WCXX

I expect part of my reaction was sour grapes. I don't often get an upgrade myself – but perhaps because I don't ask. The only time it was offered was when I was once coming home from a visit to elderly friends in Maryland, and they drove me back to Baltimore Washington International. My dear friend Margaret actually came to the check-in desk with me, and then got so emotional about saying goodbye that she began to weep. "Look after this lovely girl," she said, wiping away tears. "She's very precious." The bemused lady from British Airways waited patiently while we both snivelled, dabbed our eyes with tissues, etcetera. Anyway, at the end of this quite moving display – for which I kept mouthing apologies – I discovered that I'd been upgraded to Business Class!

I had quite mixed feelings about this, to be honest. Margaret's tears had been completely genuine. But because I had profited from them, I now felt the whole thing could have been cooked up in the car park.

"Now listen. When I say the words, 'Can I have a window seat please?' I want you to start bawling the place down."

"Right. OK."

"Say what a fantastic person I am. Really pile it on."

"Pile it on. Got it."

"Got tissues?"

"Yep."

"Raw onion?"

"Yep."

"Let's go."

Still, despite my misgivings I was happy to keep the upgrade. "Gosh, I will be travelling in Business," I thought, innocently. "My flight home will be considerably more pleasant as a consequence."

But as you can probably guess, there is a twist to this tale. Cheerfully boarding the plane, I found that I was sitting next to a friendly old chap who was travelling home with his daughter from a big family wedding Stateside. This was confusing, as she was nowhere to be seen. "Wouldn't your daughter prefer to sit with you?" I said. But he said no, she'd chosen to sit the other side of the plane, in actual fact. He indicated her, and she gave us both a wave, so I shrugged and settled down. And then, slowly but surely, my nostrils registered the overpowering reason why this loving daughter had placed a cordon sanitaire between herself and Dear Old Dad for the eight-hour flight back to London. Dear Old Dad had BO like nothing I had ever known. During the next eight hours, I tried many times to catch the eye of that daughter of his: astonishingly, she was always either deep in a book, or sleeping peacefully. This being a night flight, I too tried to take refuge in sleep – but it was a bit difficult when every time the Dear Old Dad turned in his seat, a gale of stink brought me to the verge of vomit.

So my advice would be: pretend to be a newly-wed if you must, but never hire an actor to weep at check-in on your behalf. How many times I have re-imagined that scene at BWI in the light of later evidence. Margaret is weeping, "She's very precious!" I am smiling apologetically. And while we are wiping our eyes, the utterly p-----off check-in lady allocates me the Seat From Hell (Business Class), a truly exquisite revenge.