Somewhere high above the Atlantic, I caved in. It wasn’t so much the fact my daughter, Flo, then one, had been screaming since take-off three hours earlier.
Or even that, crammed into my economy-class seat with this bawling bundle, I had yet to pour myself the calming snifter I yearned for, open a miniature packet of pretzels or even go to the loo.
I was held hostage to the relentless, nerve-jangling wailing of my inconsolable infant. And so were the other 300 passengers.
It was the looks of hatred on their faces — glares saying: ‘Can’t you do something about that dreadful noise, you ineffectual mother?’ — that made me reach, in desperation, for the bottle in my handbag.
Read More Here: