Marriage is a collection of things said and not said…and you can quote me on that

Marriage is, among other things, a collection of things said and not said; things that could have been better said, things that should not have been said at all; things whose meaning changed over time; things that were never said yet were; things that go without saying and things that do not; and things that cannot be unsaid.

The following six vignettes began as midnight ruminations, plucked from 25 years of marriage. Twenty-five years is a big slice of life. Perhaps it can be said that divorce is a life instalment retracted, or as our American friends might say, a life misspoken. For me, life is material. I hope I’ve chosen well:

01 My wife believed in the sanctity of the parent-teacher interview. I did not.

Parent-teacher interviews are a bit like performance reviews: there is nothing to say but everyone plays along to see if that nothing can be stretched out to a respectable five minutes. Well, mostly everyone. My view is: if there is nothing to be said what are we doing here?

When our kids were going to school my wife was a public servant (she is still the latter, but not the former) so naturally took the view that any meeting is a good meeting. That means lots of engagement, exposition and eye contact whereas I would prefer to leave, or better still, not be there in the first place.

Unfortunately, not believing in parent-teacher interviews and actually saying so is treated with the same gravity as advertising the children on Gumtree.

The advice here is not to think better of parent-teacher interviews but to look upon them as an opportunity to brush up on your social skills.

02 In marriage small talk is a big deal

I’ve never had the gift of small talk, which is not helpful in a marriage, or parent-teacher interviews.

At times when I have felt that I really needed to say something in a particular social or professional situation my brain is so shocked by instructions to pronounce on the weather or the football that it assumes it’s been hacked and the words that emerge from my mouth have been encrypted for my own protection – at least that’s what it must sound like to anyone listening.

I get that small talk has a purpose. I really do. I’ve written columns about small talk; I’ve even talked to my therapist about my inability to engage in small talk.

I used to watch my in-laws do small-talk with each other and it would always be the same script: pater-in-law would kick off with something about the weather, usually involving northerly winds. Back and forth, back and forth until something takes and a conversation would begin.

Pater-in-law would kick off with something about the weather, usually involving northerly winds.

My mother-in-law in particular placed great reliance on small talk (and presumably still does). She abhors silence between two or more people. Even the millifraction of silence between crisply enunciated words is a challenge. The result could be a panicked non sequitur on embalming techniques in ancient Egypt or a selection of her great aunt’s favourite soup recipes. Not infrequently she would muddle competing gambits and the result would be either transfixing or fathomless, and sometimes both.

My wife was of the “it’s only weather but it would be impolite not to discuss it” school. Which is to say, if two people, particularly two people married to each other, are sitting in silence, why not break the ice with a commentary on the prevailing humidity or the El Niño effect.

I was and remain of the “if you have nothing to say don’t say it” academy. This made for some very quiet moments in the marital bathroom, over breakfast and in any situation involving unavoidable proximity. Unfortunately, no small talk tended to mean no big talk, which in a marriage can be a problem if only one of you is into companionable silence.

 03 Did I say that? Actually, no, I didn’t

It was a parent-teacher interview that gave rise to a risible canard (by which I do not mean a corgi).

Sitting with my son before his English teacher, apropos of an essay that my boy had written to less than popular acclaim, I suddenly found myself being lectured on the secrets of successful writing. Hoping this was a passing reference I merely smiled at the advice that ranked somewhere between clueless and clichéd. But on she went, and on.

Was the teacher aware that I was a man of letters (which should have been evident from the freshly stamped mail I was holding) and that I was going to miss the 6 o’clock collection? But that’s an aside. I wondered if she knew that I was a journalist, in which case her twee lecture on the “power of words” was surely superfluous. Or did she not know? Don’t teachers make it their business to know what their students’ parents do? Or did she in fact know and was trying to make some barbed point about journalism today?

These are the kinds of rumination I reported back to my wife that evening, whereupon the legend was born that I had thundered to the harried teacher, “Don’t you know who I am!” I could think of few things that would embarrass me more than people believing I had said such a wanky thing.

I’m thinking of having a t-shirt made that says: “What do you mean you don’t know who I am?”

04 When yesterday’s banter becomes tomorrow’s fighting talk

As the delicate flower of marriage withers the grapes of grievance grow with unseemly vigour.

By the time separation occurs the prosecuting partner has such an exhaustive catalogue of faults that not only does one struggle with the specific cause of the breakdown but one has to justify to friends why the marriage ever took place at all.

Fortunately, friends understand and will generously confide that “we never did like him/her” by way of support. Let’s not be shy, “him”.

No wonder divorcees seldom reconcile. By the time a divorce has been granted the warring parties are frothing at the mouth and/or organising divorce parties.

“No wonder divorcees seldom reconcile.”

An indicator of a failing marriage is that observations once greeted as markers of wisdom, intellect or comedy genius suddenly become grating reminders of everything you hate about your once adored partner. One doesn’t see these transitions in real time and by the time one does one realises he has been hoist with his own petard; no matter that your petard had until recently been much admired.

I could cite many instances of finding myself in this situation, but I shall reflect on a particular favourite.

When I would return home from a speaking engagement my wife would ask how the engagement went. I would remark that it was “a triumph” and she would laugh at my immodesty and I was happy to be part of the gag. At some uncharted point my wife came to hate my declaration of triumph even though it was a self-deprecating boast. (Although, as the old saying goes, “many a true word is spoken in jest”.)

Initially I thought it was simply a change in the routine. And then another dynamic came into play. When I realised that she really did hate me saying my speaking gig had been a triumph, that it made her angry with me for being boastful and arrogant, rather than change the routine (say, by having a real conversation) I wilfully scratched the blackboard.

05 Silence is not golden, but some things should be left unsaid

Spouses have to exercise some discretion when it comes to unflattering observations or assessments about their mate. In a successful marriage, or even just a plain old fashioned enduring one, some things are best left unsaid.

If, for illustrative purposes only, telling your spouse that one ear is bigger than the other is unlikely to prove endearing, is it really worth it? If your deliberations include the words “I’m going to say it anyway” or “what’s the most he/she can say?” stop your mouth now.

There will be times of abandon when a spouse may think it’s worth the roll of the dice. One might be angry about something else, or just bored, or just not thinking straight, or just thinking about Declan and/or Daiquiri in Accounts, but bugger it, this has to be said: “You know, I’ve never liked your cooking.” Or, “I don’t like it when you put your hand on my knee when I’m driving.”

Alas, I received both of these not so glad tidings, in situ as it were. The former was said on a belated “need to know” basis and was taken without (prolonged) offence; the latter was intended to wound and did.

06 A brief tale about middle-aged men in Speedos

One of my long-time peeves is middle- and codger-aged men in speedos. It is an abiding distaste which I have tapped into on several occasions in my columns, from warnings to then Prime Minister Tony Abbott that a politician who lives by his little red speedos will surely die by them, to horrified recollections of the boss who decided to wear speedos (once seen, never unseen) at his staff pool party. For the cantankerous humorist speedos are the eyesore that keep on giving.

My family generally spent our annual summer holiday in Merimbula, on the coast of southern NSW, where as a Fairfax employee I had access to a wonderful beachside apartment at very agreeable rates. Most years my in-laws joined us, they taking a separate apartment in the same resort. (My marriage broke down in the first week of January, one week before our scheduled Merimbula holiday. My wife and kids and her parents went anyway: discuss.)

“My wife must have heard my lip curl”

One afternoon, me, my wife and my father-in-law (a sweet and gentle man) were sitting on a mostly deserted stretch of beach when in the distance a solitary figure, a man in his 50s or 60s wearing speedos, appeared. My wife must have heard my lip curl because she was moved to remark on my disdain for middle-aged men in speedos, which I dutifully took as my cue to expound on the subject, borrowing liberally and at length from my own columns.

My father-in-law, who did not read my work, must have thought me quite obsessed on the matter and made do with the terse rejoinder that it was fortunate he decided to wear his board shorts to the beach. Later that afternoon I was volunteered to collect our clothes from the communal clothes lines.

The few items of clothes belonging to my in-laws included a pair of speedos.

Leo D’Angelo Fisher is a Melbourne journalist, writer and commentator. He is a former columnist with BRW and the Australian Financial Review. He was also a senior writer at The Bulletin magazine. Twitter @DAngeloFisher

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Sex at home may be on the wane, but the office romance is alive and well

A recent “sexual health study” – the Australian Study of Health and Relationships – found that Australians are having less sex at home. University of NSW sexual health researcher (nice work if you can get it) Professor Juliet Richters believes she has the reason for that.

“We think it might be the intrusion into people’s home lives of work – checking your work emails last thing before you go to bed [and] taking your laptop to bed,” she explains.

Sounds plausible. The scene is easily imagined. “Sorry dear, it’s an email regarding the Henderson account; I’d best deal with it, my promotion is riding on this.” Sex versus the Henderson account? The Henderson account it is, especially if you’re a self-important tosser.

But perhaps there’s another reason why Australians are more interested in their laptops than their partners’ laps when at home – and at this point it should be stressed that the survey concerned itself with heterosexual couples. Which either means that homosexual couples are banging away like gates in a storm, or they’re going to be part of a separate study.

So, back to John and Betty. Perhaps it’s not so much about the intrusion of work as work is where the action is.

Whatever else may be happening at home, if anecdotal evidence is anything to go by, the office romance is alive and well.

The office romance is very much part of the office furniture. And very often between or on the furniture. Which might be the only thing going for clean desk policies. It saves a lot of packing and unpacking for those amorous colleagues who like to give true meaning to “hot desking”.

For as long as there have been workplaces, so too have there been office trysts. The modern workplace is arguably even more conducive to runaway passions. People are spending longer at work and working under intense pressure. It’s hardly surprising that colleagues working in close proximity to each other for such long periods will eventually find themselves moving from spreadsheets to bedsheets.

At it like public servants

The public service is a particular hotbed of industry. Of a sexual kind, that is. Real industry is a little less common. Our tax dollars still mostly go to funding meetings whose primary purpose is to decide on more meetings, reports that conclude further study is required, and workshops aimed at increasing productivity while keeping bureaucrats away from their desks for days at a time.

Public servants generally like to marry public servants, so government departments are like dating services with lunch breaks. And never let it be said that public servants don’t know the meaning of the word efficiency: bureaucrats find that the workplace is not only a useful place to find a life partner, but an illicit lover as well. It’s what is known as a “one stop shop” in the private sector.

The interstate or overseas conference is a boon to workplace romances. If the PITs – partners in tryst – are senior enough, there is the happy and regular coincidence of both needing to attend the same conference.

Even when there is no conference, it is an easy ruse to claim to one’s partner that there is, thus conveniently explaining one’s absence from the spousal home.

The risk inherent in any office romance is being caught out. Not that there is such a thing as a secret office romance; it’s simply understood that nobody is supposed to know and generally everyone plays along. Whoever coined “open secret” must have had the office romance in mind.

The following delicious yarn no doubt has many variants in workplaces across the land, but it will illustrate how easy it is for office romances to come unstuck.

A middle-ranking “team leader” who was having an affair with a female colleague, a member of his team, decided it was time to step up, and spice up, his office romance. That’s when he hit on the idea of the bogus conference.

Whenever he wished to spend the night with his office consort he informed his wife that he had to fly interstate for a meeting.

The subterfuge extended to him arriving at work with an overnight trolley bag, a matter of derision for all those who knew the score. The scheme unravelled when the philanderer’s wife rang one afternoon to enquire which hotel he was staying at. Unfortunately, one of the few people who did not know about the deception – or more likely she did – informed his wife: “Oh, I can see him at his desk now, I’ll put you through.”

Office romance bingo

People involved in office romances go to great lengths to keep their relationships secret. Everyone knows, but the charade plays on: the meaningful glances across the partitions, exaggerated attempts to keep a po face when passing in the corridor and, for public servants, the furtive brushing of cardigans in the tea room.

The elaborate secrecy can be tiresome but it can also be entertaining in its absurdity. The carefully staged separate arrivals and departures, the angry disagreements at meetings to demonstrate their professional objectivity, the cunning small talk: “Did you have a good weekend?”

Those in the know can amuse themselves with Office Romance Bingo at meetings. Furtive glance across the table: tick. Knowing smile when the other speaks: tick. Double entendres, “That’s a good idea, Malcolm… maybe we should suck it and see”: tick. Or yick.

There is something about furniture that office romantics find irresistible. The boss’s desk is a favoured after-hours pit stop, likewise desks of unpopular colleagues.

The growing popularity of open-plan offices means that those who prefer to be surrounded by four walls – rather than 40 partitions – when interfacing with a colleague don’t have as many options. The meeting room is always a favourite. Here the boardroom table becomes the office furniture equivalent of the king-size bed.

The executive and his PA who decided one fateful night to use the boardroom table as their place of congress thought they were safe from prying eyes but alas were caught in flagrante delicto by a colleague who happened to drop by. Mutterings about working late were exchanged and no more was said. Except for the giant love-heart that appeared on the meeting-room whiteboard the next day.

For three people at least, attending meetings around that table would never be the same again.

As long as there are offices, the office romance will continue to blossom. Unfortunately the office is an endangered species. As companies increasingly shrink their workspaces, preferring employees to work “off site”, the office romance may go the same way as the filing cabinet and the tea break.

Researchers may find that’s when “sexual health” in the home stages a remarkable recovery.

Commuter trains from hell: another morning of backpack warriors, office turtles and hamburgers with the lot

Common courtesy is not so common anymore. Certainly not on public transport. And as for trains – troughs on wheels – you will only find manners, courtesy and consideration if you google them on your mobile device.
Commuter travel has become intolerable. Any day now I expect some passengers – or “customers” as they are now known – to come on board with a couple of chooks and a kero stove to make fresh eggs for breakfast, and perhaps a goat for a lovely glass of organic milk afterwards.
At their worst, modern train travellers are (in alphabetical order) boorish, illmannered, inconsiderate, loud, vulgar, selfish and may or may not have their own teeth.
While the authorities can justify placing considerable effort and resources into apprehending fare evaders, the operator of Melbourne’s train system, Metro, appears helpless to stop the vandals, graffiti gangs and takeaway food-ferals from turning train carriages into aftermath scenes from Glastonbury.
Trains are crowded and clearly illdesigned and illequipped for the throngs they must carry.
Granted, the crush of public transport travel is simply a reality of a busy, growing urban population. Unfortunately, most of our fellow travellers choose not to observe certain norms of behaviour that would make travel as comfortable – or at least tolerable – as possible for all concerned. That’s where the public transport experience falls down. Most commuters couldn’t give a stuff about anyone else.
What makes public transport travel to and from work such an ordeal is not so much the overcrowding but the astonishing rudeness and lack of consideration that one daily encounters within the heaving, graffiti-laden walls of public conveyances.
The rudeness starts when the train stops at the platform. Instead of waiting for people to get off before boarding, unthinking passengers desperate to secure a space charge into the bulging carriage. The ensuing contest of opposing forces resembles a cross between the Battle of Beersheba and World Championship Wrestling.
Occasionally one will hear a warrior-passenger cry: “Would you mind moving down the carriage please, there’s plenty of room!”. Those on the train hanging on for dear life will be wondering exactly where that room might be.
But it’s also true that there is the territorial passenger who manages to occupy a strategic standing position, as near the door as possible, who will not move to make way for oncoming passengers come what may.
If there does happen to be an unoccupied seat, usually a corner island of torn, tattered and food-encrusted upholstery located within a heaving mass of humanity and their possessions, there will always be someone who makes it their mission to claim it. Usually it’s someone of considerable mass, carrying enough hand-held and strapped-on baggage to resemble a one-person Burke and Wills expedition, with the force, determination and rudeness to burrow through any throng. It’s the commuter equivalent of Taz the Warner Bros cartoon Tasmanian Devil getting from A to B with maximum disruption.
I have observed more than once somebody cause considerable mayhem and upset to claim a seat, only to alight one or two stops later.
Meet the Office Turtles
Once on board, the carriage is mostly populated by office turtles. They are instantly recognisable: business attire incongruously offset by backpacks, giant white sports shoes and a flurry of wires.
The office turtles are not a generational oddity, nor is the phenomenon defined by gender. One of the regular turtles I used to encounter was a woman of approximately 60 years, prim and proper in outwardly appearance, neatly attired in grey, lips pursed, most likely a secretary – she was almost a caricature of the no-nonsense PA: except for the giant white runners and a backpack the size of Townsville. Anyone who stood between a seat and Miss Daisy was about to have their morning ruined.
Despite the cramped conditions, office turtles generally keep their backpacks on, much to the discomfort of whoever happens to be standing behind them. More than once I have been in danger of being smothered by a burly backpack. When I dare to push them aside, it’s I who get the look for being rude.
And who knew that Chanel makes backpacks? The tossers who wear them still look like office turtles, but very posh turtles. And they don’t look as if they’re moving house because Chanel backpacks are very dainty. It’s only a matter of time before Chanel produces commuter sports shoes.
Office turtles behave as if they are the only ones on the train. They are not only a visual blight, but a risk to life and limb.
Those few who are considerate enough to remove their backpacks on the train show no such courtesy when, with great exaggeration, they swing their backpacks back on as the train reaches their stop. Many a time have I received a full-force blow by an airborne backpack – and never a murmur of apology. There is no such thing as backpack etiquette on public transport: it’s every turtle for himself.
Basic passenger etiquette is a thing of the past. It is no longer the norm, for example, for people to cover their mouths when yawning. Scores of passengers doing their best imitations of somnolent hippos are not a pretty sight. A young person once looked at me with some curiosity as I yawned, and then I realised that she had probably never seen somebody cover their mouth when yawning before.
Cracking one’s knuckles is another popular sport on trains. Few sounds are more disgusting than somebody methodically cracking their knuckles one by one. Some do it with a bit of a flourish, like that swipe of the keyboard that some pianists favour when they complete their bouncy number. But it’s still noisy and disgusting.
Feeling peckish for a peak-hour snack
More than any other breach of consideration for others is eating on the train. No matter how crowded and uncomfortable, there is always someone, morning or late afternoon, who feels the urge to tuck into a hamburger with the lot, a bucket of KFC or very often, by the sounds of it, bags of gravel.
I have stood next to someone on a crowded train, eyeball to eyeball, who munched away merrily on carrot sticks. The unseemly experience was not only noisy, but pungent. Somehow he was able to negotiate a bag of carrot sticks and a tub of exotic dipping sauce while maintaining his balance.
Construction workers enjoying takeaway curry, office girls with bottomless bags of nuts, university students and office workers with steaming bags of McDonald’s, and there’s always someone with a juicy, crunchy apple.
A few days ago an office worker got on the train and proceeded to pour milk and cereal into a bowl and crunched away for the next several stops, right down to the tap-tap-tapping of the bottom of her plastic bowl to ensure every last morsel was devoured. Unspeakable.
It ‘s now fashionable to come on board with cups of takeaway coffee. These people really can’t wait until they get to their destination to have a cup of coffee? Or have it at home? Apparently not. So, on crowded morning trains people are nursing cups of coffee, avoiding swinging backpacks as they take furtive sips. I know that one day I’m going to end up wearing somebody’s morning brew – sooner or latte.
Worse than passengers rude enough to eat on crowded trains is passengers who insist on devouring each other. I refer to young newbie lovers intent on demonstrating their undying love for each other, oblivious to the delicate constitutions of others, most notably mine.
One of these days some idiot is going to get on his knees and propose marriage to his one true love. He best not be too close as there is every chance he will find himself at the receiving end of a technicolour yawn (apologies to Barry McKenzie).
On top of these outrages against good taste is the scourge of interminable mobile phone conversations and the audio pollution of invasive “personal” music devices, which emit the dubious musical tastes of their owners.
All of this is not just about trains. The crowded trains are a microcosm of wider society and its preoccupation with self. Perhaps the lack of consideration for others and the primacy of individual comfort is a coping mechanism for the pressures of life in the new century.
Such onslaughts against civility – the overcrowding, the selfishness, the boorish excesses – will only get worse as populations climb. There’s always something to look forward to on public transport. And watch out for goats.

Trolley tossers, mobile phone poseurs, security scares and frequent flyer snobs: just another day at the airport

There is no more pretentious a place than airports, and no greater snob than the frequent flyer, and airlines are only too willing to appeal to their egos – and wallets – with business class travel, special privileges and “exclusive” clubs.

Even Virgin has shed its egalitarian inclinations in pursuit of the business traveller. In recent years it has successfully grabbed market share from the struggling Qantas which not so long ago had a near monopoly on the lucrative frequent flyer market.

I’m an infrequent flyer these days, but when I do take to the skies I prefer to fly Virgin – Qantas’s corporate arrogance long ago lost my custom – but it’s with some sadness that I note that Virgin has picked up some of the Limping Kangaroo’s habits.

I was shocked recently to see how many passengers were shoe-horned into a 6.00am flight from Melbourne to Sydney. No longer the leg room that once acknowledged passengers as human rather than pinstriped cattle.

It’s just as well I chose to read the Financial Review rather The Australian because there is no way I would have been able to negotiate a broadsheet. Even a tabloid was a challenge: by the time I finished reading the paper it was an unruly ball not even fit for fish-and-chip wrapping.

As is my preference, I was sitting in the aisle seat. At one stage I attempted to retrieve my satchel from under the seat in front of me – and when I say in front of me, I mean in front of me. This took some time, and some manoeuvring, almost knocking the glasses off the man next to me, and causing him to elbow the man by the window seat. It was the airline equivalent of the Mexican wave, only with bruises.

I was so tightly packed into my seat that if I sneezed I would have punched myself in the nose.

That was in mob class. Presumably things were less fraught in business class. Passengers are considerably more relaxed at the front of the plane, and no wonder.

Virgin business class passengers, like their Qantas counterparts, “enjoy priority check-in, priority boarding and access to the Virgin Australia lounge”.

“Onboard, stretch out and relax in your luxurious leather seat. Start your flight with a complimentary newspaper and pre-flight drink, and in-flight enjoy premium food and beverages from our exclusive onboard Business Class menu designed by renowned Australian chef Luke Mangan.”

Red carpet treatment

Priority check-in lanes make me see red, and I’m not just referring to the swish carpets.

Business class passengers in a hurry to get to their seats bypass the regular queue at the departure lounges and get to walk down exclusive red carpets. Frequent flyers are always in a hurry; somehow a purposeful, brisk stride denotes importance. This excludes those who get to swan in from the airline club at the last minute; in this instance, it’s important to take your time and be seen to be a cut above the rest. It’s like the parade of the nobles at the opening of the British Parliament.

Even if I qualified for priority check-in, I would feel foolish poncing down a red carpet. And what is the advantage of the red carpet treatment anyway? Getting to your seat a few seconds before the economy schlubs? If airlines really valued their passengers, why should a favoured half-dozen walk down royal row, while the poor people and Collingwood supporters gather in an unseemly throng on the drab grey carpet?

Is it really so much to ask business-class worthies to wait in the same line as everyone else?

Regular air travellers are a breed apart and the airport is their stomping ground. You can see it in their smug, self-important demeanour. This is their world: trolley bags in tow, mobile phone permanently affixed to the ear. And they love airport ritual.

This is most evident when lining up at the security station, particularly at peak time. They take a peculiar pride in whipping off their belts, shoes, watches and cufflinks and ostentatiously placing them in the security tray.

And any greenhorn foolish enough to set off the alarm will earn themselves searing glares of disdain.

My travelling companion was unfortunate enough to bring the security assembly line to a halt as the officer at the x-ray screen announced an object in his travelling bag that could not be identified. A burly, obviously senior officer took the bag, placed it before my bemused friend, pulled out a toilet bag, and with exaggerated care removed an aerosol can of deodorant.

With a sombre and reproachful countenance he lectured the transgressor – who might as well have been wearing a t-shirt declaring “9/11 Rocks!” – that this was a banned item. My friend remonstrated that the item had passed airport security before. “That’s not possible,” said the stern officer, who appeared something of an aerosol himself. The deodorant was duly binned and a potential terrorist breach was averted as men without belts tut-tutted.

Theatre of the absurd

I find the airport security ritual offensive, demeaning and, above all else, pointless. Nobody believes that the elaborate screening makes flying safer, but for regular business travellers this theatre of the absurd, and their world-weary compliance, marks their status as seasoned travellers.

As I walked through the gantry in my new “airport friendly” shoes – can you believe there is such a thing? – I surveyed the suits like pigs at a trough retrieving their possessions, while others were busily putting their shoes and belts back on. Are we really winning the war on terror?

Security ceremonies observed, the chosen ones seem to spontaneously disappear into thin air to magically reappear at their airline club. The lesser beings, meanwhile, commence their journey, earnest of countenance, phones at the ready, mobile trolleys in tow, to the departure lounge, like a herd of wildebeest.

Negotiating those wretched trolleys – which we all know contain, at most, a David Jones catalogue and a banana – in airport peak-hour is a major undertaking. About the only positive I can attribute to this mayhem is that it does wonders for my Gene Kelly dance routines.

Most annoying are the Trolley Tossers who insist on dragging their banana-crates-on-wheels into the boarding queues. On this particular morning, as we inched towards our plane, I found myself on several occasions having to brake suddenly to avoid crashing into the trolley before me.

Finally, I accidently on purpose sank my “airport friendly” boot into the offending conveyance. When its owner turned to complain I challenged him, pointing at the trolley: “Do you mind?” Pride dictated that he waited a couple of more steps before assuming the enormous sacrifice of picking up his bag. My companion remarked: “You’re not a morning person, are you?”

The return flight to Melbourne that afternoon was equally trying for anyone impatient with modern air travel.

The plane was packed, the space cramped and the economy-class throng had lost its morning reserve. It was like being on the 6.00pm train to Frankston.

To my immediate left, across the aisle, a 30-something businessman was eating what I took to be a chicken wrap. The smell was unspeakable. How could someone even think of bringing such a festering abomination onto a plane? Why not allow passengers – or “guests” as Virgin prefers – to bring kerosene cookers and livestock on board?

Next to me on my right, in the middle seat, was a little man who bore a remarkable resemblance to Hans Moleman from The Simpsons. I wanted to take a closer look, but if I turned my head I would have planted a kiss on his desiccated forehead.

On the afternoon flight they served a snack of biscuits and cheese, which came in plastic packaging that must have been difficult to open because for the next 20 minutes the crinkling of plastic packaging, one of my favourite sounds, filled the plane.

I opted for a vodka and tonic and it was $10 well spent. I was prepared to go to $100 for that drink.

Hans Moleman obviously enjoyed his snack. The sound of his enjoyment was the only thing that could be heard above the packaging concerto. He devoured his fare with gusto. Imagine an electric saw cutting through a piece of timber and a stream of sawdust filling the air – that was Hans.

Alas, time did not allow for a second drink, but it was good to hear those words, “Welcome to Melbourne”. By the time we arrived on terra firma, my back was sore with economitus cripplitis and I was covered in Hans’ sawdust, but I didn’t care. I knew my next column had all but written itself. Happy flying.

And Virgin; don’t become another Qantas – a little respect for your passengers please. You can start by getting rid of that bloody priority-boarding nonsense.