T-minus 5.

The airline, in its infinite wisdom, has seen fit to assign us seats.

Individual ones that we can sit in. Apart from each other. All the way from SFO to Manchester.

I wish them luck with that. Actually, I wish the entire airplane luck with that. I called the airline to find out if this could be corrected, and the bored customer disservice lady (“We aren’t happy unless you aren’t happy!”) informed us that there was nothing she could do about it until I showed up at the ticket counter. There are no corrective measures that could have been or could be taken until then.

On the off chance that the information was now available, I checked to see if return tickets had also been seated. Indeed they had! I could swear they explicitly asked me if Hobbes was a child under the age of 6. I could swear that’s why they charged me an infinitesimal amount less than the full adult fare. And yet there he was, all on his lonesome, seated between two complete strangers on the other end of the airplane, while his parents were scattered helter-skelter about the rest of the compartment.

The ticket counter and I are going to have words, gentle words, about their seating algorithm. And if they can’t manage to find us seats together, I’m willing to bet that the rest of the airplane will, upon arrival, have words, four letter and really ungentle words, with the airline.