The gleaming polished granite floor surfaces, in layers as thin as the stone can be sliced, conceals the less glamorous concrete. On rainy days I pick my way across it even in my sensible shoes to prevent the indignity of slipping and, horror of horrors, landing on my backside. In this artificial environment, with its duty-frees and window displays of precision water and shockproof watches for the more intrepid traveller (or, more likely, for the class of person who has never muddied their status-symbol green Wellingtons in a puddle let alone a churned up field, but who insist on driving through the tame city streets in a vehicle intended for heather-clad mountainsides, an absurd fantasy of country gentility, the squire sneering down at the peasants in the midst of the glass-fronted office blocks) we are tempted to buy with the lure of freedom, flight, weightlessness, wrenching our bodies from the confines of the dirty soil, heavenward, no responsibilities, no messy complications, leaving everything behind. The airport retailers still cultivate the image of exclusiveness that accrued to this mode of transport in bygone days before cheap charters, no-frills and lager lout stag night trips when the prim stewardess’ accent could cut glass more effectively than any diamond. Luxury items abound, mere utility too vulgar to be vaunted.

My palms sweat, not from the long haul to the gate, but with the anxiety of the next hazard to negotiate: the plastic table. The cramped, curtain-separated discomfort of economy class on the now defunct Sabena used to be alleviated by a menu that included smoked trout starters on the Edinburgh route. The hot meal was usually more than passable and slivers of the finest quality chocolate were served as an accompaniment to the coffee. Now a minute and sullenly stale vacuum-packed cheese roll is considered a gourmet repast, the generosity of the carrier a boast reflected in the slogan “The drinks are on the crew” (hopefully that does not mean that our modest DVT-averting consumption of non-sparkling mineral water is deducted from their wages). Usually, with the last-minute hectic scramble to fling a few spare pairs of full-briefs into the bag, and semi-paranoid check that I haven’t left the passports on the mantelpiece, my departure time governed by the bus timetable as well as the necessity to arrive reasonably early in a bid to secure seats not too near the rear of the cabin with their rigid backs and on-board toilet fragrance, grabbing a snack, let alone eating a proper lunch or dinner does not enter into the equation. Even though it is less than appetising, the once-wilted, but now suspiciously crisp lettuce and obligatory cross-section of greenhouse-produced tomato slapped onto the jaw-workout bread still lurks in the back of my mind as a fall-back. I dread being stuck in the middle (the misery of the armrests digging into my thighs the least of my worries). With the window or aisle there is room to stick your elbows out at least or lean discreetly to one side without flesh awkwardly touching flesh (it has been a good few years since businessmen struck up conversation and insisted on handing me their cards in the forlorn hope that I might relieve the boredom of their lucre-pursuing exile). As it is the primary source of potential embarrassment is not being able to fold down the table without it perching precariously on my belly. I squirm as inconspicuously as possible, pushing myself back into the seat to maximise the gap (there almost always is one, except where the table is faulty, but this does not suffice to quell my fears). Although the table is constructed not to be interfered with by the passenger in front preferring to take forty winks instead of indulging in the more than amply compensated for hospitality and although the sight of a thinning pate looming into view over the salad with the prospect that dandruff might substitute for the shaved Parmesan would be enough to put anyone off their food my thoughts can only focus on whether his sprawl will thrust the plastic tray forward far enough to hamper my movements still further, tipping the plastic cups.

As if the ignominy of being packed in so tight did not constitute a sufficient deterrent to the cuddlier of us, worse is likely to lie in store. According to an article by Ray Massey (Daily Mail, 26th April), Stand up and fasten your seatbelts: “Passengers feeling like sardines as airlines cram them into their seats should be warned. They could soon be standing instead.
Aviation bosses are looking at the possibility of scrapping seats and simply strapping passengers in bolt upright. The aim is to squeeze more than 850 passengers into one superjet.
Those in the ’standing section’ would be propped against a padded backboard and held in place with a harness, according to experts who have seen prototype versions.
It sounds like a cross between a fairground ’wall of death’ and an everyday journey on a busy commuter train. But as economy seats become ever smaller to save space, aviation experts are examining radical ways to fit more passengers on planes”.

Veal crate conditions for cattle class? Such arrangements would initially be confined to short-haul flights: “Experts believe there is no legal barrier to installing standing-room only seats. The US Federal Aviation Administration, for example, does not require a passenger to be in a sitting position for take-off and landing – only secured. Seating must however comply with rules on aisle width and the ease of evacuation in an emergency”. What about the distance between these rows? Would someone of my weight be able to slip between them? Would they have dedicated (segregated) sections for us, screened off from “normal” customers? Would there be a quota restricting how many of us would be admitted on board any given flight? In their quest to break even beleaguered airlines might end up promoting blatant discrimination under the guise of rationality by putting forward the fuel economy argument. Frankly, if safety margins are that tight it does not exactly inspire confidence (what if the plane is made to circle in a holding pattern because of skyside congestion while the gauge creeps toward empty?). I am not advocating waste nor do I believe that our current policy of not taxing kerosene is sustainable environmentally, but meting out further punishment to us fatties provides little more than symbolic satisfaction within a cultural context in which we are regarded with loathing and have to endure enough humiliations as it is.

Not that the aviation industry is alone in weighing up whether to single us out for experiments in differential pricing as Simon Calder’s piece in travel section of The Independent (15th April) concerning the policy adopted by the Ostfriesland Hotel in Norden, The less you weigh, the less you pay. Is this the future of travel? reveals an idea that could well catch on: “‘You don’t check in – you weigh in’. That’s not the hotel’s slogan, but it ought to be. Usually, prices for a hotel are either fixed for the season, or vary according to supply and demand. At the Ostfriesland, though, you pay strictly according to how much you weigh – at a rate of €0.50 (35p) per kilogram per night. A short, slender woman, weighing 53kg (8st 5lb) will pay just €26.50 (£18) [per] night, including breakfast – a bargain for a single room in a three-star hotel. A gentleman of modest stature who tips the scales at 64kg (10st 1lb) would be charged €32 (£23). Double rooms are priced according to combined weight, so a few extra kilos on one partner can be offset by a fellow-traveller”.

The scheme was apparently introduced a month previously and Jürgen Heckroth who runs the hotel may transform it into a permanent feature.

Calder laces his reasoning what he perceives to be amusing: “But most of us are of somewhat fuller figures. Should we be penalised? Yes: from a business perspective it makes perfect sense. Thinner guests will be less tempted to demolish the breakfast buffet in the manner of some enthusiastic eaters. And the lighter the guest, the less wear and tear on the bed (all other things being, er, equal).
A longer-term concern, though, is that the Heckroths enjoy a large number of repeat visitors, and Jürgen is trying to encourage guests to take more care of themselves so their patronage is assured for as long as possible. Indeed, the germ of the idea was a regular visitor, who, each year, grew heavier. ‘Eventually, I told her that if she weighed any more next time, I would charge her extra,’ Jürgen says.
Last summer he drove to the railway station to pick her up (evidently this is a tip-top hotel for service). ‘I could not recognise her,’ he says. ‘She had lost 35kg. At breakfast the next day, she said, ‘I should pay less,’ and I had to agree’.
Now, all guests are invited to weigh in when they arrive, but the process is not compulsory. In recognition that not everyone will feel comfortable with the idea, rates are capped at a maximum corresponding to 74kg per person in a double room, 78kg single.
So who dares to step up to the scales? ‘Mostly wives,’ reports Jürgen. ‘The men tend to be bigger because of all the beer’. Until now, he says, no one has gone on a crash diet in a bid to cut down their bill, but he would be happy for his earnings to fall if it means that his guests are in better shape. The Ostfriesland is a model for persuading people to lead healthier lives”.

Thus Calder assumes that we tubbies all descend on the breakfast buffet salivating with scoff-lust. I for one do not cram in the croissants. Far from stuffing myself with everything from the processed ham to the hard-boiled egg halves, stripping the platters with an efficiency that would put your self-respecting locust to shame, the most I can normally force down in the mornings is two slices of buttered toast or a pastry. It is the milky coffee that sustains me. As for the crass insensitivity of Mr H’s unkind and cutting remark masquerading as concern (which does nothing to dispel the national clichés that have accumulated around the Germans) towards a woman who had by his own admission been a loyal guest and lucrative source of income that would be grounds for me never to darken the doors of his establishment again and to warn everyone in my wide circle of friends and acquaintances to boycott it too. For every one woman who grits her teeth with the determination to shut bullies such as him up by capitulating to his standards of what constitutes an acceptable weight (Mr H having fallen prey to the erroneous belief that fat and fit can only be mutually exclusive concepts), how many slink off in dejection, their remnants of self-esteem in tatters? That wives are the ones to brave the judgement of the scales should hardly be surprising given the culturally-inculcated masochism with which we are encouraged to assess our shortcomings. Still, men are beginning to succumb to the pressure to stay slim as well, with flab deemed the number one threat to career as well as health, sexual allure and happiness.

Calder does point out that Mr H’s fussing over his charges’ well-being has its limits, equally motivated by the cold dictates of commerce: “Curiously, the hotel also offers the ‘Ostfriesian Tea Ceremony’, centred on a sugary brew served with lashings of cream. A moment on the lips, a lifetime on the bill, as the saying nearly goes. I hope guests are not weighed as they check out”. Let me mention in passing that the natives of Ostfriesland occupy an analogous position in German humour to the Irish in the cruel jokes that stereotype them as not being the sharpest tools in the box…

Calder allows his imagination to take flight on the question of other areas in which this principle could be applied: “Elsewhere in the travel industry, there is plenty of scope to employ the technique. When I travel on an overstuffed Nicaraguan bus or Indian train, I take up more room (78kg, since you ask, at least before my daily cup of Ostfriesian tea) than the locals; surely I should pay a higher fare. Some airlines in the US already penalise heavier passengers; Southwest insists that ‘customers of size’ who are unable to lower the armrests between seats are obliged to buy a second ticket (the fare is refunded if the aircraft is not full when it takes off).
For safety, it makes sense for the flight crew to know the total weight of everyone on board; indeed, the loss of a small commuter plane in the US was partly attributed to insufficient allowance being made for the weight of the passengers. At Puerto Obaldia in Panama, the flight to the capital uses a tiny aircraft; no one is allowed on board until they have been weighed (and, if necessary, paid a paunch premium).
Financially, too, there is a strong case for weighing passengers as well as their luggage: heavier people use more fuel. Europe’s biggest no-frills airline, Ryanair, already charges for checked-in luggage – can it be long before the carrier starts looking at passengers’ personal excess baggage?
Scales at check-in are unlikely. Instead, passengers will be discreetly asked their weight. And in case anyone understates the true figure, air safety regulations – in the US at least – insist an extra 10lb be added”.

Whilst queuing for the security check in Waffleland’s main airport we used to be greeted by a poster depicting a cartoon strip character, as part of a series designed to inspire momentary reflection on the absurdities of life, shrugging at the thought that if a passenger of 70 kilos checks in a suitcase of 30kg in economy, he is charged for the excess, but his fellow passenger of a more substantial 120kg with a suitcase of 15kg would not be. The intent, however, was humorous, a bit of “harmless” fun. If such deliberations take a more serious turn we will be shamed yet again into justifying our existence, apologising for the affront we have caused by “refusing” to conform, ostracised, running the gauntlet of sniggers and pointing fingers. A very effective way of purging the lounges of the “imperfect”, whose carnality might cause offence to those refined and delicate souls who faint at the sight of the merest drizzle of cream sauce on their poached salmon. Not only will the definition of “normality” be placed in the hands of insurance companies (which, after all, have a vested interest in keeping “ideal” weights unrealistically low so that they can rake more in by slapping on huge excess charges for the heftier), but are airlines also to be stigmatise us for our bulk?

Personally, I have never seen the attraction in basting on a beach, not even in the days when a glimpse of my figure was more likely to elicit approval rather than scorn. If I were to venture onto the sands nowadays, I would probably, out of a sense of self-preservation, cover up more flesh than the most repressed of Victorian matrons. I prefer the windswept slopes of my home with its landscapes incomparable for photography, accessible only by hiking. In a couple of weeks I will be taking refuge in a self-catering cottage on the shores of that most beautiful of lochs. However, the restrictions on my movements imposed by public ridicule or the fear of it (cutting comments about appearance are considered perfectly acceptable, after all) already amount to a capitulation to the halfwits who can only bolster their own feelings of worth at someone else’s expense. Is fat apartheid the future we can look forward to? Will we be banished from all resorts except those specifically set aside for us (no doubt with fast food outlets in abundance)? If this notion appears fanciful, take a look at the housing segregation that has already taken root so deep that we fail to even notice it. If prices are to be inflated to penalise us to the extent that we can no longer afford to go on holiday our mobility will be curtailed in ways we could not have envisaged. If obesity is the new determinant of social standing it is time we engaged in a little class warfare.