In the Back Seat
Ros Thomas
The Weekend West
Published: Saturday October 31, 2015

I still marvel at the idea humans can now soar above the clouds in a pressurised metal tube. To me, there is no noise on earth as exciting as the sound of jet engines rising in pitch, preparing for takeoff. Not even a midnight horror can dampen the thrill of flying.

Waiting to board, we passengers queued stoically. An overtired toddler, weaving listlessly through our line, suddenly reversed gear and became hyperactive. He began leapfrogging his mum’s bag until his foot caught the handle and he sprawled across the tiled floor, letting loose a volley of ear-piercing wails. I heard the middle-aged couple behind me exchange sighs. A flight attendant wearing a clipboard and sensible shoes announced:

“All economy passengers seated rows 60-75 please proceed to the gate for boarding.”

I looked down at my boarding pass: 73H. Probably next to the rear-most toilets.

Sidestepping my fellow sleepwalkers, I went to the front of the queue. This is the way airlines divide the privileged from the ordinary, I decided. They know broadcasting my 73H low worth makes the passengers sitting in front of me feel more valuable. Does class warfare extend to 30-thousand feet?

Stepping aboard, I passed the welcoming committee of Chief Stewards in their sharp suits and slicked hair.

“This aisle please,” one said, waving me to the right.

I jerked my battered trolley-bag forward. Passing through Business, I inhaled a lungful of the rarefied air fizzing from the high-born vents and felt light-headed. A balding gent in an unsightly mustard-coloured Polo shirt was settling himself in 8C. I noticed the smiling flight attendant hovering over him. “Welcome aboard, Mr Atkins. Would you like a bowl of warm roasted macadamias?” He nodded contentedly as she unwrapped his cashmere blanket. I hoped the packet peanuts in 73H wouldn’t be stale.

As I passed through the gilded curtains and entered the cramped slum-rows of cattle class, I wondered if airlines make Economy seating purposely awful? Surely there is a way to make the rich feel super-special without making the rest of us feel second class? Does Veuve Clicquot taste better when you know your inferiors are drinking warm Sprite?

I was right about my seat: 73H was three steps from the rear toilets at the arse end of the plane. A huge fellow wearing a lurid orange T-shirt shoved past me to jam his backpack into the last overhead locker.

“Jackpot,” I heard him mutter sarcastically as he compressed his bulk into the seat behind mine, bucking me forward as his knees collided with my seat back.

A girl with long shiny black hair and a Hello Kitty jumper arrived and pointed expectantly at the window seat next to me.

I clambered out of my seat to let her in. No sooner had she sat down than she whipped a packet of antiseptic wipes from her bag and proceeded to disinfect her tray table. When she’d finished, she got to work decontaminating the video screen, her arm rest and the fingerhold of the window blind. Satisfied, she sterilised her hands with a tiny bottle of sanitiser before turning to me.

“Do you have pets?” she asked in a high voice.

“Um. We have a cat.”

“Me too! What’s her name,” she asked excitedly, pulling out her phone.

“Alfie.”

“Does she sleep with you?”

“Aah, no?”

“Why not?”

“He’s not allowed. Fleas,” I added, helpfully.

She paused to swipe her screen. I wondered if we had anything else in common.

“This is Fifi. She’s my baby,” she said, tilting her phone towards me and flicking through dozens of photos of a fat ginger cat in set poses. There was Fifi leaning against her scratching post, Fifi curled up in her basket, Fifi with one paw pressing down on a toy mouse.

For several minutes, I feigned polite interest in her tubby tabby until she reverted to more questions about Alfie. I tried to kill her interest by explaining that Alfie had a Hitler moustache and a temperament to match, but she only clapped her amusement. As we taxied down the runway, I scrabbled around in the seat pocket for my headphones, clasped them to my head and made a pretence of closing my eyes. It seemed to do the trick because I nodded off. When I woke up bleary-eyed with a cricked neck and my right leg throbbing with pins and needles, my neighbour was brushing her teeth.

“Morning,” she said.

Confused, I checked my watch: 2am. (I decided plane travel is only glamorous in retrospect.)

Several hours and no sleep later, we stragglers trundled wearily up the skybridge to the concourse. As we passed a wizened old man dusting a window, I reminded myself that most of the world’s population has never been on a plane. If you’ve flown, you’re already upper class.