Mr Cleansheets. Adrian Deans

I said, raising my glass of supple, ripe tannins.

      Smiley gave me a friendly nod and then composed herself seriously. “Miss Palmer, I do apologise for the problem with the seating earlier.”

      “So you ought. It’s a disgrace to treat important guests in such appalling fashion.”

      “Well, thankfully Mr Judd was kind enough to give up his own seat.”

      “It wasn’t his seat to give,” replied Miss Palmer with a flare of anger. “This was my seat all along. It was simply justice being done that the seat was restored to me, and if he hadn’t given it up I would have complained to the captain!”

      I was utterly speechless. I thought ratbags like this could only exist in fiction. But then a strange note came into Smiley’s voice as she said, “So, you would say that you are now in the seat properly allocated to you?”

      “Of course I am.”

      “I see. And you wouldn’t want to return to seat 4B?”

      Miss Palmer was aghast.

      “Return? Absolutely not. Under no circumstances!”

      “Fair enough. Thank you for making that clear. Would you come with me, Mr Judd?”

      We looked up at her - me in confusion, Miss Palmer in sudden suspicion. Smiley broke into a beatific grin, and was clearly struggling not to laugh.

      “Three first class passengers failed to make the flight. As a result, lots were drawn for upgrade and seat 4B was chosen. If you come with me, Mr Judd, I’ll take you down to first class.”

      “What!” shouted Miss Palmer.

      I allowed Smiley to take my tray, unbuckled my seat belt and retrieved my hand luggage as Miss Palmer seethed.

      “You can’t take him to first class,” she sputtered. “He won’t appreciate it!”

      “You’ve already had dinner, I see, but you can have anything you’d like for dessert in first class,” said Smiley, ignoring Miss Palmer. “Literally anything!”

      I glanced back at Miss Palmer, inarticulate with indignation, her mouth opening and closing once again like an anaphylactic goldfish.

      “I think I’ll have strawberries.”

      EXPERIMENTAL TONALITIES

      If business class was pleasant and roomy, first class was luxury made manifest. So much for my disdain for the exclusive bastions of the rich.

      There were only a dozen or so seats in the cabin and some of my fellow travellers were already stretched out on comfortable looking seats that turned into beds, while others chatted quietly in an atmosphere more reminiscent of a private lounge than a crowded aircraft.

      My seat was on the aisle next to a wide-eyed young woman with spiky brown hair who, clearly, had also just been upgraded.

      “Not bad, eh?” I remarked as I made myself comfortable.

      “I keep expecting them to say there’s been a mistake,” she replied.

      “I can’t believe this!”

      Her name was Doreen. She was a musicologist (whatever that is) and had been invited to attend a series of conferences and performances on experimental tonalities (whatever they are). More importantly, she was a breath of fresh air after Miss Palmer still languishing up in Business Class. She asked me why I was going to England and for the first time, I found myself unselfconscious talking about my ambitions.

      “I’ve been invited to trial for Manchester United,” I told her.

      “My God! How exciting!”

      “Yeah. It’ll be hard enough getting into the squad, though.”

      Her eyes were like stars as she revelled in my pre-glory.

      “Will you be playing in the FA Cup Final?”

      Why couldn’t Shona be more like this? I found myself thinking.

      “Well, it’s only October, but Wembley’s definitely the target,” I replied.

      Just then, I became aware of a dark-looking fellow glaring at me from the centre seat. I raised an enquiring eyebrow, but after staring daggers at me for a meaningful moment, he turned away with a look of thunder.

      Aah fuck it.

      I was too happy and too pissed to care about the weird antics of strangers.

      * * *

      We landed in Bangkok for a two-hour stopover.

      I’d been asleep for the last four hours and woke feeling groggy and very dehydrated from all the Drambuie and wine. We first classers didn’t have to leave the plane, but Doreen and I decided to stretch our legs and go for a walk around the terminal.

      It was the first time I’d been outside Australia and there were some fairly obvious contrasts: the sheer number of angry-looking police clutching machine guns for a start.

      The atmosphere also was completely alien. It was hot, and there was this all-pervading sweetish smell of something like stagnant water, mildew and the exhaust fumes of cars and people.

      After a long walk punctuated by long rides on long conveyor belts, we arrived at the main part of the terminal, teeming with duty free tourist traps and dodgy looking food stands. The heat and the smell, and the alcoholic cess pit in my guts, was starting to play havoc with my sense of reality, but Doreen did most of the talking and I was content to just smile or grunt in woozy acknowledgment.

      “Oh thank God!” she exclaimed as we arrived at a ladies’ toilet. “Won’t be long.”

      I sank into a hard plastic seat which felt like a plush armchair, given my state. I closed my eyes for a few seconds and then gradually opened them again when I felt fingers groping in my pocket. To my vague consternation, the dark-visaged stranger from the plane was standing in front of me.

      “Who’s the woman?”

      “… Eh?”

      I was pissed and feeling very strange so it didn’t occur to me just to deck the prick. Mind you, he looked pretty handy - like an ex-military type or something, so it was probably just as well. I stared stupidly at him, and mumbled: “She’s just a friend.”

      “You have no business talking about the target!” he snapped at me.

      “McNowt will hear of this!”

      I opened my mouth to tell him to fuck off but he turned on his heel and was gone before I could even slur.

      Then Doreen was back, staring at me with obvious concern.

      “Are you feeling alright, Eric? You look terrible.”

      “I feel like shit,” I murmured and then bolted for the toilet.

      “Eric!” she called after me. “You can’t go in there!”

      I just barged through and pushed open the door to the first cubicle.

      I was dimly aware of someone screaming, but I managed to get my head over the toilet just as the fire hose exploded in my guts.

      After several heaves, my head began to clear, and I just sort of braced myself against the wall, sweating and spitting into the toilet - suddenly feeling much better.

      I stood up, and cowering behind me in a corner of the cubicle was a revolted Miss Palmer - vomit staining her shoes and the cuffs of her culottes.

      I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, pointed to the vomit and said, “There’s your fuckin’ strawberries.”

      CONTACT WITH REALITY

      Emerging from