Having a wonderful time; wish you were here. NOT.

Greetings from Blogland.

At least, I think it’s Blogland. It’s not at all the way Lord Pudding described it, though. No turquoise sea. No palm fronds. No tropical breezes. No volleyball games on the beach with lovely native girls wearing grass skirts. No lilac speedos.

No nothing.

Just white, blinding white everywhere. Except at night when it’s black as pitch and you can’t see your hand in front of your face.

Sometimes the sky is chartreuse, and sometimes it’s yellow. At other times it’s magenta. Once in a great while it’s puce.

In the distance, singing can be heard.

It’s difficult to describe, but I’ll try. It’s happier than this (4:15) but it’s not quite as happy as this (2:18).

We boarded the plane at Atlanta’s Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport, following Pudding’s instructions to the letter. We climbed into the skies, leaving our beloved Georgia behind forever. We were heading east over the Atlantic, flying high over the Bermuda Triangle, when everything changed. Suddenly we were plunging downward toward the ocean’s surface, but I don’t remember a crash. The last thing I remember is being sucked into a vortex, not of water exactly, more like custard. Yes, that was definitely it. Custard.

And now we’re here in this place. All 287 of us who were on board the jumbo jet, plus the pilot, the co-pilot, and 17 flight attendants. We are still inside the plane, waiting.

For what, we don’t know.

We’re afraid to leave. The food won’t last forever.

Surely someone will rescue us.

We don't know where we are exactly.

But the singing is getting closer.