At 33 weeks pregnant, I am no longer allowed to fly. And given my latest airborne experience that's just as well.
Returning home from a holiday in Gran Canaria, I observed that despite my burgeoning maternal instincts, essentially, other people’s children are still the spawn of the devil. Namely other people's children within the confines of a low budget aeroplane.
It started with the family opposite: mum, dad, and a cute little angel of about two.
It was not so cute when said nipper, after wolfing down obscene amounts of some neon-coloured attempt at food orally released an almighty orange streak of regurgitated e-numbers all over the aisle next to my foot.
I am well aware that once I become a mother, I’ll have to deal with vomit of all description, dealt to me from all angles and at inopportune moments. But will the smell and associated squelching noises be less offensive? I’m banking on it.
There is something about flying which brings out the animal in all of us. Hooting, squawking, hollering apes with nil consideration for the shortening tempers of those around us.
The tyke behind me insisted on relentlessly kicking my chair and playing a loud computer game with moronically happy music for the entire four-and-a-half hour flight.
I wondered why his mother hadn’t told him to be quiet, but then noticed how she had taken to loudly yelping at her husband, noisily chewing gum and animatedly swinging back and forth on her seat, creating a ripple effect on our entire three-seat row.
No, my irritations are not reserved for other people's children. Just other people.
The desperate need to buy every type of snack pack and four lagers on a short flight; the furious shoving to get to the front of any queue - even if turns out not to go anywhere; the loud, self-important phonecalls when it's not permitted to use a mobile.
I often wonder what happened to politeness, courtesy and soothing quiet. But that could be the hormones talking.