‘NOOOOOOOOWWWWWW!’ she adds, just to be absolutely clear.
‘Um . . . can I help?’ I offer, but she doesn’t even hear me and the dispute between mother and daughter escalates until it is less a familial tussle and more something you’d expect to see on WWE’s SmackDown: hair is pulled, eyes are scratched but, eventually, the iPad is ripped from the little girl’s hands and she’s thrust into her seat, a lollipop produced from somewhere and shoved in her mouth. I have no idea what’s in it – Valium, judging by its effects – but it’s like watching a wild animal being sedated.
‘Madam, I’m so sorry, but you really need to take your seat,’ the air hostess pleads.
‘I’m attempting to!’ growls the woman, flicking hair back from her now perspiring forehead, grabbing her little boy’s legs and – as I dive out of the way – flipping him over with the skill of a Chinese gymnastics instructor. The lollipop trick is employed on him too and, finally, the woman flings herself down and clicks on her seat belt. Seconds later, we take off.
I her offer a sympathetic smile. ‘Flights can be a bit of a challenge with kids, can’t they?’
She responds with a flaccid look and picks up the in-flight magazine.
Over the next two hours and twenty minutes, it’s evident that the flight would have been more peaceful seated next to a hyperactive goat learning to do the merengue. The only saving grace is that I’m not seated in front of the Demon Child – that seat is kicked, stamped and head-butted to such an extent that I’m surprised the passenger sitting there isn’t in need of emergency spinal surgery.
Their mother, or perhaps she’s their probation officer, has the right idea: she flips on her headphones, orders two large gins and tonic, and reclines her seat, clearly hoping to shut out the last five years. It’s only when she throws a pill down her neck and pops on her eye mask that I consider getting a bit cross – particularly as it coincides with her son trampolining on his seat, launching into a rousing rendition of ‘Food, Glorious Food!’ and spilling my champagne all over my copy of The Book Thief.
‘Are you okay?’ Meredith asks, an hour from landing. She’s been asleep and the whole episode, nosebleed apart, has passed her by.
‘It’s fantastic, Meredith.’ I dredge up a genuine smile. ‘Honestly, it’s incredibly kind of you to have shared your prize with us.’
At which point, a bumper bag of M&Ms spills exuberantly all over my lap and the little boy attempts to retrieve them by shoving his podgy hands under my bum.
The children’s lunch menu has a choice of dishes, including spaghetti Bolognese: a genius addition – not – given that no under-five ever manages to get more than about 25 per cent of it in their mouth. Sure enough, my neighbour’s sauce ends up in the seat pocket in front of him, the seat pocket in front of me, in his hair, in my hair – everywhere, in fact, except his stomach. He concludes this dining experience by picking his nose with a bright red-sauce-coated finger, wiping it on the arm rest between us, and burping voluminously. At which point, Hot Guy two seats in front turns around, clearly believing it to have been me.
I sink even more deeply into my seat as the two children put their complimentary flight socks on both hands and proceed to have a ‘puppet show’– which may be better described as a GBH spree.
The air hostesses are aware of all this, of course, and make up for my misery by pushing as much champagne as possible on me, presumably to dull the pain. Other than that, there’s little they can do given that there are no spare seats to move me to. The children’s mother remains in a near coma until the very end of the flight, when she wakes up with a start, rushes to the toilet, and begins throwing up loudly, a process that continues right until we’re on terra firma, when she emerges, wiping her mouth, her eyeliner only slightly smudged.
By that stage, I am filthy drunk, and have read only ten words of The Book Thief. It’s fair to conclude the experience wasn’t entirely as I’d envisaged.
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The Nearly-Weds Page 33
