If all my travel delays were added to the end of my life, I might live forever. There's a novelty.
Opposite; a 35-ish man. Slim-fit suit, dark blue. Black, chisel-toe shoes. Designer stubble. Hair; number 2 around the edges, long and spiky on the top.
He has two mobile phones. When he finishes one call, the other one rings into life. He is hunched, stressed and from what I can gather from the calls, going through a divorce.
On one phone he barks instructions... the hot-line to lawyers, intent on settling something before the weekend. On the other... a more soothing tone. I'm guessing the infidelity-phone, intent on getting something organised for the weekend.
He slips a neat pile of papers into his black-leather, Boss, document case and strides away.
A glance at the Samsung departure telly tells me; I'm still delayed.
To my right a slightly tubby young woman draws on a large glass of white wine. Brown hair in a fashionable bob. She fingers the stem of the glass, nervously. She is pregnant. I look back and she's gone. Glass unfinished.
To my left a 70-ish, grey haired man sits, in his overcoat. Spectacles pushed down his nose, immersed in a Kindle; held aloft, like a choirboy holds a hymn book.
A shaven headed man crashes his Tumi into a coffee table and makes for the bar. Slim but for what looks like, a football stuffed under his blue-check shirt, buttons straining to accommodate a belly. His trouser belt slung below it, to make room. With a deep sigh he throws himself, backwards, onto a sofa.
I'm on my way home from a trip to Stirling. A conference about NHS Scotland's preparedness for winter. You get the winter you plan for. They have made good use of data. They should have a good one.
The stick-thin lounge attendant tells me my fight is ready to board.
I walk through the duty free, heady with the aroma of countless perfumes and a valley of tartan tins of shortbread. An Asian family walk slowly, ahead. Three kids, one in a buggy. Dad, laden with bags walks on ahead.
On the plane; the glossy cabin crew and three hundred passengers of different ages, ethnic background, tall, thin, short, fat and to remind us she is here, a blonde two year old, in a pink and white dress, screams her lungs out.
I am resuming my narrative at thirty thousand feet.
I have seen, met and watched 300, or so people in the last hour and a bit. Three hundred might be the number an A&E will see though its doors in an averagely busy 24 hours.
The majority will be under 40 years old. The complex minority; over eighty.
Which of my fellow travellers will find themselves, unexpectedly, in A&E? No good asking them, they'll have no idea. However, there is someone who might know?
We could ask a data analyst.
They can tell us which care homes are most likely to provide us with customers. They can forecast the post-codes from where the visitors will come. Data will give us an idea of the NHS' version of the frequent flyers, most likely to land in A&E.
Data can tell us men and women will attend A&E in equal proportions, their most likely occupations and the most common reasons. One being accidents; men putting on their trousers! Apparently we get tangled up and fall over.
Data can tell us Sundays is the day for BBQ burns and toes lost under the mower. Data can forecast the weather and prepare us for COPD exacerbations, hay-fever hiatus, falls on ice and broken bones.
Data will tell us which men will suffer stress and risk of suicide. Which community most likely to become diabetic and the type of man most likely to have bad cholesterol.
Algorithms will help us, predictive technologies come to our assistance to plan, staff, procure, make ready. Tell us when a mum-to-be, from certain demographics, who drink, are most likely to need unplanned help.
Data can do so much for us; turn history into a forecast and the past a red flag for the future. We have it. We should make more use of it. There are a lot of people depending on us.
Have a good weekend.