The stupid bitch in the seat in front of me is moaning like a stupid pin head. She whacks the seat down hard into the reclining position, spilling my wine. I join the drinks party by the rear emergency door. Every now and then a hostess comes by with the drinks tray. It’s almost like being on the ground. We are socialising in front of the door to the crew quarters. We look like gold diggers outside Chinawhite’s. A male trolley dolly, who is the spit of Paul O Grady opens the door. I ask if the crew quarters is a private party. He says, in a scouse accent: Getcha knickers off! Class.

Marie Claire, angel of the skies and I are getting along like a flock of geese in a jet engine. She winks as she brings the meals out. I feel socially inept strapped down in the window seat. I can’t even bite her bum as she walks up the aisle.

The amazing views, the free wine, the hot hostess have all mellowed me to a fuzzy amber. The stupid bitch in the seat in front is hissing and spitting like a bald cat in a cold bath. I just stare at her and smile until she is out of breath. Tired out, she falls asleep for the next six hours. Stupid Bitch sorted. Brilliant.