personal hygiene before evacuation

We recently flew with Alitalia, of “You don't really need your luggage for a few days, do you?” and “Yes, we still fly MD-80s, like the vintage yellowing panels? Yes, you can exit from the airplane's arsehole” fame. Worse, to avoid the stopover at Rome's labyrinthine and unpredictable Fiumicino, we flew through Milan Linate… how wrong can I get a booking? (Only after the experience did I fully realise Emanuela's comment: “Flying though Linate? Stay as little as possible.”)

Aaaanyway. We get on the plane, and, as usual, to kill time we start reading with the kids the bumf in the pocket in front of the seat. We have particular fun with the safety card, which the child's mind receives with the distance reserved for eventualities with a probability of happening to us of precisely zero. So we go through all the warnings and alerts (note to information designers: this “international language of text-less symbols” thing may be ok for “where's the nearest toilet?”, but not much else) and arrive at this:

As I try to elicit the narrative from the boys, Philippos says: “So, if the airplane stops in the sea, we put on our lifejackets, and jump off board. Then we brush our teeth.”

Ehm, yes. To make the dental records easier to match, I suppose.