The woman in seat 6F

One of the amazing things about Valium is how you can just observe what’s happening around you, no matter how close, and remain detached; an observer rather than directly involved in what’s happening. This is very fortunate and, clearly, an intended reaction to the medication.

Mirinda, naturally, travelled Business Class to Budapest today leaving mum and me to sit with the rest of the farmyard beyond the Magic Curtain (which proved it’s value). Her first observation in finding her seat was that it didn’t seem bigger than the standard economy seat or that there was a lot more leg-room. In fact, the only difference she could see was the fact that the middle seat in each row had been, temporarily, turned into a table. On the table next to her seat sat a laptop. Her first thought was that it was a perk of Business Class, free use of a laptop.

I’d booked Mirinda into the aisle seat (of course) and, it transpired, the laptop actually belonged to the woman sitting next to the window in 6F. When I asked Mirinda where she was, given she’d dropped her laptop and, somehow vanished, Mirinda told me she was on the phone. Actually she was on the phone the entire time she could be, disconnecting only for the actual flight.

I saw the woman at the baggage reclaim in Budapest and I have to say she was quite distinctive. Her voice (easily heard above any other noise as she talked continuously on her mobile) was annoying, her demeanour just as bad. She had one of those really annoying American accents that once heard is never forgotten. The type of accent that amazes the listener that it doesn’t annoy the person who has it. Her accent, though was the least of her bad traits.

She was one of those people who think they can do whatever they like with complete confidence, without empathy and with a disregard for social cohesion that defies the conventions for which it was invented. She also has a thing for Bloody Marys.

In her own words she has a very low tolerance for alcohol so, without having eaten (also by her own admission) she consumed five double shot vodka Bloody Marys on the two and a half hour flight. Sadly the alcohol didn’t knock her out.

Meanwhile, back in cattle class, we were being entertained by a two year old French girl giving us a recital and complaining (in the cutest way) whenever her ears became blocked with the cabin pressure. It was a lot more pleasant but nowhere near as entertaining as a mad American demanding Bloody Mary after Bloody Mary from the increasingly strained British Airways staff.

Speaking of rude people…I spotted this on the way to Waitrose this morning in a window box outside the Hop Blossom. Pretty typical for a Fosters drinker if you ask me.

Anyway, the trip to Budapest went quite smoothly (I watched four episodes of Weeds and mum read something murder mystery-ish between snoozes) and we were successfully met by our driver as ordered.

Our driver (a nice chap who was actually a taxi driver rather than a chauffeur…which I was expecting) dropped us at the apartment office and that’s where things started to go rapidly downhill.

Mirinda seriously didn’t like the apartment. I mean SERIOUSLY. Not because it was damp or untidy or smelly or littered with drunks or surrounded by devilish hordes of barbarians. Nothing so obvious. She felt it had no soul. As we all know, an apartment without soul is no apartment at all and, in fact, is unliveable…even for a week. She said she’d sleep on her decision but many years of marriage led me to believe we’d be moving on the morrow.

Anyway, we went for a lovely cold walk (it was just above freezing which is a lot better than it presently is in Britain where winter has yet to arrive), bought provisions and went back to the apartment where we eventually went to bed.