My flight to Cairns was quick and painless. I brought along Fairy Tales and the Art of Subversion to copy quotes into my journal, and it was such an involved process that the two hours whizzed past like two minutes.
[I’m still reading Fairy Tales, a whole month later, and am only about half way through. Nonfiction takes me so much longer than fiction. I can only read about five pages before I feel exhausted and need some time to process what I’ve learnt. Being unsmart is such a curse for me.]
Getting on the plane a blonde, fashion-magazine-reading, teenage-looking girl was in my aisle-seat. I stopped by her and she got up to let me in. As if I was going to sit in the middle, sandwiched by smelly strangers, if I didn’t absolutely have to. “I’m in the aisle seat, actually,” I un-apologetically told her.
“I doubt it,” she snarked, unbothered enough even to look at me.
“Yes,” I insisted, “15D, see?”
She glanced at my ticket, then at hers, “I’m 15D,” still not looking at me.
“Can I see?”
She sighed grumpily and showed me her ticket, clearly expecting me to see my grave error and humbly apologise, eyes moving over everything in the world but me.
“Oh, you’re 14D,” I said. “Get the fuck out my seat,” [I wanted to say].
“Oh, let me move then. I don’t want to cause any more problems.”