An unexpected lesson from “straight to airport” romance novels

 

I was at an airport. I was tired. I was alone. Looking around, my fellow passengers were all in  
groups and couples. I could have forged a conversation with one of them, as I usually do, but I did not want to force politeness out of their souls with my pliers of social desperation.

Never one to let my mind go numb, I had three minutes to decide how to occupy myself for an hour in mid air. Newspaper? No. I’d read it all before- Europe is burning, commentators are still banging on about last summer’s riots; and someone killed someone.

Magazine? No, I wanted to read something, not look at adverts for fashion labels.

So a book it was. Footballer’s autobiography? No. Footballer’s wife’s memoirs ghost written by an illiterate high school drop out? No, didnt wnt SMS txt tlk. Footballer’s pet dog’s memoirs? Slightly more interesting but not quite what I wanted.

6O seconds for boarding! I wanted fiction. Something light, different. I only had a few pounds in my   pocket so I headed to the bargain bin. Chick lit novels reduced to 99p. Well, I did need some romance in my life. I stretched out my hand, then pulled back reprimanding myself. Did I want to be laughed at by fellow passengers? No, but who was going to see me? Only strangers. Subscribed to an uninhibited life as I am, I could not let that bother me.

Still, after purchasing it, it felt necessary to rip off the covers, just in case. As lacking in self-consciousness as I am, I did not want to be seen reading a book with: Relationship problems? Life in a mess? Not to worry…Nadia knows best  scrawled in pink on the cover.

So I read away and surprisingly I enjoyed it. It was not Dickens, it was not Wilde, but it sufficed, just. However, with each page I turned, the sloppily compiled book printed on cheap paper began falling apart. By the time I reached page 31, the glue of the spine had been unpeeled, catalysed by my violent regard for my own perceived reputation.

Air turbulence kicked in. My nervous, sweaty grip- nurtured by the corner of eye stares the woman to my left was giving my book, with a certain wry smile- gave way to a panicky sudden jerk and up in the air went 439 pages of loosely bound pages. Down at my feet came approximately 400 loose leaves of paper.

So much for tying to be discreet. Now half the passengers on the plane knew what I was reading.

45 minutes remained. What could I do? With nothing to read, I attempted to put those aforementioned pliers to use but the pompous, preened women beside me would have none of it; and she had a point. “That’s what happens when you vandalise books young man; I saw what you did in the shop”, her pointed, raised eyebrows acting as the exclamation marks on the page of her face. With that, she half turned her back on me (EasyJet flights leave little room for manoeuvre).

Lesson learned: trying too hard to be “acceptable” leads to social isolation and embarrassment. Or should that be: men should never read romance novels… in public?