It reminds me of my flight back from Vancouver in March. (I hasten to add that no errant urine was involved.)
The cabin crew were serving coffee and I had already stowed away my table. Holding my filled coffee cup in my left hand and with my senses perhaps slightly diminished by the hospitality of the Maple Leaf Lounge, I contrived to open the small plastic cream carton with my right hand only. After some deft chopstick-style finger action, I managed to peel back a tiny aperture in the lid. "Ah ha", I mused, "Applied pressure will do the rest". Holding the carton over my coffee, I gently squeezed its serrated sides and a small, precision jet of cream began to stream into the cup.
Gaining confidence in the integrity of the carton lid (which, after all, had barely yielded to my two-fingered attempt at breaching it), I squeezed harder. The needle-thin jet of cream was now hitting the coffee with such force that a cappuccino-like froth was beginning to form on the surface.
And then, POP! The carton lid ruptured like an Afghan pressure cooker. I looked down at my red Hugo Boss polo shirt in mild horror. Thankfully, the creamy salvo had hit a relatively small area of my shirt. I then turned to the passenger sitting on my left. From the top of his head to the knees of his trousers, he was covered in a lacteal rain. How could such a small container have wreaked such pallid havoc? Our eyes met (via his cream-mottled reading glasses) and, utterly mortified, I looked away, hoping that when I looked back, some miracle might have cleansed away the milky blight.
Well, it did not and I made my profuse apologies, followed by a forlorn attempt at a clean-up operation, while earnestly hoping the aircraft floor would open up and suck me out into the blue.