If you must fly budget

January 14, 2010

If such a pact were possible then one believes a pact between one, society and one’s unborn children would all agree that it is for the best they remain unborn.

It is in this fashion we accept that we will be the terminal station for a million years genetic history and while I am not suggesting there should be a ticker tape procession I believe it would generally be agreed to be a good thing.

Kitty says.

These thoughts on our mortal genes terminal point were not inspired by any imminent terminal event – though I am convinced there is a great cancer blog in me (eating its way out?) – but rather the experience of children on an EasyJet flight. Its not so much the children per se as the effect they had on the attending adults. The closest were an extended Italian family – which is adorable in a taverna in Naples but positively, numbingly, violence inducing when you have seats that do not recline and a couple, granny and a bambino which they simply cannot stop pandering too. It did not help that they had packed for an occupation rather than a holiday, such that every action of the child required an urgent intervention in numerous bags in the overhead locker.

Still, I sustain an industry that keeps ear plugs in ears (I mean, I hope that’s what they are for) and if they cannot be silenced then they shall at least be muffled. We sit then in our non reclining seat in relative peace until the lady beside me proves an irresistible lure to her children and worse of all her husband. It was, apparently, a major grievance that they did not have seats together on the basis they were a “family”. There is a solution people – pay for the privilege.

Why do people with children possess a sense of entitlement beyond reason and premised on what appears to be an assumption that they are raising the first offspring of the species – I mean, if they were, then they were baton charge ugly and worst of all the husband, as he leaned over me to discuss whether they should buy some in flight electrical crap (oh there’s another blog in that) was somewhat fragrant. Now who doesn’t enjoy having their faces stuck in a mans crotch but not when they are of the type that seems to think an early morning airport run is the get-out-of-jail for the daily shower. The sainted wife managed, in the lowered, pained tones, of the mother of one large and several small kids to talk him out of it and away from us and to the relief of our respective solitudes.

If you will excuse me I am off to shout at some bus queue people.

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