I was boarding the plane to Heathrow, ducking my head and scanning the row and seat numbers as I was walking the aisle looking for my place, when a middle aged gentleman caught my eye.
The grey-haired old boy called out, “10a, you’re in 10a aren’t you? It’s here, we’ll get up so you can take your seat”. It was the window seat and they were in the two closest the aisle.
I glanced down at my ticket and shook my head, “no mate, I’m in 10e, not 10a”.
He looked shocked and slightly disappointed.
“10a is here, you are in 10a,” he repeated.
This was getting confusing and complicated.
“I am in 10e,” I replied.
The man clenched his jaw in frustration.
“10a,” he said, raising his voice.
I could only reply, ’10e’, stunned as to why this man was taking such an interest in my seating arragement.
This back-and-forth went on until a nearby stewardess heard the commotion, hurried over and looked at the ticket.
“It’s 10e, your seat is there,” she said, pointing at the seat I knew was mine.
“I’m Australian, you may not have understood my accent,” I said to my adversary.
“It was plain English,” the hostess responded, as I took my place.