The Cabin Cold

It happened somewhere over the Atlantic in a cotton shirt, at four in the morning, with one blanket between two people, and you have organised every flight since around never repeating it. A heavy gauge cashmere crewneck. A wrap wide enough to cover you to the knee. Wool socks in the bag, and a second pair over the first once the lights go down.

You are also, at both ends of the trip, the most overdressed person in the building. You sweat through a July terminal to be correct for four hours at altitude, then land in a city at thirty degrees carrying a coat you will not need again until March. The people who borrow your scarf never offer to carry anything.

Keep doing it. Cold is the only part of a flight you can actually fix.