Limbonics, or The Science of Long-Distance Air Travel

By 4 am, GMT+13, I don't really want to see seats 39 H & K again for quite a while. it's been thirty hours or so since we first met, and there's probably a Simpsonesque groove in them. Like Flann O'Brien's policeman, the seats are part of us and we're part of the seats. How did this process start?

Day One, M4, 7 am, a damp Peugeot convertible was heading towards LHR T3, with Kirsty and Liz driving and chatting away, while we tried to believe this was all happening - New Zealand?! Incredible! Silly grins and conspiratorial looks… Area E of LHR T3 was a dampener - no obvious place to check in for Royal Brunei, and we were mysteriously corralled by the luminous-vested youths, with a few people queued under the stairs… The three Royal Brunei checkins were a bit inadequate for 300 or so people to get processed in a couple of hours - how galling for the jacketless be-scarved greyly dignified important people on their mobiles, blocking everyone else! So BI092 was late taking off! Good legroom though! 

A visit to the loo introduced me to the amiable Craig - a kids' book writer from Sheffield, he, his wife and two kids were on their way to Brunei, at the behest of the International School. They planned to spend a weekend in the jungle, with Borneo and orang-utans only a 40 minute plane ride away.

First stop Dubai, where we had to run around the terminal to get back to the gate we'd started from! I managed to get Kris on chat using the free wifi - 8 hours into the trip, we were feeling pretty pleased with ourselves. And we'd had Dinner One, followed by Snack One, all good. Being Night One, having got dark somewhere over Saudi Arabia, we were also onto Crew Two… 

Day Two arrived during the eight hours to Brunei - it seemed like a good idea to sleep on this stretch, being dark and kind of UK bedtime. A pity that neither of us could, reduced to working on the FT crossword, and wondering if there are actualy any houses for sale for 15,000 in Manchester, Sheffield and Glasgow. I'd have asked Craig if I'd thought!

Brunei was 30° C and humid, more chaotic than the brutally new Dubai International, more crowded, more individual shops, tired seats - still no real time between flights, by the time you've all got off, it's time to get back on again… And now we had packed away Dinner Two and Snack Two! Plus a couple of bags of nuts for those so inclined. And the plane, rebadged as BI071, was the same plane, just gassed up and stripped of rubbish - apart from the tell-tale piece of plastic in 39H magazine rack! The loos were the worst so far encountered, not surprising then that Mrs. Grey Suit with a Pink Top announced that the showers were cold with nowhere to keep your clothes dry.

A bumpy ride to Brisbane brought Night Two, Dinner and Snack Three and happily cheerful Aussie security guys who confiscated duty-free single malt scotch from a lady who'd brought it all the way from heathrow in a sealed duty free bag. Party night in Customs Central, Brisbane.

The last stretch was less than four hours, heading into the darkness across the Tasman Sea. The staff doled out Dinner Four, preceded by Snack Four, and we struggled with crankiness and exhaustion. Finally, Auckland! Except now we had to fill in the bio-isolation forms - NZ is really really really really serious about not bringing in any more non-native life forms, so we had to declare our walking shoes, my trainers, fresh from McIlroy Park, and my wetsuit and harness - the guy had no probes with the water gear, but my boots had mud on and that's a no-no. Before that we'd waited for thirty minutes for the immigration guys - long queue, several dodgy characters clearly trying to storm the bastion - until the nice lady let us in with no stress. The bio-cleansing lady was pretty helpful, cleaning my boots and trainers, and even providing a plastic bag so I could repack them without soaking the rest of my gear.

And then, finally, about 5 am, time to get in a taxi and find Daniel's house. Should be simple, he lives close to the centre of Auckland… Taxi driver has no idea where it is, and we end up stopping in a service station where he checks the map - sorry, where I lean over from the back and point out the destination. We trundle off, cutting up a 4X4 on the motorway, and heading down Sandringham Road (really!) before Jen fortunately spots Daniel's road, and we pull up outside. I'm waving $20 bills, but the man has no change… neither does Daniel, who's now appeared to help. I pay with Visa, taxi driver leaves, we come in and chat with D and several cups of tea… And the day continues...