...they might be a writer.
some time before dawn i awoke refreshed after a glorious bear-like sleep in transit over the pond and made a few notes from the previous evening...
the man who lowers himself ponderously into the seat next to mine introduces himself as an "empowerment psychologist" and although i am clearly tethered to my phone and skipping around between tunes, persists in attempting to converse.
he informs me variously [and without effort on my part] that he hovers between continents, spends six months each year in Australia, that he has a "very independent wife", that travelling is a lonely business, that he has been doing it for thirty-five years.
out it pours, a muddy swollen river full of the flotsam of too much detail. the speakers planted visibly in my ears are no deterrent.
eventually he comes up for air.
i use the interval in which his tortured cells are gratefully gulping oxygen to smile sweetly that i, on the other hand, am well content with my lot, thoughtfully stroking the thin silver band encircling my ring finger [which in reality has nothing to do with anything] and direct my attention back to the music, switching from Ben Webster inappropriately making whoopee on his sax to Leonard Cohen who somewhat unnecessarily but in delicious honeyed tones assures me "there ain't no cure for love"
the self-styled psychologist mutters something about taking a sleeping pill to "get through this boring flight", downs a couple of tablets with a flourish and is comatose within minutes.
must be strong stuff, i've seen sensitive horses take longer to succumb to intravenous anaesthetics.
enveloping myself in a leaf-scented shawl and some virtual hugs sent last-minute by a kind friend i drift into the arms of Morpheus myself, reflecting on the invisible line that separates men of honour from the other kind.
of course, i may have entirely miss-interpreted the poor chap, but it wouldn't have made half as good a story.