Matt's recollection of the flight from New York back in March was hazy at best. After an all-nighter out on the town with his old journo buddies - those who had actually built reputations for themselves and were now comfortably ensconced in the Big Apple freelancing for the big names in publishing - he had rocked up to the airport just as they were closing the flight.
A couple of sweet-talking minutes later and he had been running for the gate, the pretty blonde check-in's words still ringing in his ears, "If you miss the flight and need somewhere to stay overnight, give me a call." In hindsight he probably should have taken advantage of the offer.
The flight was packed. So much for credit crunch, he thought. Families, couples, businessmen, holiday-makers, all crammed into economy class. Matt's seat was on the aisle, in the unenviable location right near the toilets at the rear of the plane. "I need a drink to get through this," was all he could think of. Trying to catch the attention of the trolley dolly was another matter altogether. As she methodically made her way down the aisle with the assorted beverages on offer, her elegantly coiffed hair fastened to perfection by the tortoise-shell clasp, the waiting seemed to last an eternity.
Matt tried to stop her as she walked past to refill the coffee jug. "Could I have a whisky and soda love?" he asked, mustering all the charm he thought necessary. "I'll be with you shortly sir, just making my way down the aisle as you can see," she replied. And she was off without further ado.
Matt's throat was dry. He craved another drink. A baby across the way had started crying, and the piercing noise was going right through him. That, combined with the whooshing sound of the toilets being flushed every few minutes behind him was already setting his nerves alight.
He pressed the button in his armrest for attention. The hostess stopped en route to another coffee refill. "Yes?" she asked. "Can I just have a drink please? Surely you could bring it to me now?" His plea was met with a radiant smile, perfectly aligned teeth, and a sense of joviality that was only betrayed by the icy glare she bestowed on him. "As soon as I have finished serving the other passengers sir," she said through her rictus grin. She nodded at his neighbours - who had wisely not engaged in conversation with him - and said, more loudly this time, "Everyone has to wait their turn, you know."
Now whether it was the tone of her voice or the condescending nature of her comment Matt still did not know, except that he found himself grabbing on to her left wrist as she made to move away, and yanked her back with more force than he intended. The hostess shrieked, stumbled as she lost her footing and plunged head first into his lap, catching her elaborate hair grip in the netted seat pocket in front of Matt's knees as she fell. The coffee urn she was carrying - thankfully still empty - went flying over the two rows in front, bounced off a headrest and clipped the crown of a woman who had been totally unaware of the event unfolding behind her.
The woman stood up, stunned by the flying object (which now was spewing the remnants of old coffee over her seat), ready to confront the offender.
What she saw was a woman in uniform wrestling with the nether regions of a passenger who in turn was, it seemed, trying to pull her hair out. Other airline staff were running down the aisle to aide their colleague, the passengers looked on in amusement (interesting how no-one else intervened, she thought randomly, how terribly British) but kept their distance, and the man, he of the assaulted groin, kept flailing his arms in the air shouting, "I just wanted a bloody drink!" in a rather cut-glass accent.
Disentangled at last, the hostess - by now quite flustered - made a bee-line for the rear of the plane, disappearing from view. Matt, hot, sweaty, bothered and still craving a drink, found himself being stared down by the urn-target woman. She glared at him, went to open her mouth to say something, but was promptly pulled back into her seat by her companion. "Don't start," he overheard him tell her. "But my seat..." she pleaded. "Sit on a magazine, for crying out loud woman," was the gruff reply. Matt almost felt sorry for her.
"Sir? I am the chief purser on this flight sir, and I must inform you that we take any assault on our staff very seriously."
"Assault? I just asked for a drink! It was an accident! If your pretty ladies did not wear such fancy paraphernalia in their hair, there would be no cases for entanglement, such as just happened now_"
"Sir, the incident has been noted and you will be asked to complete a report form when we land. Security staff will escort you from the airplane so this can be dealt with. I trust you will be fully cooperative with us sir?"
Matt was aware of his neighbours trying to act nonchalant whilst this exchange took place, their body language telling him everything he needed to know: you have disgraced yourself, you will be dealt with appropriately, serves you right.
He nodded. No point creating more fuss now.
"Thank you sir," the young man smiled.
"Can I have my drink now please?" Matt asked. The things you had to do, he thought.
"Of course sir," came the reply, and Matt was promptly presented with a bottle of finest highland spring water.
A couple of sweet-talking minutes later and he had been running for the gate, the pretty blonde check-in's words still ringing in his ears, "If you miss the flight and need somewhere to stay overnight, give me a call." In hindsight he probably should have taken advantage of the offer.
The flight was packed. So much for credit crunch, he thought. Families, couples, businessmen, holiday-makers, all crammed into economy class. Matt's seat was on the aisle, in the unenviable location right near the toilets at the rear of the plane. "I need a drink to get through this," was all he could think of. Trying to catch the attention of the trolley dolly was another matter altogether. As she methodically made her way down the aisle with the assorted beverages on offer, her elegantly coiffed hair fastened to perfection by the tortoise-shell clasp, the waiting seemed to last an eternity.
Matt tried to stop her as she walked past to refill the coffee jug. "Could I have a whisky and soda love?" he asked, mustering all the charm he thought necessary. "I'll be with you shortly sir, just making my way down the aisle as you can see," she replied. And she was off without further ado.
Matt's throat was dry. He craved another drink. A baby across the way had started crying, and the piercing noise was going right through him. That, combined with the whooshing sound of the toilets being flushed every few minutes behind him was already setting his nerves alight.
He pressed the button in his armrest for attention. The hostess stopped en route to another coffee refill. "Yes?" she asked. "Can I just have a drink please? Surely you could bring it to me now?" His plea was met with a radiant smile, perfectly aligned teeth, and a sense of joviality that was only betrayed by the icy glare she bestowed on him. "As soon as I have finished serving the other passengers sir," she said through her rictus grin. She nodded at his neighbours - who had wisely not engaged in conversation with him - and said, more loudly this time, "Everyone has to wait their turn, you know."
Now whether it was the tone of her voice or the condescending nature of her comment Matt still did not know, except that he found himself grabbing on to her left wrist as she made to move away, and yanked her back with more force than he intended. The hostess shrieked, stumbled as she lost her footing and plunged head first into his lap, catching her elaborate hair grip in the netted seat pocket in front of Matt's knees as she fell. The coffee urn she was carrying - thankfully still empty - went flying over the two rows in front, bounced off a headrest and clipped the crown of a woman who had been totally unaware of the event unfolding behind her.
The woman stood up, stunned by the flying object (which now was spewing the remnants of old coffee over her seat), ready to confront the offender.
What she saw was a woman in uniform wrestling with the nether regions of a passenger who in turn was, it seemed, trying to pull her hair out. Other airline staff were running down the aisle to aide their colleague, the passengers looked on in amusement (interesting how no-one else intervened, she thought randomly, how terribly British) but kept their distance, and the man, he of the assaulted groin, kept flailing his arms in the air shouting, "I just wanted a bloody drink!" in a rather cut-glass accent.
Disentangled at last, the hostess - by now quite flustered - made a bee-line for the rear of the plane, disappearing from view. Matt, hot, sweaty, bothered and still craving a drink, found himself being stared down by the urn-target woman. She glared at him, went to open her mouth to say something, but was promptly pulled back into her seat by her companion. "Don't start," he overheard him tell her. "But my seat..." she pleaded. "Sit on a magazine, for crying out loud woman," was the gruff reply. Matt almost felt sorry for her.
"Sir? I am the chief purser on this flight sir, and I must inform you that we take any assault on our staff very seriously."
"Assault? I just asked for a drink! It was an accident! If your pretty ladies did not wear such fancy paraphernalia in their hair, there would be no cases for entanglement, such as just happened now_"
"Sir, the incident has been noted and you will be asked to complete a report form when we land. Security staff will escort you from the airplane so this can be dealt with. I trust you will be fully cooperative with us sir?"
Matt was aware of his neighbours trying to act nonchalant whilst this exchange took place, their body language telling him everything he needed to know: you have disgraced yourself, you will be dealt with appropriately, serves you right.
He nodded. No point creating more fuss now.
"Thank you sir," the young man smiled.
"Can I have my drink now please?" Matt asked. The things you had to do, he thought.
"Of course sir," came the reply, and Matt was promptly presented with a bottle of finest highland spring water.