So there I was, sitting in Scarlett Johansson’s blind spot - about three yards away, diagonally to her rear, about 4.30pm to her noon. I’d blagged my way into First Class, and now I was in stalking distance. 
Actually, I was way too close for stalking. There was none of the comfortable distance that stalkers like to fill with seedy, delusional imaginings. This young woman was real, not a convenient object for saddo projections. I could have tossed my mini-packet of milk-chcoclate Hob Nobs - the ones I’d specially asked for and which had been procured, with expertly concealed bemusement, by the First-Cass cabin crew. All she had to do was ask, and they were hers. But she didn’t, of course. 
And so the social sciences were poorly served once more. A minor anthropological experiment - social intercourse as expressed through the medium of biscuit-tossing - never occurred. I settled back to the newspaper - they still get read on planes, even now - and reflected. After a little deliberation, I realised that this was part of the development process. For more, come to the blog.