Let me say at the outset
that I have nothing against breasts.
Apart from my own, which would have
trouble filling a contact lens, let alone a bra, I happen to think they are
rather beautiful. In fact, I appear to be the only woman in the world bemoaning
the dropping of the swimsuit section in beauty pageants.
Let me also say that I have
nothing against women breastfeeding in public. But is it too much to ask for a
bit of discretion? I know that babies have to be fed and that the human body is
the most natural thing in the world, blah blah blah; but having just endured a
two and a half hour flight next to a breastfeeding woman, I’m going to risk the
wrath of women everywhere.
I’m sorry. I didn’t like it. If I’d closed my eyes
and poked my tongue out a centimetre, I could easily have fooled myself into
thinking I’d been incarcerated at a dairy farm.
The flight did not start well. I
am very fussy about where I sit. Unless I am flying long haul and have my own
sleeping area, I have to be at the front and in an aisle seat, quite simply
because I suffer from claustrophobia. I book my seats well in advance and pay
premium price to get them, so, as far as I’m concerned, I’m not committing a
heinous crime by refusing to give it up.
You want your seat? Book it. Pay for it.
Just like I did. It ain’t rocket, or even Boeing, science.
Last year, some people were
incensed when I wrote about not giving up my seat to a woman in the aisle
behind who asked for mine on the grounds of “I’d like to sit with my
boyfriend.” No, no and no again. And why didn’t he ask? If you can’t survive
three hours without your partner, you really shouldn’t be together in the first
place.
But back to Dairygate.
I was in
one seat. The woman appeared to want/need five, although I couldn’t quite work
out why at this point. I was asked by a crew member if I’d move to row two at
the other side of the plane. Not. Going. To. Happen (did I mention I also have
to sit on a particular side?). Just as last year, there were dirty looks from
fellow passengers – although I suspect had they been asked to move, it would
have been a different story.
So, the milkmaid sat in the
window seat with her baby and one free seat between us. The second the seatbelt
sign was off, out game a gargantuan breast to which the six month old infant
(at least I was polite enough to ask about the beautiful child) attached
herself with the safety instinct of a passenger bracing themselves for landing
on water.
I continued to politely engage, accompanied
with lots of Oohs and Aahs about what a hungry little girl she was. “No she’s
not hungry,” said Spanish mummy. “She eesss like theesss all the time; she
cannot be away from me. Alwaysss she want the breast.” Oh, great. Another
double brandy when you’re ready, steward!
Then, the unthinkable happened.
From the row behind, another child appeared. She only had effing twins! It
reminded me of a story I heard about Mike and Bernie Winters when they were
starting out. After Mike’s routine had died on stage, out came Bernie and
someone in the audience allegedly shouted: “F**k no! There are two of them.”
That was me.
Luckily, the boy was not so
demanding, not least because his sister decided it was her turn once more. And
so it all began again.
Now, like I said, it wasn’t that
it offended me, but I think we should keep our bodily parts and functions
discreetly hidden when in the company of others. I am deeply offended when
people put their bare feet on train seats; I don’t like people wiping their
noses with their hands; I’m not partial to men getting their willies out and
pleasuring themselves on planes (though I have seen it happen).
As someone who
has been getting her tits out for the lads for decades (I promise you: I really
have stopped now), I know that the words pot, kettle and black will spring to
mind; but I still think that a 150 minute movie of a giant tit doesn’t make for
great viewing. I could barely keep my ham and cheese toastie down.
Whether we like it or not, we
live in a world in which we should be sensitive to others and be aware of
cultural differences. I’m not suggesting airlines provide golf umbrellas to
shield lactating breasts from passengers such as myself of a delicate
disposition; but neither do I want to be sitting next to an air balloon in my
face – literally.
I know my mother stopped
breastfeeding me when I was six months (although she still proudly shows off
the chair she used to do it on – less proudly when she recalls that she had me
in one hand and a cigarette in the other); I know people who have breastfed
their kids until they were four (they grew up to be nuts, should you be
tempted); I’ve never had kids, so the best I can muster is a few guys (who were
all crap at it, by the way; quite why they think the right technique is downing
it like a can of Stella is beyond me, but that’s another story). But this was
the first time I’ve been so . . . well, up close and personal as an adult
observer.
I’m waiting for the screams of
“most natural thing in the world”.
So is masturbation; I still don’t want to
see it at 30,000 feet.
On the plus side, in the unikely event of the plane landing on
water, I wouldn’t need to struggle with my life jacket; I’d just grab the
nearest lactating tit and breathe deeply.
