PostScript about the prat.

The prat.  This is the fellow traveller whose obliviousness to others makes life difficult.  The god of airline travel gave me my own personalprat this flight. One on one exclusive service.  I'm sitting in my seat when without warning the seat in front of me whizzed backward at a rate of knots and stayed there the entire flight making it next to impossible for me to lean forward and retrieve my bits and pieces from under the seat. I got pretty adept at hooking my bags with my foot. But it did give  dining a  peculiar challenge and put ne up close and personal with the in flight entertainment system. Of course the prat, a young man of Indian extraction couldn't wait to turn his phone on the second he could.  From his seat emanated a stream of whistling. His hundreds of friends doubtless eager to hear from him.   That annoying dog whistling sound. Of course he's a prat so he would necessarily have chosen sounds that make it hard to suppress homicidsl rage in others.

It's now early morning and we are all luxuriating in thr bliss is being able to stretch out.

Micks cleaning his teeth in te bathroom, which is large in high ceiling end but has properties uncannily like an echo chamber. Unfortunate when dhal has featured heavily.  I haven't had the heart to inform Mick yet who from this day forward is to be known as mr farty pants. This makes me very happy that my extended visit was in thr middle of the night accompanied by Micks snoring.

Oh henceforth Mick is to be addressed as Mr snoring farty pants. Bernadette has just asked me if the beer I consumed has not worn off.