"We'll be landing in fifteen minutes, but unfortunately they're making us land on the remotest runway. So, after landing, we'll have a twenty minute taxi to the gate. However, we'll be at the gate five minutes ahead of schedule."
So, it was clear right? Land early, drive a bit then get to the stand on time. No reason to complain. Or so I thought.
Five minutes into the 'taxi', the guy across the aisle from me starts to tut. He's fidgeting in his seat and he's a-huffing and a-puffing.
"This is beyond a joke." He said, to no-one in particular.
I look across at him - schoolboy error - and that's it. He's locked onto me and he's starting to talk.
"You here for a holiday then?" he said, condescendingly.
"No, I"m heading home", I told him. "I live in Paris".
"Oh, I live in Paris too" he said. "Hate the place. Hate it. I go back to the UK every weekend".
"That's a shame. Paris a great place to live."
"What's so great about it?" he said, throwing down the gauntlet.
I was about to tell him why I like my adopted home, but I changed my mind.
"Where do you go back to every weekend?" I asked him. "Where in the UK?"
"Northampton" he said, surprisingly unashamedly.
"Hmm. Northampton," said I. "It has a lovely shoe museum, I hear."
He looked at me as if I had just flicked shit on his tie. That was the end of that conversation.
As we were disembarking, he was ahead of me in the queue. He turned to speak to the (lovely, friendly, handsome, French) steward.
"This is the worst airport in the worst city in the world!" he exclaimed, loudly.
"Really sir?" said the stew, with a disarming smile. "I didn't see anyone force you onto the plane. Maybe it's just you? Have a pleasant evening!"
Air France 1 : Miserable git 0
I like Paris. And I really like that steward.