Gone Phishing

A funny thing happened to me on the way back from my mum's memorial.

They're not really words I'd imagined I would ever write, but there they are. Funny thing and mum's memorial. Choice words for an opening sentence - mischievously winking back at me in all their shining inappropriate glory. I wrote them so I have no excuse. Actually not entirely true. I experienced them and then wrote them. So it's factual. I'm exonerated.

No excuse necessary.

To be fair they might not be that out of place. Mum's send off was no somber occasion. While the October wind and drizzle around the marquee mercifully prayed silence, we chuckled and giggled at her peccadillos; admired a life lead well and gave thanks for a friend, a confidante, a colleague a wife and a mother.

After we were done mum's old friend and sometime colleague, Oliver, took me aside and told me about the time he pitched up at Cathy's office somewhat anxious and exhausted. He proceeded to tell her how his son was misbehaving, in trouble at school and seemingly out of control. He felt at his wits end and was questioning his abilities as a parent.

"What did I do wrong Cathy?" He asked her. Without missing a beat, mum looked him in the eye and answered him.

"You called him James," she said.

We told and heard some fine anecdotes that day. We howled and wailed. Laughter, not tears. And while it maybe an over trodden cliche, the person who would have enjoyed it the most sadly wasn't there. She was otherwise engaged.

The potential histrionics of the occasion and a surplus of air miles convinced me my passage back from the UK to the US could only be achieved in First Class. If I was going to weep, at least I could do it into a half decent Bordeaux and a hunk of lobster. Cathy would have got it.

And I was in great company. The bus to aircraft held us back while a ream of limos pulled up and an entourage of men in full African outfits were escorted onto the plane. This was getting better. Now it was me, African dignitaries, bordeaux and a hunk of lobster. In the event only one of them sat upfront while the rest were relegated to cattle.

Plane takes off, hot towel, wine and said meal duly served. I settle back into a mediocre movie on demand which more often than not has Matthew McConaughey taking his shirt off. Eventually of course curiosity gets the better of me and I am compelled to summon a steward. You can do that in First Class. You don't bing bong a steward, you summon one.

"Out of interest," I ask him with a nod to the other side of the plane, "Is he a politician or royalty?"

"He's a Nigerian Prince," he proudly tells me.

That's nice I think and settle back into mediocre movie.

And then it dawns on me. Actually it was more theatrical than that. I bolt upright in my seat, whip my headphones off and jiggle around bursting at the seams.

FUCK ME! I mutter. I have the chance to do what no one has done before. I have the chance to make myself an internet hero. I'll get posters of me placed at Geek's bedsides and worshipped daily.

I have the chance to be the first person to say to a real life, Nigerian Prince,

"I've been looking for you everywhere! What happened?!?! I did as you told me! I sent you my bank account details and the money and I've not heard anything back! You must have been so busy! But I'm really excited and can't wait to receive the millions! When do you think it will arrive?"

It was too good an opportunity to miss. I had to do it since, let's face it how often was I going to run into flesh and blood Nigerian royalty despite him writing to me weekly. Goodbye Matthew McConaughey, I then spent the rest of the flight observing my prey waiting to pounce. Unfortunately Mr Prince, doubtlessly exhausted from another hard day's phishing, spent the entire flight asleep.

Hot towel, smoke salmon nibbly bits, plane comes into land. And then my chance occurs. As we shuffle up the gangplank I find myself alongside his highness.

"Excuse me, can I ask you a question?"

No response. I gulp but go for it anyway.

"What happened?! I sent you my bank acc..........."

And with that a powerful and determined arm reaches across my chest and ensures I can continue no further. A stern glare and a shaking of the head convinces me I should probably speak no further. Meanwhile Mr P disappears from view. Forever.

Only afterwards I realise I couldn't have been the first to try. In fact chances are every encounter he has with the great unwashed probably results in a smart arse like me making that joke. Chances are he dreads getting the emails almost as much as the rest of the us. But I like to think he must have smiled to himself the first time he read it.

I get back to my apartment still chuckling at my stupidity and pathetically proud of myself. But I find myself not entirely satisfied. It wasn't because I didn't complete the gag, it was something more than that. I needed to tell somebody to validate the moment. No I needed to tell someone.

But that someone sadly was otherwise engaged.