Moments into the return flight from Paris, I began to worry. I had a middle seat, the Princess to my right, and some guy on my left. The guy on my left had the worst – no, THE WORST breath I can recall ever smelling. It was going to be a 467 minute flight and I couldn’t envision any scenario which would result in his breath improving any. Only a drunken optimist would hope that he might brush his teeth during the flight. I’m a realist, I knew he would probably sleep and have airplane/’morning breath’ on top of his already decayed natural state.

Maybe they would serve mint toothpaste sandwiches for lunch? Do airlines ever do that? Has that ever been on a menu? Anywhere? Maybe one of those molecular gastronomy restaurants?

I swear his breath was so bad, I spent the first half hour of the flight wishing he had severe, medical calibre B.O. Or that we’d have engine trouble and have to turn back.

And frankly, the Princess’ prosciutto and port salut sandwich, and au revoir cigar wasn’t making matters all that much more pleasant on my right. Tolerable, but not a true respite.

This makes me have much greater sympathy for customs/immigration agents. They must deal with so much bad breath everyday, that it’s a wonder that they can be even remotely friendly with anyone ever. And what can they do about it? Insist that everyone brush their teeth after getting off a plane? Wear masks? Use that stuff that forensic scientists rub under their noses when they work with decomposing bodies?

The saving grace? As soon as the flight reached our cruising altitude the flight attendants brought drinks and bags of those weird nacho bbq Chex Mex’ish crunchie things only found on airplanes. They masked his breath completely!