Wars have flared from boundary disputes over the smallest strips of land and, suddenly, I was experiencing it for myself.
As so often in history, it all began with an unexpected act of aggression. No negotiation, no compromise; just an invasion.
Former US president, Dwight D Eisenhower, said: “Don’t waste a minute thinking about people you don’t like.” But I was unable to block it out, and a show of force was my only option.
I decided to draw a line and defend my territory whatever the cost.
It was, I hasten to add, an exceedingly small strip of land I was fighting over. I don’t think it measured more than 12 inches in length, but it was worth defending: after all, the armrest on a passenger jet defines your personal space for the duration of a flight.
Usually you come to an unspoken compromise with your fellow passenger; common sense dictates this when you rub elbows in such restricted space. It’s awkward to start off with – a kind of North and South Korea standoff at the 38th parallel – as you decide informally which half of the armrest is going to be occupied by whose elbow.
I was struck by the number of times exasperated cabin crew told the same people over and over again to wear masks properly
In my case, a giant of a man plonked himself down heavily after boarding and slammed his whole arm on the armrest, knocking me slightly to one side. He had grabbed all of it. Not only that, due to his size he spilled over and took half of my seat, too.
So, I was going to be flying sardine class all the way home for four-and-a-half miserable hours.
A 270-minute stand-off
I’d taken an instant dislike to my neighbour, not only because of his aggression, but also his arrogance in wearing a face mask under his chin.
I was low, as mom died 48 hours earlier, and tetchy as my rip-off Scottish Government day-two PCR test loomed. I’m glad we saw the back of them.
This particular round trip involved four flights and I was struck by the number of times exasperated cabin crew told the same people over and over again to wear masks properly.
Pinned down in my half-seat, I summoned the fighting spirit of Dad’s Army. I dug my right elbow in and tried to keep it there for the next 270 minutes of our flight (despite Eisenhower’s advice not to waste even one), though it was an unequal David and Goliath struggle.
He was a towering young Dutchman of Tyson Fury proportions, but nothing was said until the final few seconds of our journey.
What ensued was a silent struggle of continuous arm wrestling and buffeting while the hours crawled by, as he tried to win total control of the armrest. Yes, I know I should have done the polite British thing, but it was the principle; my back was up as well as being crushed in the seat.
Mums always know best
I finally snapped on final approach to Schiphol Airport in Amsterdam.
I recalled comments from a traveller in the US, questioning if larger passengers should automatically be required pay for two seats. Great idea, I thought. But can you imagine the chaos and human rights issues around measuring people as well as baggage at airports?
The traveller complained to an airline of “the horrific discomfort of feeling someone’s unrelenting, hot and sweaty flesh pressed into your body from shoulder to ankle”.
By now I was glued to the other chap by congealed sweat – from our arms stuck together in a grim embrace. As we glowered at each other, I noticed above the mask that he was a baby-faced bully: late teens, maybe, but boy was he strong.
We began our final approach and he suddenly exerted all his strength sideways to keep my whole body pinned down in my seat. Perhaps he was trying to teach me a lesson. It was surreal; I couldn’t believe what was happening.
In professional wrestling, I think they call this type of scenario three submissions or a knockout to win a bout. Final straw: I shoved his arm off the armrest and gave him a mouthful.
A woman across the aisle appeared to scold him and he slunk back into his seat – with arm off the armrest. It was his mum.
Maybe I should have had a quiet word with her before take off; mums always know best.
David Knight is the long-serving former deputy editor of The Press and Journal
