Air rage

Now, looking over the last few blogs, you might think I'm an angry person. I'm really not. In fact I'm quite lovely and likeable, and I don't think I've ever had an argument in the whole of my adult life.

Apart from with Billy from the Carphone Warehouse in 1998. He was a fuckwit, and needed to be aware of that.

But, reader, let me tell you a tale.

I got up at 5.45 a.m. on Friday, after about four hours' sleep, as I'd had a gig the previous night. I flew my little self up to Edinburgh (with the help of a tiny propeller plane) and had a gruelling day of meetings about reporting.

I got back to Edinburgh Airport for my 5 p.m. flight... and found out it was delayed for an hour. This pissed me off, as it meant my weekend would start late. Then I found out I'd bought a cheaper plane ticket that meant British Airways (incapable of sticking to a schedule) wouldn't let me into their Executive Lounge. So I had to sit on uncomfy seats with commoners who were watching silly football. It is hard being me.

Anyway, an hour and a half late, we finally board the plane. All I want at this stage is to get into my seat so I can sleep, not have to think, and start my weekend. Getting onto the plane, I watch a guy unsuccessfully try and chat up a girl... and then - oh lucky me - his seat is next to mine on the plane.

"Hello," he says.

"Hello." I say.

"I'm Tariq."

"Laura." We shake hands. His is slightly sticky.

"So what do you do, Laura?"

"I work for RBS."

"Me too." This is hardly a surprise. Almost everyone on the Edinburgh to London City flight works for RBS. We have a brief and uninspiring conversation about which area of the bank we work for.

"So, Laura, where do you live?"

"The East End." I am terse-ish. I don't want to talk. I've been polite. Now I want him to shut up. Or die. At this stage of my mood, I'm tending towards the latter.

"Stratford?" he asks.

"Bethnal Green."

"So where's that then?"

"The East End." Twat.

"Whereabouts?"

"One stop east of Liverpool Street on the Central Line."

"Liverpool Street? Are you sure?"

"I've lived there for three years, you utter wanker. Why don't you fuck off?" I say loudly. In my head.

After the shouting in my head subsides, I smile and open my book.

"Oh, don't let me stop you from reading," says Tariq the Tosser.

"Well, I'll probably try and sleep when the Captain stops talking."

"I didn't say you could sleep! I said you could read!"

It's a good job my car was at City Airport waiting for me, or I'd have drunken myself into a stupor and then beaten Tariq into a slightly bloody mess with the miniature wine bottles they give you.

But really, I'm a very sweet person usually. Anyone want to be my friend? Not you Tariq.