Do you mind not taking that bag I’ve placed on the seat, putting it down on the floor and sitting on said seat. The bag didnt need the seat, my arthritic mother did, and she’s just gone to the loo.
Can you explain to me why you happen to be wearing your own weight in gold jewellery along with plastic chappals as a nice finishing touch to this horrific imagery? Dont you know if the plane is hijacked you will be the first one slit from thorax to appendix. And by the way is that your wedding saree while we’re at it?
I would really appreciate it if you didnt keep knocking your trolley into my knees, you’ve already ripped a hole into my deconstructed Nexts, and any more deconstruction and they might just fall off me.
Please, please, please, for the love of the Good Lord and all that is holy, donot slip your feet out of your shoes to ease your corns if you are sitting next to me. I thought the new airport had been stink bombed.
If you are newly married and travelling together for the first time, keep your act till you get yourselves a room. I donot appreciate having to explain to a four year old why that aunty is squeezing that uncle’s scrawny butt so many times. And then trying to dissuade him from trying it out on all and sundry.
Yes, the tarmac bus is free, but thats no reason to fight for the pleasure of getting on. You’ve come out of the village. The plane will wait for you. Even if the bus has to make a second trip to get you.
And you, with that striped nylon bag tied together with rope and full of mangoes, that you’re hauling on as cabin baggage. Watch how you put it up in the compartment above me. Any fallen mangoes on my head will be returned well aimed and with appropriate use of force.
Whoever is the blight against humanity who released obnoxious stinky gas while I was strapped down during take off is hereby being cursed into an eternity of afterlife in stinky stink bomb gas chamber.
Deodorant? Folks, deodorant? Whatever happened to the simple spraying of some deodorant or even perfume on clothes. Why must you insist on being a sweaty human smell bomb.
And you, yes, you with the designerclothes and your own weight in make up, I am not moving aside for you. Even though you may be the next biggest thing to hit the small screen since the Muppets. There, go bawl to your sugardaddy. Wait your damn turn in the line, or learn to throw great airport shaking tantrums.
And what is with this flying uniform among the young and the chic? Black lycra fit tees and deep indigo jeans. I patented it. Ten years ago. Pay me royalty.
Do not, I repeat, do not, jump in front of me when I have marked my territory in front of the luggage carousel. I bite.
And guys, where did you kill and bury Mr Chivalry? Able bodied hunks standing around aimlessly but not a moue to help when they see a lady struggling with more bags than she can count and a carousel that doesnt stop in front of her to help her get them off when all four turn up in succession.
And finally, Mr Corporate flyer, donot boom in my ear when speaking into mouthpiece earpiece thingie. I almost shed my skin in fright as you began bawling out a minion three centimetres from my left ear.
Have a pleasant flight.