I live on Ryanair.
There, I've said it. I admit that I am a frequent flyer on Ryanair, and I can honestly say that in the fifty or so flights I have taken with them so far this year, I could only think of a few things to complain about.
This is how it works for me.
I book my flights about a week before I fly. I'm lucky that the flights that I want are always cheap, because I am flying at inconvenient hours. So I'm one of the people that's getting a bargain out of these people.
I don't take any hold baggage.
I don't pay extra for priority boarding.
I don't buy their travel insurance, but only because I have my own in place.
I keep an eye on the queues, and make sure I get to the front of the non-priority queue.
I use the front stairs, always.
I sit as near to the front as possible, ideally in the front row.
I'm always polite and smile to the cabin crew, and watch the safety demonstration.
I fall asleep shortly before take off and wake up on landing.
I try not to wince when they play the "Fly Ryanair" song, or the reveille on landing to celebrate another on-time arrival.
I try to be grateful for the fact that the flights I get leave from a local airport (albeit the prefab shed at the end of the airport), rather than another town fifty miles or so away.
I try to be faintly amused by:
She leaps up to meet me as I enter, my hands full of junk circulars. Sleek and lithe despite her fourteen years ("that's a hundred in cat years, uncl'Oddverse") and mewling to me, demanding attention.
I pause to stroke her and she rubs herself satisfyingly against my fingers. She looks up at me, expectant. At that moment I want to spend the afternoon there, relaxing in her company, stroking her, watching television, chilling out. Maybe she wants out. Maybe she wants food.
But I'm not there for the cat. I'm just there to pick up some mail, and to close a window. I want to feed her, but know that someone else will be along to do that later.
So I put down the mail, close the window, stroke her again.
She is still mewing as I leave.
Just over a week ago, I got behind the wheel of a car for the first time in over 20 years, unless you count go-karts and computer games - and I don't. That would be silly.
Last night I drove fairly solidly around Leith and Muirhouse for two hours. This raises a number of points.
Firstly - Leith's pretty nice these days. Admittedly, I am only seeing it in the dark, but it seems nice. Nicer than Muirhouse, where I desparately try not to stall the car as the instructor likes his hubcaps.
Secondly - it's like riding a bike. I actually have memories - deep in my subconscious, true - of the lessons I had as a teenager. I remember what felt good and what felt bad. I am rubbish at some of it, but I do feel quite strongly that I improved between last week and this week.
Thirdly - stay away from Leith and Muirhouse when I am having my lessons. It's dangerous. I get flustered by other traffic.