It started well

The God of Airports must have been in the mood to reward my patience after I'd waited three long hours in Doha with no Qatari money to spend and one miserable restaurant serving horrid and expensive 'international cuisine'.

I waited patiently for the first clump of passengers to be squeezed through the boarding gate into a neat sausage of humanity to board the bus to the stand. When it was finally my turn, the stewardess told me my seat number had been changed. 'Ok,' I replied, not really caring anymore. 'It's now 7J.'
'Ok,' I replied again, 'that's fine.'

My budget traveller anntenae didn't twitch once.

I boarded the plane at the back, mildly irritated to realise I'd have to walk the length of it to find my seat, seven rows from the front. As I plodded through the cabin, I realised the economy class rows were running out and I'd not yet reached row seven.

'Please don't tell me there's a cock-up,' I thought.

But no, there was no cock-up. As I passed the final row of economy - row 6 - it finally dawned on me. I'd been upgraded to Business Class! Unasked-for and definitely unpaid-for! Not daring to laugh or smile in case they realised it was all a mistake, I found my seat and sat down in traveller heaven; a business class seat for the price of an economy ticket. This never happens to me, but it just had! I was amazed, stunned, grateful.

Now I had to set about the business of looking like I was meant to be there all along. I sat down nonchalantly next to a smart-looking Indian lady and nodded a brief 'hello'. After putting my bag in the hold, miles from my seat, with enough legroom for a giraffe, I surveyed my surroundings.


As I looked idly round at my new territory, she promptly said kindly, 'If you're looking for the remote control it's in the armrest.' It was clear I wasn't fooling her. No, with my baggy trousers and scruffy hoodie, she knew I was not one of hers.

Was I the only one to be upgraded, or were there other interlopers present? A surreptitious sweep of the cabin was inconclusive. My seat neighbour definitely looked the part, with several jewelled rings on each hand and expensive-looking clothes.

Elsewhere a young Indian man dressed in a checked shirt and jeans and wearing glasses looked like either a rich student or - judging by the important-looking papers he was scanning - a young entrepreneur easily capable of being at home here.

I couldn't be sure whether the distinguished-looking Sikh gentleman with flowing white beard and aristocratic turban had been in economy class on the first leg or not, so I claimed him as one of my own kind anyway. And felt happier for it.

The rest of the trip passed all too quickly. The seat became a bed; I slept. The food was not plastic; I ate. The nifty reading light on adjustable stick worked; I read. I only wish the flight had been longer than the three hours it took to reach Delhi.