THE PLANE IS moving backwards. Slowly. You have to stare at the ground to confirm it. Yes, the luggage vans and fuel trucks are edging right to left across your window.

Surely that’s it. They can’t reopen the doors now. Not after all those false starts. Not after all those apologies from the captain. Not after all those delays. God, so many gin and tonics in the lounge, your head tingling, one hand resting on your knees to stop them shaking. Sculling that first glass of champagne while sitting in window seat 12A, waiting to move.