As we near Greenland's frosty shores, the icy specks I mentioned in the previous chapter (although only five minutes ago in the scheme of this story) gradually become flecks and then great swirls of wintery patterns against the deep blue backcloth of the Atlantic Ocean. Patterns resembling those drawn using those Spirograph toys from the late 1980s, which later resurfaced as a shape-shifting 3D screensaver when Windows 98 became vogue.
The water seems to be fighting tooth and nail to defend it's liquid state as icy particles start to overcome it's loose molecular bond, until it can fight no further. The remainder of Greenland lies deathly quiet and still under a blanket of snow white, almost identical to the floor of white cotton wool that stretches out towards the horzion when you penetrate the first layer of clouds after take-off.
I suppose the main difference is that to step out onto this stuff would be to hit land, rather than plummeting through the layer of cumulonimbus, leaving a noticeable "poof" in the otherwise peaceful scene. Both options would certainly wind up in a quick death at sub-zero temperatures - followed by an almighty Virgin Atlantic cover-up.
I'm safer here, in the plane, head leant against the window and well on the way to doing Nothing At All Useful with my ten-hour flight. It feels like it's become a challenge now. There aren't many people who could be proud of racking up wasted time but I think if I cobble all mine together then my quota must be pushing the year-long mark.
I'm notoriously bad at sleeping at the best of times, so trying to sleep on an aeroplane is next to hopeless but as I look across the barren white terrain, flashes of what must be dreams interrupt my tiring consciousness.
*******
Looking down, a watery red streak dissects the landscape and a family of polar bears tearing into a half-dead seal, tarnishing the perfect blank canvas beneath their paws as drag the poor animal back to wherever they call their dinner table.
The sound of the seatbelt light beeping wakes me with a start from my slumber, my face still pressed against the window. Looking down again, I see no streak of red across the snow and no polar bears. Shame. It was an eye-opening picture.
I do realise, however, that I'm sat far back enough to see our jet stream forming - just in time for us to leave it behind to paint a pollutive puff of smoke across the afternoon sky. It's nice to know that someone down there can see our carbon footprint. What am I saying? the polar bears will have no idea what a carbon footprint is - until it kills them.
Obviously, I replied in the affirmative to my coincidental Las Vegas email and I'm now one hour from Sin City itself. For the past nine hours, time has stood still. Greenland is now a distant memory but the sun is still shining as brightly as it has all trip. Below us now, says my personal SkyMap, is Salt Lake City, about which I know nothing - but i hazard a guess that it sounds more interesting than it actually is.
A submerged distopia, maybe? It's inhabitants riddled with a rare strain of saline flu, unheard of in the outside world but all too common in Salt Lake City. Eating is a challenge but still cholestrol runs high as the waterfolk absord salt through their pores.
Turbulence interrupts my train of thought and cloud fills the window view. It soon clears to reveal a vast icy countryside, sliced into polygons by long, arrow-straight grooves, possibly the perilous ice road trucker highways that Channel 5 document.
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