Travel Tip 01: Correct Use of Prominent or Visible Scars.

As I stumbled and struggled down the aisle of the very crowded, early morning economy flight to Melbourne, I wondered why there were always some friends who thought it was a good idea to drink half of a hotel the night before you flew anywhere - even if it was only a trip away for a couple of days. “Doesn't matter how long you're goin' for Stokesy we've gotta have a couple of beers.”

As I searched for my seat, I saw him and I knew instinctively that I would be seated next to him. I checked my ticket, yep, sure enough, this day just kept getting worse.

First of all, I woke up that morning with a head that pounded with every heartbeat, a stomach that felt like I had been eating Blowfish all night (poison sacks and all) and a mouth that tasted like I had eaten a variety bag of excrements. Then I arose to the inevitable process of events that one goes through when he neglects to tell his girlfriend that he won't be home for dinner and that he will indeed be home much, much, later, ridiculously pissed, reverting to childhood behaviour and accompanied by two mates who can only say “SSHHHH!!” extremely loudly.

So, after being told what an absolute jerk I am capable of being (and all of my friends) several times over and rushing to the airport with no time for breakfast or any form of hangover cure, I found myself with the prospect of sitting next to a complete pain in the arse all the way to Melbourne.

Yes, there he was, his body language told you everything. Legs stretched out in front of him hands clasped firmly behind his head, that, 'I'm an expert in everything look'. Besides I recognised him from when I worked at a hotel in Noosa. He was a wine rep that used to visit the hotel, the one that caused everyone to suddenly check the fridges when he arrived. You know the type - incessantly telling bad jokes, constantanly thowing around offensive and lurid remarks about my female co-workers (only I'm allowed to do that), and I'm pretty sure he had rank breath.

“Hi there, mate. You goin' all the way to Melbourne, or ya jumpin' out half way? Ha ha”. Oh my God, who opened the gates of hell? Did someone have a rotting carcass in their luggage? It seems I was  right about the bad breath, which did nothing for my queasy stomach. Desperation set in, I started mentally searching for a way out of my situation.

He hadn't recognised me from the hotel. He'd been babbling on for about ten minutes now, not even waiting for a reply to any of the meaningless questions he'd thrown my way, until he asked, “How'd ya get that scar mate? Looks nasty.” I'd had a cyst removed from my neck a couple of weeks beforehand, which had left a small but noticeable scar.

“I'm in the SAS.”I blurted out. Where the hell did that come from' I thought. “And I'm on stress leave. They slashed my throat but I got all five of them, I got 'em.” I said with my best glazed look in the eye. I even managed a half crazed laugh at the end of my statement and then I just sat staring towards the front of the plane.

He tried a few half-hearted, nervous attempts at some more conversation, to which I grunted a reply, before he went to speak to one of the stewardesses.

The last thing he said was “Excuse me”, as he reached over to retrieve some of his belongings from his seat. He then shuffled down the aisle to a new seat, with a concerned looking hostess, as I stretched out and snoozed all the way to Melbourne. Thankyou scar.