I am in an overheated Aer Lingus tube-with-wings watching a trickle of early morning fliers file past, as tinny Tchaikovsky is tannoyed from, it seems, every seam of the grimy plastic fuselage. I am in an exit seat, the extra leg room and worst-case-scenario responsibility compensating me for the fact that I am beseiged, three rows deep, by a party of middle-aged, middle-class, middle-English golfing couples.
Hatchet-faced women in pearls and dyed bobs call in cheery stings about the how good the wine was with dinner last night and the men, red faced and all organically yoghurty, unashamedly berate each other with staccatoed guffaws about the sand trap on the twelfth hole and enquire how their egos will ever recover from 'that' double bogie.
They are all wearing pastels, trews, tank tops and sweaters. I'm half-hoping to see a man with plus-fours and a tam o' shanter, but no. They all look like neon fucktards that were bought in the 'special and smug' section of the Early Learning Centre's golf aisle. The men have been dressed by colour co-ordinated wives whose crookedly bleached teeth speak of liquid wealth and a chronic lack of imagination.
I am in Hell.