Let me say at the outset that I have nothing against breasts. 

Apart from my own, which would have trouble filling a contact lens, let alone a bra, I happen to think they are rather beautiful. In fact, I appear to be the only woman in the world bemoaning the dropping of the swimsuit section in beauty pageants.

Let me also say that I have nothing against women breastfeeding in public. But is it too much to ask for a bit of discretion? I know that babies have to be fed and that the human body is the most natural thing in the world, blah blah blah; but having just endured a two and a half hour flight next to a breastfeeding woman, I’m going to risk the wrath of women everywhere. 

I’m sorry. I didn’t like it. If I’d closed my eyes and poked my tongue out a centimetre, I could easily have fooled myself into thinking I’d been incarcerated at a dairy farm.

The flight did not start well. I am very fussy about where I sit. Unless I am flying long haul and have my own sleeping area, I have to be at the front and in an aisle seat, quite simply because I suffer from claustrophobia. I book my seats well in advance and pay premium price to get them, so, as far as I’m concerned, I’m not committing a heinous crime by refusing to give it up. 

You want your seat? Book it. Pay for it. Just like I did. It ain’t rocket, or even Boeing, science.

Last year, some people were incensed when I wrote about not giving up my seat to a woman in the aisle behind who asked for mine on the grounds of “I’d like to sit with my boyfriend.” No, no and no again. And why didn’t he ask? If you can’t survive three hours without your partner, you really shouldn’t be together in the first place.

But back to Dairygate. 

I was in one seat. The woman appeared to want/need five, although I couldn’t quite work out why at this point. I was asked by a crew member if I’d move to row two at the other side of the plane. Not. Going. To. Happen (did I mention I also have to sit on a particular side?). Just as last year, there were dirty looks from fellow passengers – although I suspect had they been asked to move, it would have been a different story.

So, the milkmaid sat in the window seat with her baby and one free seat between us. The second the seatbelt sign was off, out game a gargantuan breast to which the six month old infant (at least I was polite enough to ask about the beautiful child) attached herself with the safety instinct of a passenger bracing themselves for landing on water.

I continued to politely engage, accompanied with lots of Oohs and Aahs about what a hungry little girl she was. “No she’s not hungry,” said Spanish mummy. “She eesss like theesss all the time; she cannot be away from me. Alwaysss she want the breast.” Oh, great. Another double brandy when you’re ready, steward!

Then, the unthinkable happened. From the row behind, another child appeared. She only had effing twins! It reminded me of a story I heard about Mike and Bernie Winters when they were starting out. After Mike’s routine had died on stage, out came Bernie and someone in the audience allegedly shouted: “F**k no! There are two of them.”

That was me.

Luckily, the boy was not so demanding, not least because his sister decided it was her turn once more. And so it all began again.

Now, like I said, it wasn’t that it offended me, but I think we should keep our bodily parts and functions discreetly hidden when in the company of others. I am deeply offended when people put their bare feet on train seats; I don’t like people wiping their noses with their hands; I’m not partial to men getting their willies out and pleasuring themselves on planes (though I have seen it happen). 

As someone who has been getting her tits out for the lads for decades (I promise you: I really have stopped now), I know that the words pot, kettle and black will spring to mind; but I still think that a 150 minute movie of a giant tit doesn’t make for great viewing. I could barely keep my ham and cheese toastie down.

Whether we like it or not, we live in a world in which we should be sensitive to others and be aware of cultural differences. I’m not suggesting airlines provide golf umbrellas to shield lactating breasts from passengers such as myself of a delicate disposition; but neither do I want to be sitting next to an air balloon in my face – literally.

I know my mother stopped breastfeeding me when I was six months (although she still proudly shows off the chair she used to do it on – less proudly when she recalls that she had me in one hand and a cigarette in the other); I know people who have breastfed their kids until they were four (they grew up to be nuts, should you be tempted); I’ve never had kids, so the best I can muster is a few guys (who were all crap at it, by the way; quite why they think the right technique is downing it like a can of Stella is beyond me, but that’s another story). But this was the first time I’ve been so . . . well, up close and personal as an adult observer.

I’m waiting for the screams of “most natural thing in the world”. 

So is masturbation; I still don’t want to see it at 30,000 feet. 

On the plus side, in the unikely event of the plane landing on water, I wouldn’t need to struggle with my life jacket; I’d just grab the nearest lactating tit and breathe deeply.