an emerald suede heel get stuck in that little crack where that weird carpeted hallway meets the doorway of the plane?

Girl, neither have I. Do you really think I would wear any type of heel on any type of plane?

No. I travel in luxury- big cushy pink stained neck pillow with a Beatles hoodie and an old pair of sweatpants that I found on the floor of my closet. The only thing I keep fancy on the plane are my sunglasses- vintage aviators with a pink tint that match my pinker acrylics. At least the ones that have stayed on my fingers. 

I keep my head down, trying not to turn attention to myself. It would have worked if I hadn't clocked an old lady over the head while trying to put my duffle bag in the overhead compartment.

"Sorry ma'am," I awkwardly pat her head where I hit her.

She laughs and shakes it off.

"All good, love." She has my favorite sussex accent.

I give her a half-smile and slump into my seat. That's when the dreaded tap comes on my shoulder. I turn around so I can just make out a very pretty looking blonde girl.

"Are you Brittany Broski?" she asks with that glint of excitement in her eyes.

"I am babes. I am," I babble out in my British accent, not realizing it could (and probably did) offend at least ten people around me. 

We shake hands in a funny way as she gushes about how she watches my videos every day. I love my fans, I really do. But I'm so tired of not being able to exist without being recognized. I give her a big, and genuine, smile of thanks before turning around.

As much as I love my fans with all of my heart, I am so ready to take a year off and hide in my own little British cottage. Even thinking the thought sends butterflies flitting around my stomach and excited chills running up my spine.

"Los Angeles International Airport to London Heathrow, flight 7652, is set to land in London at approximately 7:55pm local time."

I sigh with relief. London- my home away from my home in LA away from my home in Texas. Maybe this year I'll have some luck meeting a British Hunk who doesn't immediately point at me and, slack-jawed and drooling, giggle out the word "kombucha." I wish that word could just be taken out of society's collective consciousness. Is that too much to ask?

The safety demonstration starts unceremoniously, and I politely pretend to listen while my hand is up against my right ear, allowing for Matty Healy's voice to croon perfectly into my consciousness. The next eleven hours would've been hell without him. I watch the woman with bright red lipstick animatedly fasten a seatbelt attached to nothing and then proceed to unfasten it with the same bravado. It's like none of us have ever been on a plane before. 

"Can you sign this for me?"

Apparently the girl behind me isn't paying attention to the demonstration either.

"Sure thing, hun," I say and bring a small notepad into my line of sight. 

The pen is sparkly and pink, it matches my nails and neck pillow (which is starting to make my neck sweat). I do my usual signature and pass it back. Turning halfway around, I have nothing else to do but start a conversation with the girl, so I pull my ear pod out of my ear. Matty Healy, I'm coming back for you, baby.

"Do you live here in LA?"

The girl shakes her blonde hair.

"I'm from Louisiana. I'm here in LA going to Disneyland, and now I'm going to visit my dad in Oxford."

"Girl, you're from Louisiana?" I fall into my southern accent. "Well shit, maybe you can come to my fun'ral cuz that's where I'm gonna be dying in 'bout-"