If there’s one thing that makes me shit rhubarb into hard marbles it’s when I'm flying home on a commercial flight after a long day of corporate meetings, and the airline has the audacity to put some knuckleheaded Rembrandt in the seat beside me. All I want to do is just lay back and clear my head and what do I get? A self-deluded capsicum who thinks I really give a damn about his life, his family, his boring-ass job and his great (but ultimately flawed) mission in life.
So here’s the drill, I take my window seat, sit back and begin to relax. It’s going to be an hour and fifteen flight – time enough for a bit of a nap. But then ticket holder 11C falls like an earthquake into the seat beside me, bruising the crap out of my hip (now that’s going to need replacing before I'm 75 thank you very much) and then tries to limbo, twist and jive before finally discovering that the missing end of his seatbelt has wedged itself up his butt-crack and a simple tug was all that was needed to dislodge it.
This is where the intellectual remnants of the day’s meetings begin to transform themselves into a conscious but otherwise avoidable headache.
But of course it doesn’t end there, does it? Now he wants to fiddle with everything. Out of the seat pocket comes the in-flight magazine which is then leaved through with the elegance and finesse of a zoo-born Hippopotamus devouring a pallet of lettuce. My headache begins to worsen. Then it's out with the information card about what to do in an emergency (like that's really going to help you? If we go down, you're going to die, end of story! I guarantee it! And then I'm going to use you as the floatation device). Finally it's on and off with the overhead reading light and the faint mumble “yes, it works” - like duh!!!! And the next five minutes are spent trying to re-aim the little airconditioning thingumewotsy.
I sense a faint drumming deep within my cerebal cortext.
Oh, and by the way, I hate mineral water...
That's my next torment. The stewardess who I would dearly love to hate except for her perpetual cuteness (I flap my arms like a butterfly to indicate to you that when we crash those doors are going open and let the ocean flood the cabin) hands my neighbour a nice little container of mineral water. It's red rag to a bull, isn't it? Like you know that no matter which way he tries to open it... God damn it! That's my lap!
I'm not going to get any sleep am I? So I reach into my pocket and pull out my ipod – at least I can get some peace.
“Busy day then?”
Oh crap! I can't feign deafness, I've got my ipod right here in my bloody hand. Can Heaven take me now because I've just doomed myself to the inevitable narrative of inane senselessness.
“I'm Simon” (Well good for you).
So Simon turns out to be a school teacher. He's always wanted to be a school teacher. He has a passion for working with kids, watching them learn, contributing to their development...
...It's starting to throb...
...being an educator was in his blood. His Dad was the principal of some one classroomed rural school in the rarely visited hic-town of Banjoshire. So Simon believes he grew up in an inspired household.
Inspired...what bollocks!!!!! Truth is Simon wanted a job that paid a maximum amount of money for doing as little work as possible, and teaching is always the obvious choice. He gets to work 9am to 3pm every day with an hour's lunch break in between for only 40 weeks a year. How good is that????
And you know what? There aren't any geniuses out there announcing to the world; “I want to acknowledge the important and inspirational role that my teacher Simon played in getting me to this point where I was able to discover the cure for cancer”. No! All I ever see is a bunch of 17 year old gangsta drop-outs in the carpark with knives looking for someone to roll... “Like don't mug me fellas, there's an overpaid mediocre teacher over there just waiting to learn his lesson. You guys remember Mr. Simon don't you?”...
… And my head feels like it's about to explode...
… And out comes the wallet with photos of his beloved wife and three daughters. I'm supposed to share his pride. I'm supposed to reassure him that he has a lovely family. But they've all got golden curly hair with pink ribbons and I just want to pulverise them with a cricket bat and call it a work of Tarantino. But instead, I'm forced to listen to Simon's amazing little anecdotes, one after another, on and on...
… and I just want to hurl my lamingtons...
I mean that literally... I want to hurl my lamingtons. My head is swirling, my throat is gagging... should I go for the sick bag?... It's right there in the seat pocket in front of me...
...Or should I go for his lap?...
As I wipe my bottom lip, I feel soooo much better. And I get a sense that for remaining fourty five minutes of the flight Simon's not going to say another word.
Ipod on, eyes closed... I love taking the commercial flight after a long day of corporate meetings.
That's what I think... And usually I'm right.
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