“So how was New York?”
“Wonderful!”
“Don’t you find it a long flight?”
“Not really.”
“Not really?”
“We always fly First Class to America. Takes the sting out of the journey.”
“Oh, I know. It’s the only way to travel.”
“Huh? I thought you’d never been to the States.”
“I didn’t mean to there.”
“To where then?”
“We flew to Majorca First Class.”
“Really?”
“Yes. The leg space was amazing”
“And the food?”
“Food? Ah, we didn’t bother buying anything. We’d a big lunch before we left.”
“Buy food? In First Class?”
“I don’t understand. Everyone had to buy food.”
“Eh..were you sitting in with everyone else?”
“Yes.”
“I think you’ll find you were sitting on the wing. I can assure you that is most certainly *not* First Class.”

*****

I took the bus. Easier to finish some work on the bus but generally a quieter breed of commuter than the train.

And quiet they are. The silence broke sporadically by an aul fella’s Guns ‘n’ Roses ringtone.

And then she comes to sit beside me – full force on my hip and she pushes me in further and wiggles her oversized arse until she’s comfortable in her – not our – seat. I say nothing – more focused on holding onto my folder of notes.

But she’s not happy so she arises and plonks herself in the seat in front, letting her manky hair cascade over the pages I am trying to read. No sooner have I extracted my pages from under her hood and strands of clumped hair than she gets up and off the bus.

Quickly replacing her is a young man who smells deliciously clean with his clothes fragrant with Lenor. All is well until he tosses his head back and I am encased in a shower of dandruff and dry scalp. And soon he too is gone.

I relax. Notes in place. I read on. And then they arrive. The endless gaggle of foreign students, snaking down the aisle, roaring at the top of their continental little voices. And just as I relax, intent on blocking out the din, two sit in the seat in front with such youthful force that I am almost garrotted by my folder.

My stop. I need at drink. A large one.