This challenge is produced by GirlieOnTheEdge with the following simple rules:
Write 6 Sentences. No more. No less.
Use the current week’s prompt word – FORM

Click here to hear the author read his words:

Travelling Blight

About 1,000 years ago when dinosaurs were jouking about in an ultimately vain attempt to avoid errant meteorites (I’m rubbish at dates, just ask any of the ladies unfortunate and unwise enough to suffer one with me and they’ll both tell you it’s true) I was a boy programmer in a carpet factory in Glasgow’s east end whence I grew up into a real computer-type dude even teaching bright young things at a Scottish university for a spell before eventually running my own software company.

Last week my flight from Nice to Edinburgh was delayed for undisclosed reasons due to late arrival of incoming big silver bird (not our fault), further delayed due to shortage of baggage handlers and (apparently unforeseen) plane full of passengers (not our fault) then, y’know, due to unexpectedly giant flock of flying people-carriers over Paris (not our fault).

I was seated in an exit row (seat 13C) for extra legroom, and at the window opposite (13F) was a 6 year old girl who was seriously distressing the cabin crew as one must have attained the magic age of 16 years before qualifying to bear the responsibility of saving lives (by opening emergency door) should our chosen vehicle of aerial transport decide to plunge unexpectedly earthwards.

The parents, a gormless couple with an excessive number of excited brats spread over two rows, seemed mystified by this to them arbitrary ruling despite it being clearly specified on the booking form (why are these people allowed to breed and vote, I wonder).

But, and here I arrive unsurprisingly belatedly to the point of my opening sentence (which you probably skipped over while stifling a yawn), I confess to some concern that an organisation that permits the allocation of seats to unqualified individuals (illegally, according to the trolley dolly (can I still say that?) I spoke to) is deemed sufficiently competent to operate machines that amble around some 30,000 feet above terra firma with a couple of hundred living beings aboard.

This sort of sloppy and clearly untested code would have provided an employee of mine ample opportunity to take up a pastime much less stressful to the delicate sensibilities of over-imaginative souls such as myself, and perhaps work on perfecting their golf swing, so I suggest that whoever is responsible be consigned to seat 32b between sweaty Fat Freddy and smelly Fat Frankie for all eternity.