Don't take this the wrong way. Don’t let me upset you, especially if you recognise a little bit of yourself in this article. (I may not actually be sincere about that sentiment.)
I am sure it happens to lots of other people in lots of other jobs too. But there is something pretty awful about air travel when you are a veterinary surgeon.
It's simply the fact that you are just stuck there, strapped in, crushed together; an innocent prisoner with absolutely no hope of escape or parole. All you can do for respite is disturb everyone around you and head to the loo, but there is a limited time you can stay in there without people wondering if you have Norovirus, or worse, and there is a finite number of times you can utilize this technique before fellow passengers start to worry about the health of your prostate.
It's why I shudder at the thought of long haul flights and settle instead for the relative safety of quick hops to Europe.
The big issue is that, inevitably, you end up sitting next to someone you have never met before. Unfortunately, that someone always seems to think that, just because fate has randomly thrown you together, you need to talk.
A conversation must be struck up. Dialogue is required. Questions have to be asked. Regrettably, after ‘Where are you going?’ and ‘Have you been there before?’ it eventually leads to the one line you dread. ‘What do you do for a living?'
Now, at this point in the proceedings, one has a decision to make. You can fib and say you are a firefighter, a mechanic or a joiner, but then you run the risk that your fellow passenger is too. And that can get awkward.
If you fail, however, to think fast enough and find yourself admitting ‘I am a vet’, then you must be prepared for a three-hour monotonous monologue that ranges from every pet they ever owned, through how ridiculously expensive vets are, to their strong, completely unresearched and unsubstantiated opinions on the dangers of vaccinations and the benefits of homeopathy, herbal remedies and raw diets.
There is nowhere to go at this point. If you do, eventually, succumb and barricade yourself in the loo, three things happen. You remember your claustrophobia. The air stewardesses eventually come knocking. People cover their faces and turn away from you as you walk back down the aisle. If you pretend to fall asleep, you only hear mutterings about your appallingly unprofessional behaviour.
So I have worked out a cunning plan. Immediately after boarding the flight on which I am currently sitting, I took out the iPad on which I am currently typing and pretended to be deep in thought, writing serious scientific articles. No one in their right mind would interrupt me.
Though I do believe the chap sitting next to me has been reading this over my shoulder the whole time.
I do hope he is a vet.
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