New Year's Frustration

Well, well, humble and noble pilgrim, I have returned to my hole in Tucson. I am thrust 6000 miles away from my beloved after the most exquisite two weeks of my life. Christmas is indeed a wonderful time of year to spend in England. Needless to say, I feel dejected and depressed. Yesterday continued my series of disappointing experiences with British Airways; not only are the seats crammed in to total capacity but I waved goodbye to ol' Blighty in a rather sordid fashion. After a mere hour into the ten hour slog, an Indian woman, resident of California, invited me to swap seats with her. I had a spare seat next to me and she was offering a front row security seat with ample leg-room. On account of her very small child and their obvious desire to sleep throughout the flight I politely agreed and shuffled my way forward. I had cleverly picked up an airport copy of Jeremy Clarkson's Don't Stop Me Now and was quietly enjoying his ongoing exposure of the war on reason with a wide grin when the glam-clad air-hosts dimmed the lights for the evening. It was only then that I discovered my new seat's reading light was non-responsive. No matter, I thought, I'll flip out my personal telly and peruse the comedy options to take my mind off of my heart-wrenching grief. Thwartingly, it didn't work. Whatever buttons I pressed: nothing. The endearingly camp assistants couldn't help me after three lengthy reboots and I sank into my seat for the remainder bereft of all entertainment apart from my worn iPod Shuffle. Tedium ensued. I came extremely close to marching back to my comfortable and dependable former-seat and hoofing the wench and her baby back to where they came from. My British tolerance, recently recharged, compelled me otherwise. You may note also that I'm choosing my words carefully. Clinton has carefully pointed out that I lose my nous with the language when I'm ranting, so he invested me with a proper, hefty, Oxford English Dictionary for Christmas. Anyway, I'm back, with a vengeance.