My job has started requiring more and more flying. I wish it was to some romantic island to be pampered and rewarded for all my hard work – somewhere with bronzed bodies who hand you piña coladas when they sense you’re nearing the end of your current dora. But, alas. I get sent to pretty, pretty Cape Town and trashy, humid, hair-curling Durban for meetings. I sit cooped up in boardrooms with sea views that add to my misery. Now, I’m not really a beach fan. I’ll enjoy the beach far more when they pave it, but I do like the idea of being near the sea. On holiday. With a drink. And bronzed bodies. While the meetings (though productive) feel like a form of torture for us desperate-to-be-on-holiday types, the worst part of getting to pretty, pretty Cape Town and trashy, humid Durban is the flight. I tend to get the middle seat. Usually I have a colleague on my side, but most times I get some character who feels the need to engage, when I clearly have magazines, iPads, Kindles, and vegetarian meals in front of me to keep me company. Recently I had a lovely girl who had clearly had a very drunken night in trashy, humid Durban who chatted to me inbetween vomiting into her sick bag. I attract these. Clearly. So this morning I’m typing this at the airport as a silent prayer to the the plane gods to ask that the seat next to me is vacant. Or has a bronzed body. Shirtless will be fine. With a piña colada. Pretty please?