I am sitting in business class on QANTAS as I write this post. I was given a glass of water, no doubt taken from the highest Himalayan springs, before take off; a glass of Riesling before dinner, more water with dinner ( and the option of more wine) and an after dinner coffee – all in the space of an hour. Now, I realise that I will probably need to visit the toilet before we land, but I am sure that people in business class never have a bodily function (if they do, some poor steward takes their bladder to the bathroom for them, very Prince Charles and his valet holding the specimen jar) and so I don’t want to betray my working class origins by tottering up the aisle. (The wine and coffee have combined to give me a head spin).
This is the first time I have ever travelled in business class. Mr FD was generous enough to burn up many, extra frequent flyer points on my behalf so that I could have a direct flight after leaving the conference. Even I have to admit that he can be nice, occasionally. I mean that I admit it occasionally, not that he is nice occasionally, except that is true too, he is only occasionally nice, but perhaps more frequently than I. No, I am nicer than he.
I thought I was holding my own, assuming the position so to speak, until it came time for dinner, and the steward had to explain where my tray was located – in the left arm of my seat (oh my and I have acres and acres of seat, with more positions than the kama sutra!). I mean, in my natural habitat of economy, way, way back in the bowels of the plane, the tray is adhered to the back of the seat in front; how was I know that we people who live in the environs of business class can be offended by the sight of an upraised tray and so it must be hidden from our delicate sight?
I murmured something about “always forgetting” but he knew, and I knew that he knew, so the whole charade was blown. I guess there is a first time for everything, and I have lost my business class virginity in a very public manner. You can take the girl out of the working class, but you can’t take the working class out of the girl