Compressed twixt aisle and sky, I'm the silly sausage wedged between the Sumo supporters in row 29 - always Row 29..... B. Poor economy scum gazing at 28 rows of male pattern baldness off to an alopecia convention to discuss combover lengths. Or bouffont Van der Graaf frizzes on the early flight, wisping erratically in a purge of sick airplane syndrome vents. Blasts of snot, baby wails and tetris keep them occupied. And the entitled, middle management chop in front's a wannabe First Class flyer, forcing the dakota barber chair into full flat mode, compressing my knees into a birthing position. Then window Sumo needs to leave over the top of me, filling my peripheral vision with a cabbage patch doll butt, my face separated from his hairy bears bagel by a millimeter of cheap chinos and crusty, skidded Y fronts. The funeral curtains get drawn as we level out, dividing the tenderpreneurs from the workers. I'm unsafe in the knowledge that copious free booze and real cutlery is in the hands of people so close to the pilot. Restless aisle Sumo bangs his bingo wing elbow into my chest, spilling my Poor Bastard Merlot. It streams along the origamied in-flight magazine, the Sudoku already completed by a maths heathen with too much ink. A warm pool settles like I've wet myself. With a pencil smile and enough powder for a trapeze artiste, a scouring sponge croissant with leather interior gets thrust across in a designer box. The pilot searches for a better cruising altitude to overcome the turbulence. Wright brothers - kiss my ass for this...
Deon
www.deonbing.co.za
Twitter: deon_bing
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