100. The Que.

I'm sitting on a plane. The seats that surround me are blue, and the one directly infont of me is too close for comfort. The average age on this flight appears to be rather young, as all I can hear are young children chatting, shouting and giggleing away, acompanied by the sound of mario kart and the rumble of the plane. My mother sits on my left, Reading, her eyes look tired and her face is a little pale with
the cold that she seems to have befriended. As she reads she turns each page as if it was made of gold, her dainty hands like spiders.

A trolley travels down the central isle, ever so often meeting a person coming the other way, a manouver that only a morbid anorexic would be able to complete.My gaze turns to the window, I look out, almost blinded by the glare of the sun reflecting off the cloud.A black bag sits at my feet, made out of leather and has two straps, one short and identically styled, and when the other strap is out of view makes it look like a designer nosebag. The second strap is much longer, and made out of canvas with a pink stripe. The contents are what you'd expect from a piece of hand luggage. An iPod touch, phone, purse; issue of vouge and two paperback books. These two books are distinctly different, one is large, pattened with a decrotive cover advitising a prize it has won. The second is small , black with a picture of a vampire on the front. It is teenage fiction, easy to read with a simple storyline designed specifically for the minds of teenage girls. The components of the plot are very simple, school, relationships, the future and issues that girls of that age may possibly face. It's not a complex book, not one that will have needed much research, the places described are enirley fictional and the book never designed to be realistic.The other has a complex and intresting plot, contains detailed description of the placed concerned, talks of art, science, religion and politics, shortlisted for the man booker prize.

As I sit here, the irritating sound of the child behind me's rattle creeps up on my nerves, like a tiger. The sound wanders around my head and leaves me dreading each innocent shake.My mother has fallen asleep, her book now stowed in the pocket infront
of her.

The child has dropped it's rattle, it let's out a small welp of displeasure and the mother promptly returns the irritating object to the child, the shaking continues.A que of people has formed behind the trolley, either trying to return to thier seats or getting up to the loo. A small child stands at the end of my row, he is a young boy and is faced with the behind of the man serving from the trolley. The boy is begining to get impatient. His mother looms down on him from behind with a gleam in her eye, she is proud of her son it seems, and looking forward to the holiday at
the end of her flight. The boy, being young and nive toward polite practice in his current position looks up at the man, and says the only thing he understands to be enirley correct, 'excuse me, please' his voice winney with childhood innocence.
The flight attendant is dealing with a customer and dosen't hear the boy. The boy looks up at the man as he is ignored, he looks straight at me as I watch him, then up at his mother who is looking the other way. He takes his small hand out of his pocket and pokes the flight attendant three times in the bottom. The flight attendant is startled, turns around, and looks straight over the childs head. He glances down at the boy and chuckles a nervous laugh. He politley asks the que to move backwards to the next avalible place for passing.The boy beams a cheeky grin as his mother scoots him off.

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