IN THE ARMPITS OF GIANTS

The guy next to me is huge. I mean really huge. I know I shouldn't - it's probably not his fault, and even if it is why shouldn't he be huge if he wants to be - but I'm thinking evil thoughts. Such is my state of compression that I'm not going to be able to do anything useful with either of my arms. And I have a proposal to write. And even if I hadn't, I'm feeling my consumer rights have been violated. I mean, should easyJet have sold me seat 10F if it's already spoken for by the right hand side of the guy in 10E? 

But what can I do? If he was steaming drunk or a screaming child I could complain and perhaps be moved to another seat. But he's not. It's not about what he's doing, it's about what he is. Big.


So the cabin crew would quite rightly remind me that he's as entitled to travel on an aeroplane as I am, and cannot be blamed. To which I might respond that I too am blameless, but they most certainly are not, having put someone who really constitutes cargo in a space barely big enough for an anorexic Hobbit. But that would be cruel and discriminatory, so of course I say nothing, and neither does he, or anybody.

There's an elephant in the cabin. And it's sat next to me.

Instead, I turn to devising a survival strategy, which begins with a form of silent protest. Society demands that I behave naturally, so that's exactly what I try to do, prizing my shoulders free in order to activate my laptop as though to start work. But contorted as I am it's not possible for either hand to make contact with the keyboard - a prerequisite for productive work I find. I make a small surprised and vaguely frustrated sound hoping he'll pick up on it and perhaps do something (although I'm not sure what). He doesn't. He obviously came to terms long ago with the fact that people who sit next to him on planes don't generally win the Pulitzer Prize.

He hoists his right foot onto his left knee, his right knee protruding deep into the space previously occupied by my left leg, then lays his head back as if to sleep. So that's his strategy; he's going to get through this by hibernating. I hatch a cunning plan. Shifting my left leg I wedge it beneath his elevated right knee, locking it in place and making it impossible for him to change position. This is becoming a war of attrition. He'll have to move sooner or later, but won't be able to. Then he'll have to do something (although I'm not sure what). But he just keeps on sleeping, and I just keep on not writing my proposal. 

It's an hour-long flight to Edinburgh and we're over Manchester before he stirs and makes to shift his foot. Which he can't. Because I too am asleep (for the purpose of the plan) and seemingly unaware of his predicament.

"Excuse me pal..."

But my sleep is deep and I'm not able to respond, which means he'll probably have to do something (not sure what). In retrospect this was all very short sighted. In retrospect I should have appreciated what room I had and got on with it. But then I didn't know just how bad it would get when my neighbour unleashed his ultimate weapon. Which he now does with devastating effect. He folds up his armrest, engulfing me in a tsunami of previously-contained body mass.

Rammed up against the fuselage I do what any man whose face is pressed up against an aircraft window part way between London Stansted and Edinburgh would do and quietly contemplate the Lake District.

In the seat behind a man from Babcock speaks in monotone about repair contracts at Rosyth and I wonder whether he should be talking quite so openly about such matters. Do we want the enemy to know our warships break sometimes?  Which gets me thinking about a more immediate security issue. Earlier, when asked whether I'd be prepared to open the door in an emergency and help everyone get out, I pledged my full support, and even pretended to take notice of the instructions for doing so in the seat pocket. Now I wonder whether being wedged against said door in a state of suspended animation might encumber my ability to play the leading role I'd agreed to.

I'd also been warned to place all hand luggage and loose items in the overhead locker to keep the escape route clear. If a handbag poses a hazard then what about this slumbering flesh house-end next to me? (For a moment the Lakeland fells look a tad closer than usual and I suppress a twinge of panic).

But then I sense the trolley approaching (although I can't see it) and begin calculating the chances of landing a snack and hot beverage. I writhe slightly to signal a desire to move, but my neighbour doesn't stir. Asleep - or pretending to be. Okay, so I see what game he's playing. Tit for tat. I authorise my left leg to move toward the right thus freeing his left foot. It does the trick, and for a moment he hauls himself to the left, allowing me to turn and address the onboard refreshment vending apparatus now drawing alongside.

But then I pause to consider the strategic implications of what I'm about to do. A hot beverage and snack means putting down the tray table, which in turn means my opponent withdrawing his right leg from my territory, entirely ruling out a return to the left-foot-on-right-knee position. As if anticipating my move his right knee intrudes further into my space, indicating that any further action on the tray table front will be considered an act of aggression, and thus provoke retaliation.

Okay, I get it, but I'll need something in return. I begin to move my left shoulder in a slow circling motion, and temporarily free my left hand, stretching out the fingers as though to restore circulation. It works, the tide of flesh recedes and the arm rest comes back down.

"No, I'm fine thanks," I say to the steward, and the trolley passes by.

And so we coincide for the rest of the flight in a state of uneasy truce, me nestled in the big man's flank like a blubber-sucking parasite. The thorn in his enormous side.

I'd like to say that we get chatting and find we have all sorts in common. That the issue of size becomes an irrelevance as we get to know each other. That we laugh off our earlier hostilities and become the best of friends, vowing to keep in touch and perhaps get the wives together at the weekend. 

I'd love to be able to report that behind the fearsome facade is a gentle soul at peace with himself and the world. Someone who long ago slipped free from the shackles of vanity and self-consciousness into the freedom of self-knowledge, and an appreciation of the truly important things in life.

But as it is, I get off the plane the same old me.


@jesoverthinksit 



For more airline induced introspection take off for:

1 Day, 2 Flights, 5 Shit Excuses
Recovered
Airport Philosophy Part 1: Identity of Indiscernibles