Thoughts from the sky

Almost got arrested at the security checkpoint this evening – but it is not my style to get arrested the conventional way, such as by taking lots of forks in my hand luggage.
The French are a bit keen when it comes to security and the whole process takes quite a long time, during which you lose interest and begin to daydream. So when it eventually becomes my turn, and the fairly attractive security woman asks me to take my belt off, surely she should not be surprised when I absent-mindedly begin unzipping my trousers and make to whip them off? This was the most embarrassing moment of my week.
Now I am in the food hall at Charles de Gaulle airport. On balance, considering service, setting and culinary expertise, I suspect it is not in the Michelin guide.
This is an extremely sad place. Everyone here has a beer and a laptop, and is trying to work out how to get the wireless to work.
I wanted the Poulet Curry, but instead she offered me Poulet Masala, which I took, even though it looked a bit odd. This was my first mistake. I think she must have said Boulet, because it definitely isn’t chicken. The pieces are of some arbitrarily-shaped aquatic species I do not recognise, almost like some kind of generic seafood, possibly krill or plankton. In fact I think it may be salmon. They are of a remarkable pink/orange colour, and in that regard share something with a lady I saw on the train here.
Just before she served this dish she put it in the microwave for about a minute. I admire an establishment so comfortable with its station as to make no effort whatsoever to deny that your food has been microwaved warm. Even more admirably, they provide additional microwave ovens in the corners of the restaurant for customer use, presumably to reduce complaints of cold food.
When flying, I like to count morons.
These include the people who ask for directions to their seat when they get onto the plane. I cannot comprehend this, and I have the utmost respect for any cabin steward who can keep a straight face while basically saying the following, in fewer words…
‘I see you require assistance in identifying the location of your designated seat. Allow me to help by revealing to me your boarding card. You can see here that the boarding card is telling you that you are in seat 15B. This is apparent from these words: “Seat 15B”. So what you need to do at this point is find a seat that has the name 15B. Conveniently, the airline took the measure of labelling each seat with its name, to make this achievable, even for a foreign idiot like you. This seat right here is labelled 4C. So you need to keep walking until you reach row 15. Don’t worry; just walk in this direction, it’s almost impossible to get lost. We use a numbering system known as counting, in which first the number on the right goes up 1 by 1, and when it gets to 9, then it changes to a 0, and another number 1 appears on the left. This is nothing to be afraid of. Just keep going until you get to 15. When you reach row 15, you need to find a seat called 15B. To do this you need to be familiar with something called the alphabet, in which we put all the letters you can think of in a line. It goes A, B, C, D and so on. But luckily you can stop at B, because that is your seat. So all you need to remember is the letters of the alphabet up to B. God speed, simpleton.’
This life diminishing exchange is received by the passenger either with heartfelt thanks, expressed through a relieved nod and a ‘thank heavens you’re here to help’, or with yet further bafflement, expressed through a profound Gallic shrug as the person gazes at their boarding card, mystified by its complexity.
Distressingly, I think it is correct to say that the first people to fly were French.