Armrests are not footrests

I was on the plane to Amsterdam, trying to get some sleep after dinner. Dad was seated next to me.

Then I discovered something at the back of the armrest. It was a toe.

The woman behind us had put her foot through the space between me and dad, and laid it on my armrest.

The gentlemanly response would be to patiently explain to her the differences between an armrest and a footrest, but I’m never much of a gentleman.

Instead, I rolled the vomit bag into a mini-baton and gave her toe a tender knock, together with a glance that said: “Do that again, and you’ll walk differently for the rest of your life.”

She should be thankful that the dinner utensils were already collected, because at that moment I was tempted to saw her toe off.


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