Easing myself into an expensive seat on a British Airways overnight flight to Dubai, I notice two empty places to my left. The plane, I was told, was full. Someone must be very late.
At this point, the rogue bookmaker who operates exclusively inside my head, laying odds on life’s little challenges, pipes up: ‘It’s 1-5 you cop a screaming toddler in that spot; 9-2 you don’t.’ My heart sinks. The bookie is shrewd; he knows the form. Sure enough, just as the crew is preparing to lock the doors, a flustered-looking couple rush on board, with their baby banshee already in full cry. Waahaahaah!
As we thunder along the runway, the Caterwauling Kid’s nerve-shredding performance is, literally, drowning out the roar of the jet engines. This is what Sartre meant when he opined on other people: hell. Forget preference check-ins, executive lounges and complimentary champagne, the first carrier to offer child-free flights (no under-fives) on long-haul services will win my business.
I’m met at the airport by an old friend, an Irish journalist who, even by the dissolute standards of Fleet Street’s finest, has lived a bit.
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