Don’t prod the crew

Poking fingers: in ribs, on thighs, on shoulders, biceps. Wherever, in fact, passengers can dig their bony little digits, they will dig them.

Repeatedly.

If the first jab-jab-jab-jab-jab doesn’t work, rather than perhaps change tact they just go in for another round of jabbing, just harder. JAB-JAB-JAB-JAB. If they could do punctuation I’m sure there would be an exclamation mark on there (can you punctuate in morse code?). Obviously round two of this poking hasn’t succeeded as I still refuse to acknowledge anyone that’s doesn’t say excuse me or places and hand gently on my shoulder or arm to indicate their presence.

JAAAAAAB-JAB-JAB-JAB-JAAAAB

Usually by this point they’re getting the idea that their impression of a mini jack hammer isn’t going to work. An exasperated, “Excuse me!”

And there we have it: the only two words they needed to use.

My reply to them varies, but is always along a similar theme of, “Now how much easier was that?” to which I tend to get a blank look, though perhaps I really am speaking another language? “Excuse me, works better than all that priding, doesn’t it.” The other option is to prod them repeatedly then ask them how nice it was, but I need to be really pissed off for that one.

Anyway, Mrs. So-and-So is behind me as I stand in the entry to the rear galley when she starts poking and prodding away at my back, which I dutifully ignore and carry on my conversation with my colleague. Eventually I hear a mousey “excuse me” and turn around. A coke and a kit-kat was what the poking was all about. I explain to Mrs. So-and-So that if she had said excuse me the first time she wouldn’t have had to do all that finger jabbing. Well, apparently she had said it with each round of poking, but how I was expected to hear it when she was standing full arms length away I’m not really sure.

I said to her that poking me was extremely rude and that putting her hand on my shoulder would have been much politer. Well, you’d have thought that I’d just taken a great big shit in her mouth. Off she trotted with her coke and kit-kat in one hand, the other free, finger poised, for any other poor sod she could prod away at.