Free Dear Beneficiary by Janet Kelly Page B

the front of the queue to get settled in the plane first, as I always hated the looks of contempt from seated passengers while we made our way to the last available seats. However, I didn’t want any more stress or the embarrassment of having to find another toilet quickly so I stayed near the one I knew about for as long as possible.
    I swung my travelling bag over my right shoulder. It was brown leather and probably very expensive as Colin had bought it on one of his trips to New York. He gave it to me on his return rather than wait for a birthday or Christmas which did make me wonder what he was feeling guilty about. Probably looking at an air hostess on the way home, or accidentally tuning in to the hotel’s porn channel. He wasn’t the type you could imagine doing anything to warrant claims of cheating, on any level. He’d even refuse to put kisses on birthday or leaving cards for female colleagues in case it was construed as sexual harassment.
    I strolled towards the gate. The queue had dwindled and there were just a few people left to check in. As I got to the desk a large, black woman dressed in a myriad of colours pushed in front of me. She was wearing a swathe of thin cloth wrapped loosely in various directions, which I thought looked strangely stylish. Normally I’d have said something at the woman’s rudeness but I was fascinated by the clothing. I could never work out how anyone could wear all that material without looking like they were going about their business in a set of sheets.
    â€˜I love your dress,’ I said to the woman, who was at least a foot taller and probably five stone heavier than me. ‘Did you make it yourself?’
    As I was waiting for an answer, hopefully a polite one in the interests of making conversation, the woman turned to me and sucked her teeth, ignoring my question and gliding forward as if she had rollerblades concealed under the voluminous folds of her outfit. She made it clear she wasn’t interested in any discussion.
    â€˜Please yourself,’ I muttered under my breath, as I opened up my passport and tickets for inspection. I wasn’t sure where I’d be sitting on the plane, although I’d asked for a window seat.
    I was amazed at the lack of interest the Nigerian Airway’s representative had shown in my ticket or passport. I tried to make small talk, but to no avail, as she wouldn’t make eye contact. I hadn’t seen anyone look so bored since Titch was asked to play a tree in a school production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Dressed in a cardboard tube, painted green, and covered in a variety of twigs from top to bottom, she was expected to remain static for a little under two hours. Her nose never recovered; she’d dropped off halfway through, waking only in time to realise she was going to hit the stage, and couldn’t get her hands free to break her fall.
    The walk down the various poorly constructed corridors was long and tedious. I wondered whether Nigerian Airways planes were kept as far away from the airport as possible. It’s a good job I’m fit or I might not have made it.
    Finally at the door I handed over my ticket to the bored stewardess who pointed me in the direction of the interior of the plane. I found it vaguely amusing as she showed me down the aisle of the plane. I’m not quite sure where else she thought I would go.
    I looked around at the seat numbers for 47C and in doing so tripped over a wayward foot which some great oaf had poked out into the path of those in the aisle.
    I landed face down in the bosom of the woman I’d tried to speak to in the queue. She sucked her teeth again, more loudly this time.
    â€˜Oh, we meet again,’ I said, trying to deal with what I found to be quite an embarrassing situation.
    I pushed myself up to a standing position using the woman’s substantial knees to do so.
    â€˜Will you git arf me,’ she drawled in a strong accent