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There is nothing like plane travel to remind you how humans can be so different from one another.

It starts with the arrival to the airport. Some people drift to their flight without any time to spare, and have full trust in the universe that no external factors will get in the way of them catching that plane. I am not one of these people.  

I tend to arrive two hours before the two-hour recommended time. I unpack my laptop whilst in the queue in security to save those extra few precious seconds. There is no belt or unnecessary metal accessories to remove, or a forgotten water bottle, just a neatly-packed-hassle-free box for the security team to assess. 

Others are not so prepared. It’s as if they think they are queuing for ice cream, and it’s not until they are by the machines with a grey box in front of them, and a security person yelling in their ear, that they realise what’s going on.

A tech geek will then unpack the whole god damn Apple store into their box. A woman will opt to wear her clunkiest shoes for the flight; with a heel that could hide a gun, a knife, and a medieval shield in it, and get surprised that she needs to take them off. And don’t get me started on those that still – still – have a water bottle with them. 

The experience you have on your flight depends on where you’re sat on the plane. The window seats are good for influencers and short haul flights. The middle seats are for the amateur passengers. The aisle seats are essential for people pleasers like myself, who would rather suffer a full bladder for a whole flight than disturb other passengers.

No matter how much you prepare though, things can go wrong, which is what happened to me on my long-haul flight from LHR to IAD. (That’s London Heathrow to Washington D.C Dulles...just in case).

It started off badly, when I forgot to request my non-dairy, non-meat, non-fish meal for the flight. It was a good job that I had the whole morning in Terminal 5 so I could stock up at Pret for my plane food. (I got the best meal you could possibly get at Pret: the avocado, olive sun-dried tomato baguette, cucumber sparking water and mango pots). Yum Yum Yum.

I boarded the BA 217 flight, and shuffled towards the back of the plane. I got to where my seat was and found a man in it. I stood over him with a confident cat-bum smile. “Excuse me Sir, I think you’ll find this is my seat.” I held up my ticket in the same way the FBI show their ID. 

“Your seat?” he said in a clueless way, as if he couldn’t read his own ticket. He heaved himself up and exhaled as he dropped into his correct- middle-seat. Amateur.

 Once that little mishap was sorted, I got to work building my nest. My book in the front compartment.  My Phone, hand cream, 1 litre water bottle, and dry mouth spray in the netting, and my Pret bag under the seat in front, ready for mealtime. I strapped myself in, put on my fluffy flight socks and studied the Boeing 787-8 Dreamliner safety card. (Every aircraft is different)

Mr Middle Seat was travelling with Mr Window Seat, I worked out that they were friends, because they talked throughout the safety briefing video. Don’t come crying to me when you don’t know how to top up your life jacket when we’re bobbing in the sea.

We got up in the air, and Mr Middle wanted to go to the toilet. I thought this was nice of him to get it out of the way before I settled down properly for the flight. What I didn’t realise at the start of the 8-hour journey, that this toilet trip was going to be such a repetitive occurrence that my thighs were going to get a workout.

When the trolly came down the aisle for lunch, I felt I should take part in the communal feast, so I reached down to get my avocado-sundried-tomato baguette and saw Mr Middle’s BARE HAIRY FOOT…resting on my Pret bag. 

YEEEEEEEEK

I bit my knuckle to stop myself from screaming. If only I wasn’t a British people pleaser, then I could have asked him to take his toes off my lunch. Instead, I slumped back into my seat and tried not to cry.

During some turbulence near Newfoundland Mr Middle gave me that look which translated that he needed to go to the toilet…again. I proudly pointed to the glowing sign. 

“…I think the seat belt sign is on,” I said.

“The seatbelt sign is on?” he said in the same clueless-questionable way he said, ‘your seat?’  And then he grumbled, “There’s no turbulence though.”

“Better do what the captain says,” I smiled and put my headphones back on. 

The next thing I knew Mr Middle had pressed the button for back up, and a moment later an air hostess appeared.

“I need the toilet. Can I go?” Mr Middle barked over me.

“Obviously we can’t stop you Sir, but the seat belt sign is on, and we have to warn you that there is a risk,” the air hostess professionally replied.

Mr Middle raised his hands at me, as if to say, ‘SEE! HA!’

I slowly lifted the seatbelt buckle and got up for the zillionth time, and Mr Middle squeezed past me.

“I am frequent flyer, so I know these things,” he snarled. 

“If you are such a “frequent flyer”, then you wouldn’t have booked a middle seat, and MORE importantly you would be wearing socks right now, instead of me having to endure the sight and smell of your hairy crusty feet.”

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I wished I could have said this.

I wished I could have also thrown my contaminated avo-sundried baguette at him too, but I know that if I did such a thing in today’s world, I’ll end up on YouTube as the woman who lost her mind on the plane, So, I sat back down, strapped in, (seat belt sign was still on), and waited for Mr Middle’s return.

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