4.30am: First order of the day is to drag my weary arse out of bed. No mean feat when you consider my eyes have only been shut for about 4 hours. Quickly and quietly I perform the normal bathroom activities - minimum fuss, minimum noise. The smell and sounds of a family sleeping pervade every nook and cranny of the house and is the most attractive thing in the world. Like an addict faced with a freshly filled needle, every pore of my body tells me to fuck the flight and take another 3hour hit of uncut bed and sleep.
5.31am: First scheduled train to airport - cold and busy. I really don't want to deal with the world just now. Hungry and sleep deprived I doze off, face pressed against the metallic tasting glass.
6.15am: The Airport itself is negotiated quickly and easily – every shortcut used and noticing no one performing checks at the business/first class line I quietly slip in behind the well heeled passengers skillfully avoiding the stupid people. Strangely at this time of the day the world is filled with stupid annoying people, with one exception.
6.35am: We board the plane in the darkness, the plane is still cold. Annoyingly cheery Christmas music is piped throughout the cabin. Chocolate is offered and promptly refused – this early in the day chocolate is up there with a shot of tequila on my must have wish list.
6.45am: We are told there is a delay of 30mins. The fault? Someone else. It always is, we always manage to board, perform whatever safety stuff the guys up front do and are never late, always ready to go, and importantly on time. The fault this time is mother nature at London Heathrow. More chocolates offered and refused. I ask for a blanket and if I can curl up on the floor.
The pilot has a reassuringly British, clipped, dam-buster accent – at least that's one worry put to rest.
Eventually we leave Zurich – Guy Gibson upfront goes to great lengths to find every lumpy piece of sky there is. At times we are swooping down and clipping hedges, other times soaring high bumping along the ragged thin air at the edge of space. I curse him and gratefully accept the tea and croissant offered. At last, something resembling civilised, even if the tea is served with cream.
8.30am: We arrive in the vicinity of LHR – Guy announces another arrival delay – “we will need to sit in a holding pattern for”……everyone waits expectantly like X-Factor contestants, loud heartbeat music is piped through the cabin……”35 - 45mins”. Aaargh! We are not in the next round and have to sit here, somewhere above Biggin Hill watching the infinitely unfunny “just for laughs” playing on loop.
Eventually a single bing! announces our decent into the mist which blankets Southern England. And for once the 10 minutes to landing claim is accurate.
9.15am: We exit into a threadbare Terminal 1. London is grey, Heathrow is grey, my hair is grey. Just one more flight to go and the days travelling is done.
Eventually we leave Zurich – Guy Gibson upfront goes to great lengths to find every lumpy piece of sky there is. At times we are swooping down and clipping hedges, other times soaring high bumping along the ragged thin air at the edge of space. I curse him and gratefully accept the tea and croissant offered. At last, something resembling civilised, even if the tea is served with cream.
8.30am: We arrive in the vicinity of LHR – Guy announces another arrival delay – “we will need to sit in a holding pattern for”……everyone waits expectantly like X-Factor contestants, loud heartbeat music is piped through the cabin……”35 - 45mins”. Aaargh! We are not in the next round and have to sit here, somewhere above Biggin Hill watching the infinitely unfunny “just for laughs” playing on loop.
Eventually a single bing! announces our decent into the mist which blankets Southern England. And for once the 10 minutes to landing claim is accurate.
9.15am: We exit into a threadbare Terminal 1. London is grey, Heathrow is grey, my hair is grey. Just one more flight to go and the days travelling is done.
pm: Tonight I am going to have a curry, a man curry, a curry which is so manly it could grow a beard and challenge me to an arm wrestle. It will be washed down with a man’s beer and then I plan to descend into a dreamless, coma like sleep.
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