The Terrible Twos At Twenty Thousand Feet

I am flying home from Spain with my two-year-old son. The airline gave us the option of pre-selecting our seats beforehand to ensure that I would be next to my son.

However, bizarrely, our seating arrangements put me on the window and him on the aisle with a space in between.

I try to appeal to the stewardess but she tells me that I will have to ask the person who was assigned the seat if they will move.

Just before takeoff, a group of lads boards the plane. They are wearing matching shirts. All of them look worse for wear and are clearly coming home from a stag do/lads holiday.

One of the lads comes and sits in the seat between me and my two-year-old. I ask nicely if he wants to move to either the aisle or the window, but he declines. In fact, his exact words are, “Don’t rabbit on at me, love. I’ve had a long week and I just want to sleep off some of these drinks.”

Fair enough.

What follows is what I can only describe as a nightmare to a childless, 21-year-old male with a hangover.

My son decides that this new man is his best friend. He asks him every question under the sun. He tries to get him to play Paw Patrol and help him with his colouring. When the drinks trolley comes around, the man has to help him with his drink as I can’t reach.

This goes on for an hour before I get up and take my son to the toilet.

When I get back to our seats, the man has silently moved to the window seat and fallen asleep against the glass.

I did warn him.

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