Observing that an entire queue of people trying to queue-jump is permitted – merging – where one or two people would be maced and run out of town, I’m getting on the Sydney flight, hauling my bag and guitar into the locker and look back to see that there’s a Yeti in the seat next to me. Yeti shoots a dirty look and goes back to the duty-free magazine. I squeeze myself in because Yeti is all over the armrest in between and dripping over the edge and I’m trying to be stealthy, not disturb nor make my presence felt too close lest Yeti rips my arms. Yeti finishes staring at the brandy section, dives in for a quick scratch and sniff before tossing the mag down, pushes the armrest up into no-mans-land until Cabin Crew arrive and demand that my last line of defence is restored. Narrow escape, except by this time the plane is hitting V1 on the runaway and the Brunette is panicking because the fear of flying is screaming at her in stereo and we’re bouncing around the tarmac like Freddy Krueger’s school bus, the kids two rows down think they’re in Disneyland and all the time the Brunette is trying to make balloon animals out of my left arm just make it stop already but sooner or later calm is back, the Brunette is head down reading Murakami’s latest suicide note and the Yeti is occupied adjusting costume jewellery until Cabin Crew emerge with a trolley. Feeding Time. Yeti sings a showtune over the exact type of coffee required extra milk one and a half sugars and then it’s three dollars. Yeti looks caught in the headlights and mumbles some excuse about handbags – wait, it’s a she? – being far away and has them dump the coffee while she shrivels into looking out the window again in shame. My victorious snort allows the cabin crew to move out of reach before I can grab a few celebratory gins and anyway, two minutes later we’re heading down and the brunette is twisting my shoulder into a giraffe. We’re finally in Sydney.