Misery

I spent the evening hurtling through the night sky in a rather decrepit Boeing 737-800, the Shannon Noll of passenger aircraft; hard working, actively disliked by many, but functional enough to get the job done at an uninspiring level. It’s a long, uninterrupted tube, with a narrow central aisle with rows of three seats on either side of it. These seats are so tightly packed together that anyone taller than a leprechaun has their knees jammed into the spine of the person sitting in front of them. It’s uncivilised and shameful… again, like Shannon Noll.

Despite it being a red-eye flight, the plane is packed, and as far as I can see every single seat is occupied. I heard in the airport that a previous flight had been cancelled, so we probably picked up some strays from that. Fortunately I’d already selected my customary aisle seat, so I can stand up whenever I want, or just stretch my legs into the aisle and waggle them about in the precious empty space.

The poor man sitting next to me – a lanky Irish youth who is no more built for middle seats than I am for classical ballet – is trying his best to sleep, but with his knees pressed against the hinge of his tray table and his shoulders squeezed together to keep his upper body confined to the available space, he’s just sort of wafting in and out of consciousness and radiating misery.