Midnight

I awoke with a judder. I tested my mental state by looking at Ian Devine and thinking “He wishes his obesity was as medically interesting as my a-n-u-s”. When Ian Devine didn’t reply that no fewer than six clinics had requested he bequeath them his stomach I knew my thoughts were once more for my ears only.

I even looked at Miss Mifflin with refreshingly sensible eyes. She was just a woman – nothing in the least bit interesting. Frankly, you could find a woman believed to have been destroyed in 1975 in a dusty filing cabinet and she still wouldn’t be interesting. There is just something fundamentally bland about the female of the species. She doesn’t understand anything significant, has no ability to grasp the sensible things in life…

Wait, I thought, Miss Mifflin was fumbling in Ian Devine’s lap. I felt a pang of what I could only assume was jealously. A little further down and it may well have been the peanut I had accidentally swallowed whole and been worrying about ever since it happened. It was a basic law of natural selection that Ian Devine was the Colin Baker to my Tom Baker – some basic, low level similarity but mine was the younger, less rotund and far less vulgar original. I respect Ian Devine enormously, of course, but I will confess he is duller than the biennial Shagford Caravan Show and "Special Needs" Eisteddfod. Miss Mifflin should not be assisting Ian Devine when I was palpably in need.

“I can’t understand why you cannot undo your safety belt, Mr Devine” said Miss Mifflin as she rummaged around in Ian Devine’s lap.

“It’s a mystery” he replied, groaning slightly with frustration.

“Miss Mifflin” I called, “I am awake and require assistance.”

“I’ll be with you shortly, Mr Brent, I just have to finish helping Mr Devine first.”

“But you’ve been helping him for several minutes – it’s my turn now” I said logically.

“Nonsense, Dennis Brent” said Ian Devine, “Miss Mifflin must continue to help me until I come loose.” He moaned again and I almost felt sorry for his plight.

“If you are restrained, Ian Devine, it is your own fault for customising the safety equipment to meet your unique needs. You can hardly monopolise Miss Mifflin when the situation is entirely of your own doing.”

“Piffle, Dennis Brent, the equipment is clearly defective if it cannot cope with a gentleman of marginally above average volume. The airline is to blame and as the airline’s representative Miss Mifflin is honour bound to assist me.”

“Twaddle, Ian Devine, if such a fault exists – and I do not admit that there is any fault apportionable other than to yourself – then it is either the responsibility of the company producing the aircraft or the travel agency who sold you the tickets. As Miss Mifflin does not work for either company she has no special duty to you in this instance.”

“Absurd reasoning, Dennis Brent, Miss Mifflin is employed to ensure that gentlemen such as ourselves have a journey which is as comfortable as possible. She would be neglecting her sworn duty if she abandoned me while I am in greater need.”

“Preposterous ratiocination, Ian Devine, as you cannot in all sense determine whether your need is greater than mine until you know what my needs are. The assumption that my crisis is less serious than yours is distressing to me and I would be grateful if you would apologise for any offence caused to me during this…”

“Ooh ooh ooh Yooooolanda Palfreeeeeey” squealed Ian Devine as though trying to summon up the definitive stewardess to settle our little dispute.

“Are you all right, Mr Devine?” asked Miss Mifflin.

“I am now” he replied. “Oh look – the seat belt buckle had become gummed up with a hunk of exceptionally sticky pork pie jelly. It must’ve fallen from my most recent snack and found its way – somehow – into the restraint’s mechanism.” He pulled out a straw and sucked the chunk of impeding jelly out of the buckle and with a simple snap the belt was unfastened.

“Oh well done, Mr Devine” said Miss Mifflin.

“I’m sure you loosened it” beamed Ian Devine. “You did everything you could to deal with the stiffness in my lap.”

“My pleasure” she replied.

“No no” contradicted Ian Devine, “I assure you that the pleasure was all mine.”

“Now, Mr Brent, how can I help you?” she asked at last.

“I do not wish to entertain the services of Ian Devine’s cast offs” I said haughtily. “I will attend to my own lap.”

“Well at least put a blanket over yourself” she said mysteriously.

I was puzzling over her last remark when I saw there was a spare complimentary first class gift basket sitting on a table near the front of the first class compartment.

“Is that a spare gift basket?” I asked.

“Yes – we had an extra one for some reason.”

“Could I have it?” I asked, thinking I could auction it off in economy class.

“I’m afraid Mr Devine has beaten you to it” she said, placing the basket on one of his seats and sickening me to my very stomach.

“Bah!” I exclaimed. “If there are any messages I will be in the first class convenience applying some unguent. This pressurised cabin has increased the absorption rate quite noticeably.”

“I’m afraid Mr Devine is occupying the first class rest room at the moment. But I am sure one of the economy bogs will be free.”

“There isn’t enough room in one of those. This is a delicate operation and I need elbow room.”

“I suppose you’ll have to wait until Mr Devine has finished” she said mournfully.

“Damn Ian Devine. Damn him to heck and back” I cursed.