It is of herself plus several suits in the back of a Hercules military transport aircraft in Canada although, their not being strapped in, one can't tell whether it's before the beast was actually airborne, or after.
From the healthy pink tinge and placid looks on their faces, I'm guessing it hasn't taken off yet. Because here's the thing. Flying in the back of a Herc is, for the first-timer, a seriously unsettling experience for the skull and, errrr, the stomach. So much so that it is usual to have a big plastic dustbin lashed down in the centre of the floor ... with a small circle of ashen-faced victims worshipping at its orifice. When the Iron Lady journeyed thus to the Falklands it was in the comfort of a specially fitted-out, vibration-limiting portacabin in the hold. It doesn't seem Mrs May gets the benefit of such considerate treatment - or maybe she has an even more robust constitution. Respect!
And on the subject of riding in Hercs; for those foolhardy readers who supplicate for my military memoirs ...
* * * * *Many moons ago I was in charge of a small section en route to a big field deployment. My outfit were (we liked to think) among the better educated of the soldiery and we used to deploy in very small numbers, attached to bigger formations. We were destined to fly by Herc, and so we had gone through the usual ritual: turn up at a large airfield in Wiltshire one evening: bed down wearing full kit in a gigantic hangar arranged with row upon row of bunks resembling a nightmare version of the field hospital at Scutari: roused at 4 a.m. for a hearty, greasy breakfast, and then out onto the pan. Boarding the Herc - the five of us - we couldn't but notice it was just us and the RAF loadmasters in the back (capacity about 90 seated troops). Guessing that they wouldn't be putting on this flight just for us, we enquired and were told we were headed for Glasgow where we would be picking up a company of Scottish infantry, Heaven help us.
The flight north, at low-ish altitude on a clear dark autumn morning, was magical: we were allowed to wander around in the back (avoiding the dustbin - I had flown in Hercs many times before and was by now inured, greasy breakfast and all) and gaze out of the bubble-glass observation windows. There was a short turnaround delay at Glasgow and we were told to wait in the ordinary civilian departure lounge, where we made ourselves comfortable with coffees etc.
Then, in came the jock infantry, and took their seats in serried unsmiling lines. I became aware of a bristling figure marching towards me, so I stood up to greet whatever message was coming my way.
It was their Company Sergeant Major, who saluted me crisply and said, in accusatory tones:
Surr! Yurr meyn! They're ... READING NEWSPAPURRS !!
One of the lessons of life is that it's just too easy, and not at all clever, to be sarcastic to children and irate NCOs. And so, surpressing the obvious urge to reply, yes sarntmajor, we need to be able to read in our unit - I said we'd be sure to clear up after ourselves.
The dustbin was well-utilised on the next stage of the journey. But not by the soft Sassenach newspaper-readers.