The Twenty Hour Kit

You have run the numbers on the far end of a long haul. Heavy jersey trousers with a drawstring that actually pulls, a merino zip neck you can open when the cabin swings warm at breakfast, ribbed socks kept in the bag until cruise, and a scarf that turns into a blanket the moment the crew runs out of them.

What it costs you is the arrival. You come off the jet bridge looking precisely like a person who slept on a plane, because you dressed for the plane and the plane is over, and ribbed wool socks read differently in a customs hall lit like a hospital corridor. The people who dressed for the door are ahead of you in the queue, and they look better, and they feel worse.

You slept. They did not.