I boarded my flight, eyes drooping, and prepared a white noise playlist. Seconds later, however, a middle-aged woman clattered down the aisle with several bags and asked me to “scootch up.”

“Alright, love,” she said. “I’ve had eight drinks already. How many have you had?”

I opted not to tell her that my only fluid had been a can of San Pellegrino, part of an underwhelming Boots Meal Deal.

“We’re on a 40th. We’re from Warrington. Are you?”

“From Warrington? Or 40? Neither I’m afraid.”