To recap, I am waiting to board the plane at Warsaw Frederic Chopin Airport, whilst in the Ladies, bored, I commenced a silent guffawing laughter at a female’s keen eye for fashion and choked on my chewing gum. I can still feel it lodged in my chest and it is plainly disgusting. It feels as though a hiccup of gigantosome proportion is stuck inside of me. I have to ignore it as I have a more pressing issue on my mind, my luggage is stretching my arms to orangutan lengths as I try walk faster to reach my seat on the plane in order to keep my arms at standard human measurements.
Ooh, this is a nicer plane. Spacious, it’s Belgravia. Not LOT Polish Airlines as the previous flight. 12F. It turns out I have an isle seat for the first time ever in my life, not that I have travelled extensively. I pack away my monkey-transformatve luggage into the overhead locker forgetting to take out the newspapers so I have nothing to play with, which is in fact, probably a good thing so that I can once again, try and catch some beauty sleep (Lord knows I need it).
I look up towards the locker and notice the seat diagram again, oh is THAT supposed to be a window? Oh right, F is by the window. I mull this over. Hang on. F. My seat is 12F right? I doubt myself, I check my ticket. OH MY GOD! SEAT THIEF!! THIEEEF!!! Screams me inside. I proceed to give him my evil eye stare.
I think he is foreign, East European to be specific-ish, returning to his homeland. He is grey, slightly balding, but in a good way not in the you-are-invited-to-my-funeral-way. Small frame, kind of tanned but not orange, perhaps late 30s, early 40s. I am expecting an accent.
Not an English accent. It turns out he is a cameraman emigrating with his parents when he was eighteen years old to the City of Angels (like actually L.A). It has been horribly cloudy there the last few weeks, and he is off to see his girlfriend in Minsk, staying with her for a month. I could not make these stories up, even if I tried. I decide. Anyone whose partner is on the other side of the planet deserves my window seat.
Never judge a book by its cover, a rule I try to live by, but in a different country, appearance is the only condusive form of evidence. I hope I am forgiven.