I blame the stand-up comedians as much as I blame the rubbery chicken. See, back in the 1980s, every comedian worth their little paper packet of salt had a joke about how bad airline food was. This was pre-internet, so if your life was catching planes and staying in motels between stand-up gigs, airline food, Gideon Bibles and tiny wrapped soaps made up much of your cultural inspiration.

And the word spread. Much faster than the frozen-solid rectangle of butter would spread on the white roll that was delivered to your seat with the cutlery you needed to attempt the task. Airline food was bad, we’d all say, on the inside of a global joke. Terrible, we’d all agree.

But perhaps we were all just jumping on the band-trolley and it’s time to rethink our prejudices against airline food. It’s certainly time to put an end to this nonsense of bringing our own food on board.

Some of you may be young, so I’ll explain. Back before the pandemic, planes used to be happier places. Marginally happier. Back before 2001, they were significantly happier still. Ok, it wasn’t the Golden Era of airline travel which was just one long fancy cocktail party, but it was better.

We’d be welcomed on board, plug our headphones into the armrest and try to settle in and follow a movie on a teeny tiny screen a dozen rows in front of us.

At some stage, not far into the journey, we’d hear the welcome squeak of the bar cart. Welcome because we knew that soon it would be our turn to select our beverage of choice – from an impressively large range of impressively small bottles – but also, because after the drink, our meals would arrive.

The arrival of the meal cart on an international flight – and for the removal of doubt, all experiences and opinions reflected in this article are expressed in the currency of Economy Class, these recollections were not forged in the genteel world of Business Class – was an entertaining island in the sea of boredom that is the long-haul flight. Even the short hop to New Zealand was vastly improved by the lowering of the tray table.

Compartments of gustatory offerings under sat plastic shields. A salad with a single cherry tomato and a little sachet of dressing. A square of dessert. The aforementioned dinner roll. Flanking our marquee star: the main course. By the time the flight attendant hit your row, you’d have eavesdropped a dozen times to hear the offerings, but it was still a pressure moment. Order envy is high at altitude and there was always the chance – apologised for in advance – that your selection might have gone by the time they got to you.