
SARDINES MIGHT FLY

Could Air Travel GET any Worse?

~ A Humorous Travel Tale ~

Alannah Foley

Fancy flying in a tin can to the other side of the world and suffering the horrors of stinky passengers, kids with the power to split eardrums at fifty paces, backed-up restroom queues, and faulty coffee machines that can short-circuit the plane's electrics?

Neither does the author.

Unfortunately, these are just some of the delights frequently experienced on a long-haul flight. And when you're packed in tight like sardines for over twenty hours, the trip from A to B can feel more like an epic voyage from A to a distant Z.

Join the author as she takes off from England on a 'flying adventure' to Australia and back in this short companion read to _Up a Creek Down Under_.
FREE BONUS Travel Tale

OFF THE RAILS

A Train Journey to Grouchville

Cows on the tracks, frustrating delays, stinky toilets,

and grouchy passengers who like to police the carriage.

Isn't that what British train journeys are all about?

Join the author on a meandering train voyage from London to Cornwall in this short humorous, reflective and informative companion read to _Up a Creek Down Under_.

_Off the Rails_ is an **exclusive** ebook, available only to members of the author's Readers Group!

When you join, you'll also get the author's New Releases newsletter, where you'll be the first to hear about **upcoming books** , **early discounts** on new titles, and a few other **exclusive** goodies.

CLICK HERE to get started.

UP A CREEK DOWN UNDER

Adventures in an Australian Homeland

After twenty years off the mosquito menu,

the author returns to the Land Down Under.

But is it what she expected?

And what adventures does she get up to along the way?

Find out in this humorous, informative and reflective travel tale.

Catch a preview at the end of this book...
CONTENTS

A Quick Note on Lingo

PART 1—OUTWARD JOURNEY

London to Singapore

Singapore—Stopoff

Arrival in Sydney

PART 2—THE RETURN JOURNEY

Australia to Singapore

Singapore—Stopoff

Singapore to London

EPILOGUE—Arrival in London

More Travel Adventures

FREE BONUS Travel Tale

NOTE TO READER

Faux Reviews

PREVIEW—Up a Creek Down Under

ABOUT the Author

CONNECT with the Author

OTHER TITLES by Alannah Foley

COPYRIGHT Information

# A Quick Note on Lingo

This work is written in British English, so a few words might be different for American readers—eg aeroplane = airplane, toilet/loo = bathroom/restroom, torch = flashlight, bin = trash, etc.

# PART 1—OUTWARD JOURNEY

"Sometimes the road less traveled is less traveled for a reason."

American comedian Jerry Seinfeld

# London to Singapore

"They won't let me through security until I remove the bullets from my Word document."

Rich Tennant cartoon

Cow brains, sedated tiger, seal's head, stuffed armadillo... No, I'm not brainstorming cool names for an alternative rock band, I'm listing just four of the 'must have' items people have tried smuggling through airport customs in years gone by. Apparently, cow brains are a delicacy in Egypt, but don't let me spoil your fun—I'll leave you to find out in your own time what possessed someone to sneak the others through.

To be honest, when I read about bizarre things like this, I have to wonder whether these contraband criminals are first-timers who did a sloppy job and got caught—because career smugglers would surely know the importance of cunningly concealing their wares. Take drug-runners, for instance. Any worth their salt will have watched enough TV cop shows by now to realise that security will be onto them quicker than a terrier on heat if they try sneaking cocaine through in casks of coffee. That's old hat.

These days, you've got to get creative—and even then, you might get rumbled (and so you should—naughty illegal smugglers!). Some of the most bizarre customs finds include money rolled up and stuffed into the middle of patisseries, marijuana fashioned into the shape of a donkey, cigarettes sown inside a soccer ball, Ecstasy pills hidden in a Mr Potato Head, and a knife stashed inside an enchilada. Cocaine smugglers seem to be the most imaginative (and most motivated) of all because the drug has been found stowed inside breast implants, mini Easter eggs, a wooden door, avocadoes, dead bugs, and clam shells which were glued shut. Methamphetamine has also been found inside a burrito, as well as moulded into a bar then coated with chocolate (as if chocolate isn't already addictive enough!).

Of course, I had no interest in trying to slip anything whatsoever through customs when I arrived at London Heathrow with my partner Steve. Not because I was a goody-two-shoes, but because anything that might provoke the wrath of the security guards and delay us getting our flight to Australia was to be avoided at all costs—as was being ushered off for one of those awful body cavity searches you hear about. You know... A darkened room... A pair of surgical gloves snapped on... And a mean-faced officer trying to shove a fist into an area the size of a Smarties tube... Not my idea of flying at all—and they conveniently miss out that side of things in those flight adverts, don't they? All you get there are shots of soothing, seamless air travel and attractive hostesses who dote on you by gently reclining your seat and serving up glasses of bubbly with an irresistible, pearly smile. Latex gloves are nowhere to be seen.

After surviving the rigours of passport control, customs, and a five-hour train ride to London, we were eager to sit down and flake out. And so, with high expectation, we followed the signs to the lounge. _Lounge!_ _Aaaaah!_ Such a wonderfully warm word. It conjures images of sofas, crackling fires, tartan slippers and a cosy blanket. Somewhere welcoming that provides succour for the weary soul.

Sadly, in combination with the word 'airport', it takes on a whole new meaning and only leads to disappointment. For, as we neared the airport lounge, all we could see were rows of plastic seats and the hustle and bustle of travellers. Talk about an abuse of the English language! _'Lounge', my arse!_ The seating was probably easy to clean and low maintenance, sure, but it lacked that one vital quality distance travellers seek: comfort.

We still had a few hours to wait until check-in for our flight, and I knew that if I sat on one of those hard plastic seats the whole time, I'd soon be heading for a nasty bout of piles—not the best predicament to find yourself in at the best of times, let alone when you're about to board a plane, where there will be relentless pressure from the queue outside the lavatory door to get the job done and make yourself scarce as quickly as possible.

It was obvious that this plastic seating had been designed with down-and-outs in mind. Basically, if they made it too comfortable, the airport would probably be inundated with tramps bedding down for the night (or day). Unfortunately, it also meant that holidaymakers couldn't get their head down if they were tired after travelling to London, or if their flight was delayed several hours.

Right over the other side was a wall of windows, and there I spied a section of seats with a bit of padding that looked far more welcoming. _That's more like it!_ I thought, gravitating towards it. We installed ourselves, along with our bags, and sat facing the windows that overlooked the hangars. That would keep Steve happy—looking at planes was just the sort of thing he could geek out on for the next few hours, and it would leave me free to type some writing ideas onto my laptop that had been buzzing round my brain since we hit the airport.

First things first, though—we were desperate for a drink. So I trundled off and returned with tea for two. As I sat down and took a sip, I grumbled to poor Steve about having to fork out megabucks for the drinks. What really got my goat, though, was that we'd brought along our own drinks, but had to ditch them at security.

" _Really?_ We couldn't take a small bottle of water through?" I continued to gripe. We were even forced to get rid of some milk we had left over after our train journey. Somehow, we just couldn't bring ourselves to throw it away in the bins provided, so instead, we stood there downing the liquids. God knows what the security guy must've thought of us.

All these rules seemed a bit extreme to me. We had only a small amount of milk in the container—less than 100ml, the amount we were currently allowed to take through. Trouble was, it was in a 200ml bottle—and that's over 100ml, so it's a no-no.

At the time, I didn't realise the reasons why security hackles were raised so much over what seemed like 'a bit of water and milk'. But according to an article in the Independent, a 'Liquid Bomb Plot' was uncovered back in 2006 in which various liquid ingredients were planned to be stashed in soft drinks bottles, and these could be assembled once on board a plane to make explosive devices.

To airport security, then, our innocent-looking bottles of water or milk might actually be some heinous bomb-making ingredient.

Confusingly, nursing mothers are allowed to bring milk through for their baby—although it does have to be tasted first to make sure it's the real deal. Obviously, this begs the question: do customs have a qualified taster, as you would for wine—a 'milk connoisseur', if you will, who can detect the subtle differences between breast milk, baby formula and chemicals used in bomb-making?

Incidentally, on the topic of mothers' milk, NBC News once reported that a female pilot was sacked for using a breast pump at work. According to the article, "The airline defended its action, saying it did not object to the pilot using a breast pump in principle, but did object when she was simultaneously flying the airplane." _Hmm... But then again, they do say that women are better at multi-tasking._ In her defence, the reporter added, "airlines don't usually provide adequate leaves of absence or proper work breaks, so the working pilot is forced to pump when she can."

I was even more confused about security rules when I later read that you _could_ actually bring liquids through—so long as they're frozen. And by frozen, they mean frozen _solid_. Not partially melted and not slushy. But still, if you're determined to bring drinks on board just for the hell of it—just because the bounds of possibility are there to be tested—you could indeed go to the trouble of freezing your wares and arguing the toss with the grim-faced officer at airport security. He still might not let them through, claiming that there's a peep of liquid showing at the bottom of one of the containers. _Go figure!_

What I can't get my head around, though, is... if you're allowed to take frozen liquids on board, then couldn't a terrorist just freeze the ingredients for the explosives and defrost them once on board? Or are their freezing points a lot lower than your average fluids? Beats me.

The big question posed in the article was whether, given improvements in technology, there is still the need for such stringent measures now. All I can say is, if our drinks bottles had contained incendiary-making ingredients, then by drinking them, we would have mixed up quite a cocktail in our stomachs by the time we got on board, effectively turning ourselves into human bombs. And it would've been done right in plain sight of airport security.

Lordy! What a rigmarole! I do hope flying gets easier with time.

Behind me in the airport lounge, I could hear a glorious gaggle of Scottish folk. In front of me, through the window, planes docked ready to transport these Scotties, along with a multitude of other nationalities, to far-flung destinations across the globe.

I imagined what distance travel must've been like centuries ago. Voyages would've been a massive undertaking. An adventure into the great—and dangerous—unknown, from which one might never return. Weeks and months at sea suffering scurvy and the grime of fellow sailors.

Nowadays, however, we just pay our money and hop on a plane. OK, we still have to suffer the grime of fellow passengers on the odd occasion, but apart from the ubiquitous fear of dropping out of the sky, the most dreaded part of the trip is waiting in airport queues or getting through the minefield of customs and security checks.

At least, that's how I remembered it. I hadn't been on a long-haul flight for a couple of decades, and now here I was, making a return visit to Australia, the country which my Aussie mother and British father left behind shortly after my birth. They headed to England, where I was raised, and it wasn't until I was in my twenties that I made the trip back—and ended up staying for five years. So, after all this time of living in England again, I was curious—and a little anxious—to see what life was like in my old Aussie homeland. Would things have changed much? _Too much?_ I didn't know. But we'd be spending most of October in Australia, so it was plenty of time to scope things out.

Sipping my now-tepid tea, I had my back to an advert that took up a humungous area of wall space. In it, I recognised Kristen Stewart, the lass who starred in the teenage vampire 'sensation', _Twilight_. And here she was, some years on, starring in another sensation of sorts... She was promoting—and I use the term loosely—a perfume by Chanel.

Now, admittedly, despite being a woman, my knowledge of Chanel and all things cosmetic is pretty lame. But even stretching my imagination, I struggled to work out how Kristen's antics on the screen here had anything whatsoever to do with perfume. Like an athlete in training, she ran, determined to reach some goal out ahead of her. Unlike most athletes, however, she was hindered somewhat by a long train of gold fabric shrouded about her apparently-naked body.

As I said, she was determined, so it wasn't long before we could see the goal she craved. Yep! It was a huge wall of golden squares. _Well, let's face it, who doesn't feel the need to chase down a wall of gold now and then?_

Anyway, suddenly, young Kristen jumped up and smashed at the wall with her fist, leaving parts of it to shatter onto the ground. As she wrought destruction, I could only hazard a guess at what she must be thinking: "Hellfire! I detest golden walls! And wherever I go, I shall show them no mercy!". Frankly, she was like some pre-menstrual goddess bent on revenge towards an inanimate object that had clearly done her no harm. Fine way to advertise a perfume, if you ask me! All I can say is: "Chanel, get your act together and hire some people who _have_ a clue."

Poor Kristen was probably delighted that Chanel had given her the part, but totally stumped when she saw the script. "So you want me to run towards that gold wall over there and give it a whack? Err... What's my motivation?"

The advert lasted about a minute and spooled endlessly. It was compelling in a strange sort of way, but it wasn't the sort of thing you'd want to watch for too long. All that gold would probably send your eyes into a spin or give you gold fever. Unfortunately, there was no escape from the darned screen and its insidious advertising. Even when we had our backs to it, the commercial was reflected onto the airport windows, so was easily visible the whole time we were in the airport lounge. _Weren't we lucky?_

Eventually, it was time to get our flight, and we were spared the perpetual cycle of Chanel. _Thank goodness for that!_

As we sat in the departure lounge, our crew strode past on their way to the aeroplane. In particular, I was glad to see that the pilot showed no signs of having a hangover—no dishevelled uniform, no eight o'clock shadow, and no discernible wafts of booze. In fact, the whole lot of them looked fresh, perky and well turned-out. And when I imagine them now, it's as if I'm watching a movie where the characters are walking tall like models on a catwalk and moving in slow motion, coiffed hair blowing gently in the breeze.

To my surprise, I discovered that an estimated "35 percent of all airline crews, flight attendants and pilots... have either a fear of heights or flying" (this according to an NBC News article). So, despite the outward confidence of the crew here, I could safely assume that at least a third of them were feeling rather nervous on the inside as they neared the plane. Having said that, it's possible that the 'fear of heights' mentioned in the article could just mean that the people in question get the collywobbles if they stand at the top of a really tall ladder and look down. Which is a lot different from being shut up in a tin can and flying at ridiculous speed in the stratosphere, isn't it?

Incidentally, if you suffer from a fear of flying, there's some good news in the article to bring a brighter perspective the next time you decide to step on board a plane. For instance: "Your chances of being involved in an aircraft accident are approximately 1 in 11 million," it says. "Your chances of being killed in an automobile accident are 1 in 5,000. The most dangerous part of your flight is the drive to the airport."

To me, 1 in 5,000 doesn't sound too hot, so if you'd prefer to dodge those nasty statistics, take a train to the airport instead. Supposedly, you're about 17 times less likely to cark it.

The article goes on to say: "You have more of a chance of dying from the food on board than being involved in an accident."

_Hmm..._ You know, this doesn't sound reassuring at all. The article started off making me feel good about the flying part, but now it's just got me worried up about everything else. If you ask me, there's no point surviving the plane ride if all you do is end up being taken out by a ready meal, is there? Perhaps we'd be wise to steer clear of in-flight meals altogether because the article conveniently leaves out the fatality rates on that one.

Glancing over at the clock, I hoped it wouldn't be long before we were called to board and that there wouldn't be any delays. Over the years, international airlines have given a whole host of reasons as to why their flights have been delayed. Maybe insects like cockroaches and fire ants have infested the plane, or a mouse is running loose in the cabin—and when this happens, flights can be held up for up to 24 hours (I guess until they delouse the plane or catch the stowaway mouse).

Some of the more surprising excuses, says the Daily Mail, are 'missing cutlery' and a 'missing crew member', and they add: "History does not recount whether the crew member was ever found". Let's hope they had better luck with the cutlery. You can probably get away with the absence of a single crew member, but cutlery's a different thing. Fellow travellers do tend to stare if you tuck into your sauce-drizzled pasta meal with your fingers, I find.

There are plenty of other reasons why planes have been delayed, too—some quite unusual...

Imagine now that you've boarded your flight, you've taken off, and you hear the following announcement: "Attention all passengers! Due to a technical fault with Perky, our beloved coffee machine, we are aborting the flight and heading back to the airport." You'd be scratching your head, wouldn't you? _We're going back because of a problem with a coffee machine? Did I hear that right?_

But, yes, you _would_ be hearing it right!

According to a News.com.au article, in 2016 an American Airlines chief told his staff that "an "inordinate amount of coffee maker problems" were causing flight delays. But "there's a reason airlines take their coffee makers so seriously" says the article because, "not only would there probably be a riot if passengers couldn't get their caffeine jolt, but coffee makers need to be thoroughly checked because any issues with them could be linked to a problem with the aircraft's electrical circuit."

Well, I never!

For those of you with a delicate disposition, I recommend skipping the next paragraph because I'm about to tell you of another peculiar excuse, and this one just _stinks_...

In 2015, various articles reported a "smelly poo in the toilet" as being the cause of a massive flight delay. Passengers initially boarded the plane, no problem, but half an hour after takeoff, the captain announced that the foul odour on board was due to "liquid faecal excrement" from an overflowing toilet. They turned tail and headed back to London "for health and safety reasons". A passenger on the flight said they were "initially told that they would board another flight in three hours, but it turned into a 15-hour delay". Apparently, it's not uncommon for toilet issues to delay planes.

The most way-out excuse I came across was the story of 'Lawnchair Larry'. Back in 1982, 33-year-old truck driver Larry Walters was "catapulted to fame", as the New York Times described it, when he rigged over forty helium-filled weather balloons to a lawn chair and "took a 45-minute ride aloft to 16,000 feet... before he got cold, shot some balloons out [with a BB gun] and crashed into a power line". Along the way, he was spotted by pilots from Trans World Airlines and Delta Airlines as he drifted into controlled airspace near Los Angeles International Airport. According to the Huffington Post, a Pan Am flight had to change its course, so inevitably, the incident would have led to delays.

Just imagine being a passenger aboard one of the planes in the vicinity. You've not long taken off and have just downed a shot of whisky to help you cope with your fear of flying, when you glance out of the window with a start.

_Heavens to Betsy! What's that?_ _It looks like... like a guy floating in a lawn chair!_

You rub your eyes, sure you're seeing things. Then take another look and—now he's gone! _What the...?_

You look down at the empty whisky glass. _Mother was right all along! Alcohol really isn't good for me._

After reading Larry's story, you might be wondering... _What on earth possessed him to take this lawn chair trip?_ Well, according to the New York Times, he said: ''Since I was 13 years old, I've dreamed of going up into the clear blue sky in a weather balloon... I fulfilled my dream. But I wouldn't do this again for anything.'' Too right he wouldn't—not after being fined $4,000 by the Federal Aviation Authority.

Fortunately, Steve and I weren't given any of the above excuses (or indeed any less creative ones), so were ushered onto our plane on time.

As we boarded, we encountered a section filled with what I could only describe as pods designed to cater for passengers in the most delightful way. Individuals could be seated to watch a movie, recline to rest, or stretch out and lie down flat with a blanket for a bit of shut-eye. Sadly, as I looked up at the seat numbers, I realised we did not belong in this traveller's heaven. Our seats were further down.

The next section was an obvious downgrade. No classy pods to recline in, and less room for the passenger, although the seating was still a decent size and the area looked spacious.

But the seat numbers kept me moving, and we had some way to go yet. Just how big _was_ this plane? The place seemed like a Tardis—until, that is, we stepped into the next section. I reeled back in shock. Not because I'd been zapped by some exposed wiring, but because this section of the plane was so cramped. Compared with the others, it was a bustling cattle yard. And, judging by the numbers, this was where we were going to spend the rest of our long, _looong_ flight.

Welcome to Economy!

I found our seats, located in the middle section, and by now, I was kicking myself. _How could I possibly have booked us into this battery farm?_ Unfortunately, because we hadn't booked our tickets early, they cost far more than we'd bargained on, so upgrading was too steep.

I hadn't flown in years, and when I had, it was via another airline and the seats seemed fine. So had they got smaller over the years? Or did this airline just design its Economy seats along Wendy House proportions? Either way, I would've been quite happy if they'd put me in the cargo hold right now instead. Even tucked up amongst the luggage, it was bound to be more spacious than this.

Any anxieties I had about flying were normally stowed away in the dark recesses of my brain, where they were safely harnessed. But as I squashed down into my seat, I couldn't hold back the more immediate tide of claustrophobia washing over me—breathing tight as the walls suddenly felt like they are coming in on me. The back of the seat in front felt like it was boxing me in; and there was so little room for manoeuvre that, in order to pick up something from the floor, I had to twist my body and stretch down such that my head was shoved into the lap of the person sitting in the adjacent seat. In this case, it was Steve, and in hindsight, I wonder if it might've appeared to an onlooker that I was rendering services to a fellow passenger because he did seem to be enjoying the attention quite a bit.

As I 'relaxed' back, I reflected on the way we'd been boarded and had a hunch that the airlines were employing some canny marketing tactics. In all probability, we could have entered the plane directly where Economy was, but if we had, we wouldn't have got to see the alternative plusher, humane-looking sections. In my estimation, being packed in like sardines would be enough of a shock tactic to get you to pay more for a better seat when you booked your next flight.

The whole setup was like one of those quiz shows where the contestant loses big-time yet the star prize is still wheeled out to taunt them. "Let's have a look at what you _could've_ won!" the compère announces with a typical showbiz flourish. The curtain pulls back to reveal a state-of-the-art car as gleaming as the compère's smile. The show wraps up and the poor blighter has to drive home in his old banger and return to his drab old life. But all the while, what he's missing out on is in the back of his mind, gnawing away.

Later, I spotted an airline advert featuring Morgan Freeman. On board a flight, he was being pandered to by stewards as he kicked back in his seat. Then, miraculously, the sides of the plane faded away, and he was left with an open vista of trees that went on for miles. And in his familiar velvety hot-chocolate tones, he uttered the tagline: "Widen your World". _Hmm... That would be nice, wouldn't it?_ I thought. _But I'd settle for widening the darned seats on_ this _plane._

Obviously, Morgan Freeman, being a Hollywood actor who normally commands grand fees for his work—and surely doesn't need to do ads for Turkish Airlines, of all things—was clearly sitting in First Class rather than Economy. And, given the nature of the advert, you'd be convinced that Turkish Airlines doesn't have an Economy Class. But I'm guessing, like all the others, they do.

I thought back to the layout of the nearest section on the plane, which would've been Premium Economy. There were two seats on the window side of the plane and four in the middle section. But in Economy, there were three seats each side of the plane and three in the middle, which meant there was an extra seat squashed into each row.

The Premium Economy layout was definitely more practical, the main bonus being that couples could book seats together and not have some stray passenger to contend with. However, in the Economy three-seater sections on the left and right sides of the plane, odds were that a couple would end up sitting next to some anonymous traveller they didn't know, someone who would want to get up for the loo or pull something out of their bag in the overhead locker every ten minutes. Now, whilst couples might tolerate this sort of behaviour of their partner, having an odd bod traveller do it is another matter. And after being pestered for the umpteenth time, I could imagine them wanting to slip something into the stranger's tea that would knock them out for the rest of the flight.

Whether you're travelling alone or as a couple, though, it's always a treat to have a nice empty seat adjacent. But if that's not available, the next best thing is having a fellow passenger who sleeps right through or one who is literally dead to the world—ie a corpse. Which reminds me of the story later told to me by one of my aunts... She'd been on a flight where an old woman had died in the seat in front of her. It seemed that the cabin crew knew the situation but had tried to keep things quiet. No one seemed to be any the wiser until the end of the flight, even though staff had continued to serve her meals regardless and she remained glued to her seat throughout. I'm guessing a few flies must've gathered around for a look-in somewhere along the way, so surely that would've been a clue to those in the vicinity that something was amiss.

Of course, the woman may have died from natural causes or a dodgy in-flight meal, but this whole seating layout thing had got me thinking... Perhaps there was some other explanation for her death. I mean, what if the passenger in the next seat had gotten so exasperated by her nagging bladder problem and constant interruptions to rifle through her bags in the overhead locker that he (or she!) had spiked her drinks with sedatives—just like I had imagined someone might—only, quite by accident, they'd administered a fatal dose?

Given my discontent with the space allocation, I was stunned to later learn from a hostess that the airline was going to be making the seats even smaller. _EEK!_ Did she have her facts straight? Surely they couldn't squeeze any _more_ in!?

Question is: have airlines really thought this through? Because while they're busy making the seats smaller and smaller, the people who are destined to sit in them are gradually packing on the pounds, getting bigger and bigger. And it's not as if it's a secret. All over the airwaves, we're told about the growing obesity problem. This might reverse, but in the meantime, shouldn't airlines be building larger seats rather than smaller?

I once sat next to a woman whose girth was so ample that she couldn't help spilling out over the armrests and on towards my seat. Had the Petite Seat Brigade been in town again? I'm not sure. But for whatever reason, she didn't seem to register that I was sitting next to her. How did I come to realise that? Because the woman tossed her earbuds aside, right onto my lap as though the seat were empty. I might as well have been invisible. Instead of gritting my teeth and boiling up inside, I realise in hindsight that I should have wrought a subtle revenge by grabbing hold of the earbuds. When she went to pick them up again, she'd be forced to follow the wire along—and would eventually come eyeball to eyeball with little-ole me. There'd be no way she could pretend I wasn't there then. And she'd definitely know how I felt by my expression—imagine that of a female Arnold Schwarzenegger with PMS whose just had her Uzi confiscated by security and been subjected to a body cavity search.

I thought my reaction might be a tad aggressive until I read about people whose buttons had been pressed when others invaded their personal space. Take the story posted on Reddit of a woman in Economy who decided to stretch out so that her legs were hogging the aisle and beyond. The chap across the way had her big toe dangling over his meal and must have been put right off his food. One person responded that he should have accidentally dribbled sauce onto her foot, and repeat as necessary until she moved it. I liked that. Maybe I should have used that idea in my situation... If I'd dipped the woman's earbuds into my leftover chilli sauce, I doubt she would ever have thrown them back over on my side again.

After we returned from our trip, I heard that the England rugby team were travelling to Australia for a match in Brisbane; and I hoped for their sake that whoever was in charge of organising their flight hadn't skimped on the price by booking them into Economy. Some of those guys are the size of a washing machine, so just picture how they might look sitting shoulder-to-shoulder, cheek by jowl, in seats that weren't designed for their kind of bulk. They'd be sandwiched together with not a millimetre of wriggle room. _Don't even think about breathing out, guys—there won't be room to breathe in again!_

Anyway, I digress somewhat, but the point I've been trying to make is that, when people feel shoe-horned into tiny spaces, they aren't happy bunnies. So shrinking seats even more doesn't make sense to me. If the stewardess I spoke with had her facts straight, then what on earth are the designers thinking? Did they even bother taking the average size of passengers into consideration? Because, surely, they couldn't squeeze even more bodies into the space available— _could they?_

By the time we'd installed ourselves, I felt like the Walking Dead. I hadn't slept well the night before and we'd been up early, making sure we were ready to catch the train to London—a five-hour ride. So all I wanted to do was shut my eyes, pull a hat over my head and visit the Land of Nod. But I hadn't banked on having to sit through one irritating thing after another going on busily around me.

First, there was some sort of introduction over the speaker from the cabin manager, then the usual information telling you where to go and what to do in an emergency. It droned on in the background for what felt like an eternity, and given that my mind was swimming in a fog by now, concentration didn't come easy. I guessed, if some disaster happened, like the wing falling off, I'd work out pretty quickly where the nearest exit was... Just follow in the direction of the screaming mass of terrified passengers.

Next on the agenda, flight attendants merrily moved up the aisles with their trolleys of complimentary drinks—most people wanted booze, of course. Unfortunately, as a tea lover, I'd have to wait five or ten minutes for the hot beverages part of the run. So I asked for a bottle of water and ordered hot tea for later.

When the stewardess eventually turned up with tea in hand, I must've looked comatose, but she didn't seem to notice, and left. As I sipped the warming brew, my heavy eyelids were dreaming of the moment they could finally come to rest—and me with it. I downed the rest of the drink, put my earplugs in and relaxed back, secure in the knowledge that I wouldn't be disturbed. I mean, the flight left at 9.35pm and they'd given us drinks to be going on with, so I could surely get some shuteye till morning, right?

Wrong!

It didn't seem five minutes before a cheery male steward's voice was ringing right through the defences of my earplugs. I jolted and my eyes popped open as I pulled out the earplugs and looked up at the face before me.

"Special meal?" he said with a game-show host smile.

WTF...?

Feeling grumpy, I took the meal and left it on the foldout table in front of me to eat later, then replaced my earplugs and hat, hoping they would send out an appropriate "Do Not Effing Disturb!" message next time around... Although, thinking about it, they hadn't worked up till now, so who was I kidding?

Sadly, despite the fact that the earplugs were pretty effective at muting a lot of the background cabin noise, any nearby or high-pitched sounds easily got through as I attempted to find rest.

At the constant holler of "coffee-coffee-coffee" a while later, I pulled the hat off my face and, through bleary features, managed to shake myself into the land of the living and eat my meal—which, it turned out, was delicious. In fact, for a while there, the meal felt like warm rays of light seeping through the clouds of irritation—although it could just have been some insidious bacteria working its way into my gut.

The stewards whisked round again, gathering up lingering bits of rubbish; and, hoping this was the last of their duties, I put my earplugs back in and rested my head back. However, it wasn't long before the baby and young girl a few rows in front were taking it in turns to scream their lungs out.

God! Was I never going to get any sleep?

After extended periods of squeals piercing my earplugs, __ I started to feel like a curmudgeonly Victor Meldrew, exasperated by circumstance. All I could do, it seemed, was surrender (in a reluctant sort of way) to life's uncontrollable forces.

I decided to take a break and distance myself from the noise by going to the back of the plane and freshening up in the toilet (that's the bathroom if you're in the US). The food preparation area was adjacent and I bumped into the young steward who had served my meal earlier. His smiley disposition was still intact and I apologised if I'd snapped when he'd delivered the food, explaining that I'd been desperate for a kip when I'd got on board. Amazingly, he received my verbal grovellings most graciously and, as far as I'm concerned, the guy's a credit to the airlines, as were 'most' of the other staff (and you'll see what I mean by 'most' in a moment).

I decided to walk round a bit and do a few stretches since my legs were feeling restless and my fingers numb. Besides, it wasn't as if I was going to settle down with the young duo up front screaming as if they were auditioning for a part in a horror movie.

At some point, the main lights were switched off in the cabin, and people (apart from the youngsters) settled down somewhat. Since no one was milling out in the aisle now, I decided it would be a good time to pull some stuff out of the overhead locker. Rather than keep dipping into it the whole journey, I planned to gather together a bunch of personal items—like toothbrushes and such—and pop them into a smaller handy bag which we could tuck under our seat.

Steve stood up to give me a hand and we began fishing about in the bags. But I suddenly found a bright light shining right in my face.

"Can you sit _down_!?" a voice said firmly. I tried to see who was behind the light, but in the dim cabin, the beam pierced like a laser and I felt blinded.

At my hesitation, the man—who could only be a crew member—repeated his command.

"Yes, but you don't need to shine your light in my face," I replied, wondering what all the fuss was about, anyway.

He didn't seem to pay much heed to my request, but I could just about make out now that the person shining the torch was a flight attendant I'd spotted earlier.

_Oh! It's him!_ He'd definitely made an impression!

The guy was tubby, wore black-rimmed glasses and had the unhappy combination of a monk-like bald patch and a deeply receding hairline. His standard-issue trousers and tie looked neat enough, but what really let him down was his jumper. Either he'd been issued one a size too small, had put on a bit of weight since he got it, or had set it to wash at the wrong temperature. But for whatever reason, it rode up his midriff to reveal a strip of white shirt beneath and he looked somewhat unkempt compared with the rest of the cabin crew.

What had really etched itself into my consciousness, though, was his behaviour. Each time I'd seen him sail past, he'd been huffing and puffing. Flustering like a prima donna, he was clearly exasperated at running to and fro, having to serve passengers.

He continued to beam his torch at me now. "I'm trying to _secure the area_ ," he urged.

_Secure the area?_ Who does this guy think he _is_? A member of a SWAT team? Despite trying to adopt a law enforcement tone, he couldn't quite pull it off. With a West Country twang, everything he said sounded more like a question than a command. If he hadn't come across as a male version of Vicky Pollard in the _Little Britain_ comedy show, I might've taken him more seriously.

"The seatbelt light is _on_ ," he said insistently, "so you need to sit down and put your seatbelt on."

_Jeez! Why didn't he say that in the first place?_ I thought.

To add weight to his growing demands, he threw in another line: "I'm the _manager_ and it's my job to secure the area."

All right, all right! We get the message!

As we fumbled to put our bags back, the flight attendant was probably delighted we were, at last, following his orders, although I wondered if he might have got bored with trying to wield his power in our direction because, soon enough, his torch moved on down the corridor.

It was obvious from glancing around that other passengers had no soddin' clue about the seatbelt light either because one or two were standing up as well. And these poor ignorant souls would be the next victims to be put under the Gestapo spotlight and half-blinded. _Ve have vays of making you comply._

I know the steward had a job to do, and maybe he was just having an off day, but his approach was more heavy-handed than it needed to be. I made a mental note to find out who this 'Paul Blart, Mall Cop' jobsworth character was. _Was he_ really _a manager?_ He certainly hadn't struck me as manager material, and he was the only member of the cabin crew who seemed to have a chip on his shoulder and actively baulked at playing nice with passengers.

Steve and I sat back down and I attached my seatbelt. It was only then that I noticed a couple of small lights overhead. In the darkened cabin, they sort of blended together, but as I focussed, I realised that one was a seatbelt light and the other 'no smoking'.

Oops! In my mental haze, I must've missed those on the safety video at the start of our journey.

Now that I was fully versed in the seatbelt light protocol, I glanced over and checked to see if Steve had buckled up; and I found myself doing so repeatedly throughout the trip. Our interaction with the steward had made its mark because, sadly, I was in danger of turning into an overzealous 'Judge Dredd, Seatbelt Enforcer' myself. Fortunately, I came to my senses before foisting these inspections on my fellow passengers—I would _not_ have made any friends.

When the seatbelt light went off, I got up and went down the back of the plane to top up my bottle of water. I thought it'd be a good idea to drink as much water as possible during the flight to combat dehydration. The only problem was, no sooner had I taken it in one end, it wanted to come out the other. So after a while, I began to feel like a human tap.

Seems to me that toilets on planes get a pretty decent workout. Just about every time I went to take a leak, a queue was backed up outside. At the 2018 Aircraft Interiors Expo in Hamburg, firms showed off nifty new ways of making flights more bearable for passengers. An article in the Daily Mail reported that ideas included "toilets with a couple of urinals to speed up queues for male passengers" and "female-only loos", and those sound great, but then you come to "piping birdsong into toilets". I don't know who thought of that one, but I think he might have been smoking too many reefers at the weekend. _Come on, mate, let's stick with something practical so we can get a quicker turnaround, shall we?_

The mind boggled as to why so many people were queued up. Perhaps they'd all heard the news story about a motherlode of gold bars that were hidden in an aeroplane toilet once and were hoping to strike it lucky. Or perhaps the queue was backed up because someone from the 'Mile High Club' was in there "getting jiggy with it" as Will Smith might say. We've all heard stories about that kind of thing going on, haven't we?... Although, if you ask me, I can't see how anyone would be able to get up to anything of the sort in those tiny toilet spaces—well, not the ones on _my_ plane, anyway. I'm guessing even Tom Cruise wouldn't bother attempting it because it really is Mission Impossible right from the start. And if you doubt me, let's just run through what might be a typical Mile High Club rendezvous, and you'll see where I'm coming from...

So here you are outside the bathroom with your beloved—or some random hunky passenger who's given you the eye—and you've decided to have a quickie (not that I'm condoning that sort of thing, of course—it's not 'family values', is it?). Anyway, before you've even got to first base, there's a problem. People— _a lot_ of people—are going to see you hop inside the cubicle together. That would put the kybosh on it for me, right there. I wouldn't be able to relax if I knew everyone on the plane knew what I was up to. But, for argument's sake, let's assume you get a thrill from that kind of thing, so 'roll on the good times'.

OK, so let's picture the two of you inside the space preparing to 'do your thing'. You've got the heavy petting over with, and now you're eager to 'get down to business'. Pulling down a zipper is easy enough, but what you soon find is that there's barely enough room to swing a cat in here (not that I recommend that—especially on a plane) let alone get undressed, even partially.

But let's give this scenario all the rope it needs. Let's say your amorous fervour is pretty strong. _Where there's a will, there's a way_ , you think. So, despite your two bodies being sandwiched together within those four cramped walls, you struggle on, fumbling about and yanking at the clothing obstacles in your way.

I'll leave a few things to the reader's imagination here. Suffice to say, unless you have the flexibility of a rubber pretzel, I don't see how you're going to make it through without pulling a muscle or two in the space provided. And by the time you're done, you'll be so sweated up, you'll need a wash. Of course, there's a handy little sink there in the bathroom, but can you get to it? One of you will surely have to leave the premises before the other can use the facilities. And I wouldn't want to be the one to pull the short straw there!

When you finally open the door, there'll doubtless be a queue of people waiting outside—and all of them will have a pretty good idea what's been going on. Because while they've been standing there for goodness-knows-how-long, desperate to use the loo, they've been subjected to your passionate panting, groaning, moaning and banging about inside the cubicle. And if any of the passengers missed it, your dishevelled appearance will be a dead giveaway as to what you've been up to.

Yep, when I pay Tom Cruise a visit to offer him the Mile High Club mission (not with me, of course—I'm currently taken), I know _exactly_ what he'll do. He'll put on his dark sunglasses, slip out the back door, and pretend he never heard the doorbell ring.

All I'll say is, if you're a pensioner who's heard about the Mile High Club challenge and you're considering giving it a whirl—forget it! At best, you'll come off needing a hip operation, and at worst, a heart attack from all the excitement will mean they'll be heaving you off in a stretcher at the end of the flight. Anyway, what are you on? Viagara?

When I came out of the loo, I saw one of the stewardesses who I'd had a friendly chat with earlier and saw my opportunity to ask her about her prima donna colleague who had rudely 'put me under the spotlight' earlier.

Surreptitiously, I pointed him out across the dark cabin. " _That_ guy! What's his name?"

"I'm not sure," she said. "Why do you want to know?"

I couldn't quite read her expression. _Was she telling the truth or being evasive?_ Hmm... In all likelihood, she knew exactly who he was but didn't want to get a co-worker into trouble. And if that was the case, she'd put on a good poker face. I guessed it came with the territory of being a flight attendant, what with all those difficult passengers they'd have to put on a smile for every day. _Well, I wasn't getting sucked in. Two could play at that game!_

I gave a casual shrug and replied with a little white lie. "Oh, I'm just curious. I bumped into him earlier... So, err... Is he the manager?"

She told me she believed he was some deputy or assistant manager—I can't quite recall the title she used. Either way, he wasn't the manager at all—he was a rung below. The little twerp had tried to big himself up by pretending he was the head honcho.

_Just as well the actual manager hadn't been within earshot when he hassled me about the seatbelt light_ , I thought. I could just imagine the conversation...

"Good grief, man! Are you pretending to be _me_ again? Well, you're _not_ the manager around here— _I am!_ You jumped-up little oik! Until the day the airlines bestow a promotion on you, you're _my_ subordinate— _got that?_ Now stop blinding our passengers with that darned torchlight of yours and make yourself useful, will you?" (You may be unsurprised to learn that it felt quite good to write that!)

The flight attendant in my midst gave me a perceptive look. "What's he done?"

"Oh, nothing much," I shrugged again. "He was just a bit heavy-handed about something, that's all."

It was obvious I wasn't going to wring any useful details out of her, so I changed the subject and asked for a refill of my water bottle. But I hadn't forgotten about my nemesis. And by the time I returned to my seat, I realised I had involuntarily set myself on a mission. A mission to find out that darned guy's name.

I felt a surge of determination course through me, like Scarlett O'Hara at the end of _Gone with the Wind_. Come hell or high water, I was going to get that name! I didn't know how, but it had to happen soon. Because once we landed in Singapore, we'd have a change-over of cabin crew—and my priceless opportunity would be lost.

It was easier to push through my exhaustion and watch a movie that blocked out background noise than it was to try and sleep, given that I could still hear the piercing screams of the kiddies in front through my earplugs.

At some point, I took a break from the screen and went down the back for some more water. And who should I find there in the kitchen area but my favourite flight attendant—Laser Torch Boy!

Immediately, he greeted me with a pleasant hello and, seeing my bottle of water in hand asked, "Would you like me to fill that up for you?"

I was stunned. _Who_ was _this guy?_ He certainly wasn't the same rabid jackal from the seatbelt encounter—or the prima donna I'd seen huffing and puffing as he served passengers. No, this was a serenely calm, 'nice as pie' steward. _Talk about personality transformation!_

"Err... Thanks," I replied, handing over the bottle for a top-up.

"Would you like any more beverages? A hot cup of tea?"

I was taken off-guard again. "Well, err, yes, please."

I smelled a rat. This turnaround in behaviour hadn't come about for no reason, surely. There were only two explanations for what was going on here. Either the guy in front of me was Torch Boy's angelic twin (he being the evil twin, of course), or else the female flight attendant had tipped him off that I'd said something.

I wasn't falling for his act, I thought, gritting my jaw and remembering my mission. I needed to find out his name. Because, in my little fantasy world, I was going to get in touch with someone at the top of the airline company and write them a stiff letter about his ham-fisted conduct.

As the steward pottered about making the tea, I tried to get a look at his name badge. But one second, he'd be facing the counter, and the next, he'd turn to go over to the other side—and back and forth it went.

_Drat!_ I was never going to get it at this rate! _If only he'd stop moving about so much!_

But then he turned towards me and held out the tea—and that was my chance. _Finally!_ The badge was in full view. _Hallelujah!_

Now, obviously, I'm not going to tell you what name was on that badge. I might get sued or something. Besides, even if the steward _was_ putting on an act by being nice, he was still waving a white flag of sorts—and that's only to be commended.

In any case, you can get a lot more mileage from these kinds of interactions by including them in a book and keeping things anonymous than by writing a moany old letter to some airline executive. I can just hear what he (or she!) might say after reading it, anyway:

"Goodness gracious! The person who wrote this letter really needs to get a life, don't they?" he says, blowing out a sigh and tossing it aside. "'Half-blinded by some tiny little torch', my arse!" Then he shouts to his secretary. "For crying out loud, Doris! Can't you filter this sort of guff out of my post tray? Send it on down to Customer Services or shove it in the shredder— _I don't care_. But I'm sick to the eyeballs of reading it!"

As we neared Singapore for a two-hour stopoff, I was no closer to getting a decent rest, for one reason or another. How I envied the Asian lad sitting next to me! He zonked off after eating his meal and never stirred once. As they say, "he was sleeping like a baby". In fact, the infant and young girl up front could've learned a thing or two from him because they were in flagrant breach of the saying with their ear-splitting antics.

Of course, the downside to my fellow passenger's ability to nod off despite the noisy goings-on around him is that, if the plane exploded and went down in flames, he'd probably sleep through that as well unless some considerate soul rattled him awake. In a panic situation, though, it would be unlikely anyone would notice him snuggled up beneath his travel blanket. Still, if we crashed, he wouldn't be any the wiser—he'd be blissfully sleeping through what was a living nightmare for the rest of us.

I nudged the Asian lad and told him we were coming in to land in Singapore, then stared out the window at the darkness which was dotted by airport lights.

_Ah, well!_ I sighed as we touched down. _Maybe I'll be able to catch up on my beauty sleep on the next leg of the flight._

# Singapore—Stopoff

"No job is finished until the paperwork is done."

Unknown

The minute we hit tarmac in Singapore, everyone piled off the plane. Well, I say 'piled off', but what actually happened is that the passengers at the front (who had paid heftily for their tickets) milled about at their leisure while the rest of us way down back in Economy (the cheapskate seats) had to hang around for a while in the cabin until they disembarked.

When you've had little rest and are sick of travelling, this part seems to take _foreeever_. All you want to do is get off the plane and smell fresh air again—or, at least, air that's fresher than what you've been breathing in the cabin. You want to unshackle yourself from the plane's grasp—that feeling of being penned in. You could do all that during the flight, of course, by opening the emergency exits, but that freedom comes at a price, so it's not really recommended.

As we walked up the ramp to the airport lounge, it looked to me that practically the whole planeload of passengers was darting over to the nearest toilet. Call it an educated guess, but I reckon most people are desperate to let the cork out of the bottle, as it were, the instant the plane lands. They don't mind peeing on the plane (not _literally_ on the plane, you understand), but any other 'evacuations' tend to be curtailed for one reason or another...

For a start off, the body's innermost workings don't easily perform when you're flying. Not only is your system totally out of whack from changing time zones, but whenever you visit the loo on a plane, you know there's bound to be a growing queue just outside the toilet, desperate to use the facilities—and that's all your bowels need to signal a retreat. Of course, for all we know, the airlines might spike our food and drinks with something to keep us from pebble-dashing the toilet bowls, but I doubt it.

Other flyers don't experience abdominal holdups at all, but psychologically, they're reluctant to let go in such a tiny cubicle, keenly aware that others will go in after them and end up getting gassed—not only that, but the victim will know who the perpetrator is.

So, at the end of the day, as passengers, we inherently know it's a good idea to try and save things up for later if at all possible.

All this is a sensitive subject, I know—especially if (like me) you've been raised in Britain—a country considered to be a bit retentive in that department.

Given the aforementioned, it came as no surprise to find the ladies' jam-packed with women waiting impatiently to use the facilities. I know I'm a woman, but I still couldn't tell you what other women get up to in public lavatories that takes so long. When you're waiting in the toilet queue, you hear either a lot of rustling or a lot of silence. I'm guessing the thought of being listened to while they're trying to concentrate just gives most women performance anxiety. And if that's the case, I guess I can totally empathise.

In this situation, it's bad enough being an ordinary bod, but think about how celebrities feel. Actress Helen Mirren reckoned she was once in the queue for the loo at a public venue and someone recognised her. The minute she stepped into a cubicle, she knew her every move was being listened to—intently—from outside the door. Now, who wouldn't suffer from performance anxiety under circumstances like that?

After a few minutes, it was pretty clear that the queue here in the ladies' was as constipated as the women in the stalls, so I decided to cork things up again and bide my time.

Instead of getting worked up, I went for a light jog down through the airport lounge. After being cooped up in the plane, it was nice to have the space to move around. And, unexpectedly, I discovered a public convenience right at the other end that was almost empty and therefore lacked the social pressures of the one nearer to where we'd gotten off the plane. _Talk about lucky!_ I made full use of the facilities, then returned to where Steve had been sitting with our bags and let him in on the secret. _We'd have to remember this place for our return trip._

Eventually, it was time to board the plane again. At customs, they asked if we had any sharp implements. Like an idiot, I nodded that I had some scissors and opened up my bag to dig around. Out came a tiny pair of manicure scissors which I held aloft. They were so pathetically small that I didn't think they'd rate them. Back in the UK, only scissors with a blade of six centimetres or more registered on the 'watchlist' of items that could do irreparable damage to humans within the confines of an aeroplane (and, mind-bogglingly, a man's razor didn't!) So these tiny scissors, with a blade no more than a centimetre long, fell way under the British limit. Here in Singapore, however, they seemed interested in any size blade.

I handed over the scissors, kicking myself for ever having mentioned them. After all, the point on them wasn't exactly sharp and, to be honest, they weren't even much good for cutting nails. But they didn't take up much space and had come in handy for the odd simple job like cutting bits of cotton off clothing, so I'd kept them.

Given the scissors' obvious lack of clout, I was astounded when the officer seized them. _You're confiscating_ these _as a dangerous weapon?_

From this, I could only deduce that the Singaporeans (is that a word?) have an overactive imagination. I mean, in the UK, you'd need a decent-sized pair of scissors to do any damage in a murder mystery. But for the folk of Singapore, it seemed, I might wreak untold damage if left to my own devices. I'm not sure what sort of heinous deed they envisaged me capable of carrying out with such a gutless pair of scissors. Certainly, there was no way I'd be able to plunge the blade into someone's heart. I doubt it would've reached deep enough in. Admittedly, though, I could do something almost as bad if I had a mind to—like gouging out a fellow passenger's eye.

Hmm... Maybe Singapore customs had a point—even if only a half-blunt one.

Back on the plane, the quiet Asian lad in the adjacent seat had been replaced by a guy who reeked of booze. _Great! Here comes trouble!_

Before takeoff, an announcement directed us to remove any devices from the USB ports. Unfortunately, Mr Boozy didn't respond. And when the stewardess came along to check that the passengers were buckled and prepped for flight, she pointed to his device and asked him to unplug it. But the lass didn't hang around to make sure he'd obliged. Instead, she continued on to the next passenger, and the next, and was soon out of sight.

Unsurprisingly, Mr Boozy totally ignored the stewardess's instructions. I rolled my eyes. _That's all we need_. _A rogue element on the plane!_

I gave Mr Boozy the once-over. He was pint-sized, middle-aged, a little dishevelled with a twelve o'clock shadow and, judging by his attempts to grunt English, he was also from Scotland. _Oh, dear! Scottish_ and _sozzled—not a good combination,_ I thought, instantly typecasting him.

I glanced over at the cable, still in its socket, and a pang of dread shot through me. _Surely the airlines wouldn't ask us to unplug everything if it wasn't important._ I mean, what would happen if we took off and the device hadn't been unplugged? Could it overload the electrical system somehow? Have some knock-on effect down in the cockpit? Short-circuit the pilot's instruments, maybe? It didn't bear thinking about.

Then I wondered just how thorough the flight attendant had been in her checks. Maybe half the passengers still had electrical items plugged in. _Christ! The whole plane could go down in flames at this rate!..._

OK, get a grip! Deep breaths, now!...

Given the disaster scenarios running through my brain, I was now looking over at Mr Boozy's USB port with a steely eye. Maybe I could just reach over and pull out the plug myself. After all, the man was half cut. If I did it slowly, he probably wouldn't even notice me doing it. _Hmm... But if he catches me, he might start a drunken rant—and who knows what that might escalate into._

Try as I might, I couldn't shake the national stereotype from my brain—everyone knew the Scots were renowned for two things: getting drunk and starting fights. So giving Mr Boozy a reason to get riled up within the confines of a plane that was about to take off didn't seem a good idea. After all, he wouldn't be the first air passenger—Scottish or not—to have downed one too many drinks and kicked off, would he?

According to an article in the New York Post, the International Air Transport Association had seen a rise in 'air rage' incidents during 2017, and many of them were booze-related...

One story reported that "a sozzled woman who lunged at a passenger on a flight from Manchester to Cancun forced the pilot to land 2,000 miles away in Quebec".

Another drunken woman "caused chaos by kicking the seat of an autistic girl in front and prompting her mum to have a seizure". If that wasn't bad enough, she also screamed "we are all going to die" as her flight circled an airport before landing.

In another incident, an inebriated Jet2 passenger was so impatient to have another drink that he got up and radioed through to the cockpit as the plane came in to land, yelling: "What's it take to get a f***ing drink?". In response, the captain left his co-pilot at the helm and confronted the rabble-rouser, who was later jailed.

A number of intoxicated travellers 'express themselves' or otherwise vent their rage by piddling in the cabin instead...

Take, for instance, the Frontier airlines passenger who CBS Denver reported as having harassed two women then proceeded to pull out his tackle and pee on the seat in front of him.

Some travellers go one step further, such as the 24-year-old American who allegedly got up from his seat and peed on a 50-year-old Japanese chap sitting a few rows back—not the friendliest way of introducing yourself!

Of course, the most famous of all is French actor Gérard Dépardieu who, in 2011, took a leak in front of other passengers when the crew told him he had to wait 15 minutes to use the bathroom. Reportedly, he claimed prostate problems, but at least one passenger reckoned he'd been drinking.

_God! This was all Mr Boozy's fault_ , I thought. His cavalier attitude to airline safety is what had got me all flustered. _Why couldn't the guy just pull the darned plug out of his device?_ With clenched jaw, I decided that my inebriated neighbour was going to be a real handful on this flight—and his contravention with the USB port was just the start of it. But when I looked over again, the wind was taken out of my sails somewhat because, by now, the guy had drifted off to sleep.

A moment later, the plane took off without a hitch, and for the rest of the flight, Mr Boozy remained asleep and never bothered anyone. I guess that's a lesson to me about stereotypes!

# Arrival in Sydney

"It's a dirty job, but someone's gotta do it."

Faith No More

During our flight, I thought we had things pretty bad when it came to the restrooms. Not only was the space barely adequate, but at 'rush hour', there weren't enough loos to go around, so queues would naturally back up. Oh, and believe it or not, just like the seating, the designers are looking to work a miracle and make the lavatories smaller, too—that way, they can pack even more passengers into the cabin.

In comparison with the facilities on offer in bygone days, however, we were flying in the lap of luxury. According to an article in the Telegraph, Lancaster bomber pilots in World War II had to use 'slop bucket' loos (aka 'Elsans'), and one airman described his disdain for them: "While we were flying in rough air, this devil's convenience often shared its contents with the floor of the aircraft, the walls, the ceiling [and was] prone to bathe the nether regions of the user." _Lovely!_ He sums it up by saying: "It was one of the true reminders to me that war is hell".

Crikey! Next time Remembrance Sunday rolls around, I won't be thinking so much of the soldiers who fought it out on the battlefield but the ones who spent precious moments squatting over a slop bucket on a plane. If the airman's account is anything to go by, that's a sure sign of patriotism!

Unfortunately, the picture still wasn't a happy one for a while because, after that, "plane loos were unwieldy boxes that utilised large quantities of blue liquid [called Skykem] and were prone to leaking." Thankfully, though, James Kemper came up with a design for the first modern vacuum toilet and it was installed by Boeing in 1982.

If you ask me, toilet design toddled along at a nice peaceful, uninspired pace for decades until some idiot had a brainwave (probably whilst sitting on the toilet) and came up with the harebrained invention known as the automatic (or auto-flushing) toilet.

Until we landed in Sydney, I'd never experienced one of these 'razzamatazz' contraptions. They didn't have any back in Singapore, so I was totally unprepared for the one here.

What took me off guard was the fact that the place looked clean, roomy, and had a decent amount of cubicles (a big hurrah after the flight!), on top of which, it was unbelievably empty and quiet. I felt like royalty, with the luxurious and relaxing space all to myself. So you can imagine how it must've felt stepping into a stall with a view to getting comfy on the seat. _Aaaah!_

But barely a second after sitting down, I found myself (quite literally) up against what was obviously a toilet with a sensor—and a trigger-happy one at that. Flushing unexpectedly at random intervals, it threw up geysers of water, effectively giving me an unsolicited hosing down from behind. Did this thing have a personality disorder or what? One minute it thought it was a loo, the next a bidet.

_Christ! Give me a normal toilet any day!_ I grimaced.

All this random flushing reminded me of the time I went on a day trip to France back in my teens. The ferry toilets would flush at odd intervals, and if you happened to be sitting on one, it was quite disconcerting, to say the least. Instead of using water, like normal toilets, these ones employed some sort of suction mechanism—just like a domestic vacuum cleaner, only a whole lot stronger—that sent air whooshing through to deal with the necessaries. OK, you didn't get wet with this appliance, but the blasted thing did give you a nasty feeling that your backside was being sucked down the pan—and if it could take the rest of you with it, it would.

Trying to mop myself dry after my 'sensory experience' here in the cubicle, I had to wonder... Whose bright idea was it to combine technology and toilets? As far as I was concerned, they weren't happy bedfellows. And why was some robotic gadget needed to assess when it was time for me to flush, anyway? I was quite capable of working that one out for myself, thank you very much. But if designers insist on incorporating technology, surely they'd be better off doing something really useful, like including a coffee-making facility or digital newspaper screen on the door.

When I think of automated bathrooms, Japan is the place that instantly springs to mind (just another reason, along with sushi and nuclear fallout, why I've avoided the place so far). Maybe over there, they've got things licked and toilets rarely experience electrical problems. But the circuitry on this Aussie techno-loo was either faulty or else they hadn't field-tested the equipment in the first place.

To the untrained eye, this toilet looked perfectly normal, but as soon as I went near it, it acted as if it was hyped up on amphetamines. So it may not surprise you to learn that younger folk are struggling with the 'behaviour disorder' of these toilets. The New York Times reckons that "to many toddlers, they are the stuff of nightmares", and online, you'll find a catalogue of people (from children to young adults) fessing up to being scared to death of the blighters, with one ten-year-old saying she's getting therapy for these 'whooshing monster[s]'.

So, is this just a case of _Generation Snowflake_ , of people being just a bit too sensitive and lily-livered? Who knows. Either way, after my harrowing encounter, I wandered over and took a peek in some of the other stalls. Were they _all_ fitted out with white porcelain devils? From the looks of it, mine was the only one. _Hmm... Perhaps this one_ was _the field test device._ I just hoped a hidden CCTV camera hadn't been rigged up in the stall which had been getting a close-up of my posterior all that time.

After washing up in the sink, I rounded the corner. The janitor was hovering about there with her bucket and mop, so I mentioned the problem with the toilet.

_How many more women_ , I wondered, _would have to suffer at the hands of this toilet before they fixed it and put a stop to its intimidating activities?_ It was the first one along in the row of stalls, so it would probably get used quite a bit. But from the janitor's lacklustre response, it was obvious the techno-toilet beast wasn't going to be put in its place any time soon.

It's doubtful the wheels of progress will ever stop manufacturing auto-flush toilets, but I'm hoping that, one day, designers will see sense and at least consider putting in a much-needed safety feature: a manual override button.

As I exited the bathroom, Steve was waiting patiently, and we continued on through the airport, leaving my toilet torment behind.

We sat down in the sun-filled lounge to wait for our shuttle bus connection, and I took a deep breath. The flight had left me sleep-deprived, but look on the bright side...

Finally, after all these years, I was back here in Australia!

# PART 2—THE RETURN JOURNEY

"Thanks for flying with us today. We hope you enjoyed giving us your business as much as we enjoyed taking you for a ride."

In-flight announcement (unknown)

# Australia to Singapore

"If you can smell yourself, others have been able to for a while."

Unknown

Less than a month ago, we landed in Australia for what many would consider to be a holiday of a lifetime. For Steve, it was a first visit, but for me, it was a return to the country of my birth and the place I'd called home for five years back in my twenties. As well as spending time with old friends and family, we'd had lots of adventures together—swimming with platypuses in the creek, whale-watching, koala spotting and so much more.

But sadly, on this sunny morning at the end of October, it was time to leave.

We bought some last-minute gifts in the shop at Brisbane airport and headed through customs. On the other side, I looked up at the wall and cringed. _Oh, no!_ In front of me, an advert for Chanel perfume was playing, with Kristen Stewart of _Twilight_ fame running along, thumping a golden wall, all swaddled in strange spider-web cloth.

Ee gads! Spare me!

How was it that the very same advert I'd seen at the airport at the start of our trip in London had followed us all the way to Australia? The darned thing was unavoidable. Well, not entirely unavoidable—because this time, we didn't have to sit around and watch it spool _ad nauseum—_ this time, we were walking on by.

Along with a bunch of fellow passengers, we headed towards the plane for Sydney. Once we touched down there, we'd catch another plane to Singapore, and then on to London Heathrow.

A man passed by, and the rank stench of BO filled my nostrils. _Yuk! I hope we aren't sitting next to him on the plane!_ I thought. Within the confines of a cabin, bodily smells just magnified.

One news story told of a man who smelled like "he hadn't washed himself for several weeks". It was so bad, that "passengers on the flight were said to be vomiting and even fainting", and Transavia Airlines pilots made an emergency landing for "medical reasons". It turned out that, rather than being too lazy to wash, the man was suffering from necrosis—or unnatural cell death—which made him stink. Sadly, he didn't recover from the infection.

On another Transavia flight, tensions escalated after a "passenger [dropped] farts so putrid" and "allegedly continued to guff without any attempt to hold back". A brawl broke out and pilots were once again forced to make an emergency landing.

As we walked behind 'BO Guy', I spotted the ticket in his hand. _Phew!_ He was eight rows behind us. _That should be far enough away—hopefully, the stench won't reach us from there_. I have a keen sense of smell, and I was convinced that having my nostrils up against the guy's armpits (as it were) would make me choke.

I put out a silent prayer for the poor blighters who would be sitting near him and have to contend with the brunt of BO Guy's personal hygiene issues (assuming he didn't have some disease, that is).

It occurred to me that, as passengers, we normally gloss over all those flight safety videos that drone on in the background, but his neighbours would certainly want to pay careful attention to their screen on this flight—that way, they'd know where their oxygen mask was stashed and how to effectively apply it if things got too much.

Incidentally, in case you're ever faced with the consequences of someone's flatulent outpourings on a flight and the oxygen mask fails, it's worth making sure you're wearing something called an Emergency Bra—a "protective garment that transforms into two respiratory face masks in case of an emergency". Invented by Dr Elena Bodnar, it won an Ig Nobel prize in 2009. According to one article, in order to deploy it, "Simply unsnap the bright red bra, separate the cups, and slip it over your head". That seemed all well and good for women, but what were blokes supposed to do in an emergency (assuming they weren't happy to wear a bra)? Handily, it turns out that when you separate the bra, there's "one cup for you, and one for your friend". _Problem solved!_

Apparently, these bra masks have been "useful during the Sept. 11 terrorist attacks, and for women caught outside during the dust storms that... enveloped Sydney". So, by that logic, they should be a great defence against noxious flatulence on a flight.

The only thing that stumps me is whether you would need to strip off in order to remove the bra. It's all very well protecting your nasal sensibilities, but if you end up being stared at and dubbed an exhibitionist for the rest of the flight, it's not going to be an enjoyable ride, is it?

Steve and I made our way down the aisle of the plane and found our row—number 12. I glanced over at the row behind. _Hmm... Is 13 really a good number to have on a plane?_ I wondered if the designers had really thought this thing through. As well as including a row numbered 13, they'd also made it an emergency exit—the easiest place to get sucked out of the plane if the doors accidentally snagged off in transit. Even someone who wasn't normally superstitious would probably think twice about sitting there.

Once we'd settled into our seats, I picked up a set of in-flight instructions and noticed the wording: "In emergency, lean forward in your seat as far as possible".

Yeah, right! Like that's feasible!

This was a different airline from the one we'd flown with to Australia, yet it was the same bad design story. Why did they pack seats so tightly together? How on earth anyone could ever hope to contort themselves into the specified position in an emergency—let alone at any other time—was beyond me. Maybe if you had a few years of yoga practice under your belt or had trained as a circus gymnast, you'd stand half a chance.

Over the tannoy came a set of instructions so unintelligible that they easily rivalled those of a British Rail announcer. And if you've never been on a train in England before, just think of Charlie Brown's teacher... "Wah wah waaah wah!". Might as well be talking under water.

Despite this being a short flight, the airline had insisted on feeding us. Rather nice of them, I thought—although, with this particular company, our vegetarian meal wasn't served before the others. "It's being cooked", we were told by the flight attendant. After a while, however, we felt like we'd been left hanging.

By now, everyone else was tucking into their meals—some had even finished. Drinks had been served up to us, but where was the food? At this rate, we'd be in Sydney airspace by the time we sank our teeth into anything.

I glanced at the time. _Our grub should've been ready long ago._ Just how were they cooking up this stuff? Was someone taking our food out to the tailpipe of the plane and torching it by the heat of the engine?

"Maybe they've forgotten about us," I said to Steve. At the next possible opportunity, we caught a steward's attention, and soon they came out with our long-awaited vegeburgers. _Hmm... Do I detect the faint whiff of jet fuel?_

After hopping off the plane at Sydney, we headed through yet more check-ins, custom searches and gates. They certainly were thorough—they even had a wand that picks up traces of explosives off your clothing. I was just glad that, once again, we hadn't been singled out as a lucky contestant to go through to the Body Cavity Search round.

As carry-on luggage, I had a small backpack, an over-the-shoulder bag, plus a hand-held bag for my laptop and notebook (a real notebook made of paper, not a computer, that is). So by the time we'd been fed through the rigorous passport and customs mill, it had all been taken off and put back on umpteen times. Basically, it amounted to a full workout, so I was pretty hot by the end of it. _Definitely time to take off my jacket!_

On the flight from London to Australia, we'd sat just a few rows back from a baby and youngster who had taken it in turns to exercise their lungs in a rather loud, piercing manner the whole time. That, combined with a host of other things, meant I got barely any rest for the twenty-plus hours we spent in the air. By the time we arrived at our final destination, I was so depleted that I felt jetlagged and had a fluey cold for over a week. So as we boarded the plane to England, I wasn't exactly looking forward to the flight.

Was it going to be a dreadful rehash of our journey over?

Jostling with fellow passengers, we stowed our luggage into the overhead lockers and settled in. Some time after takeoff, the flight crew came round with the food trolleys, asking who had ordered a vegetarian meal. I turned my head and put up my hand to signal that I had one. As the hostess handed over the tray, I could've sworn I caught sight of a woman off to the side giving me "the look"—the "she's only a vegetarian" look—the "why's _she_ getting served before us meat-eaters?" look.

Despite sensing that her eyes were burning a hole in the back of my head, I guessed I could understand her feelings. I mean, meat-eaters _are_ the dominant species on the planet right now, so naturally, one would assume they'd get served first. _Maybe the woman isn't mad at me for eating a veggie meal_ , I thought. _She might just be starving._ The wafts of deliciousness passing by her nostrils might have been too much for her, and maybe she was about to snap from the sheer desperation of it all.

I sneaked a looked behind me but couldn't spot any laser-beam stare. _Huh! Maybe I'm just being paranoid._

I admit, I'd been a bit gloomy about a few things on our flight to and from Australia, but the standard of the in-flight meals wasn't one of them. They were tasty, hot and filling. I've seen some pretty yucky pictures online of airline food, and fortunately, ours didn't match any of those.

When you think how explorers like Marco Polo must have travelled centuries ago, fighting off scurvy and other debilitating illnesses as they sailed around the globe, you realise it's a positive luxury to receive sustenance from a doting crew member. In fact, when a food tray is popped in front of you, it kind of feels like you're getting a Christmas present—a little mystery package covered in foil instead of festive wrapping paper that makes you feel all warm and fuzzy inside (at least, that's how it feels if you're not sleep-deprived and grumpy).

After a sumptuous mushroom fettuccine, I realised I still had a bread roll left to eat before dessert. At first, I baulked. _Urgh! Boring old bread and butter._ But as I cut the roll in half and spread the butter, my mind was cast back to a time in our western world when a bread roll would have been a delight to eat, when a dairy product like butter was a treat rather than the necessity we deem it to be today.

To my great surprise, as I put the buttered roll in my mouth, the flavours seemed to burst onto my tongue. _Had my appreciation for the simplicity of the food made it taste better?_

I decided to watch a bit of in-flight entertainment. And, by the way, if you didn't know, you can check out what's available prior to your flight—you know, in case you're desperate to find out what's on or are worried there won't be enough videos to see you through the flight (as if!). Annoyingly, the touchscreens were a bit hit and miss, so by the time I'd finished sifting through the movie choices, my fingers felt like a woodpecker's beak tapping frantically at a tree stump.

After a while, I got tired and switched off the screen. Determined to get some rest on this flight, I put in my earplugs and pulled my hat over my head. Unfortunately, the constant pestering of the kiddie sitting several rows in front couldn't be escaped. But somehow, I managed to nod off for a bit—until, that is, a voice hammering away on the periphery of awareness, rudely yanked me from my cosy deep-sleep state.

_What the...?_ I took off my hat and pulled out my earplugs.

Staring down at me was a stewardess, and with a monotonous robotic style of delivery, she continually asked if mine was the vegetarian option.

_Good grief!_ It didn't seem five minutes since they'd served up the last meal.

I took the tray, had a quick peek at it through my bleary-eyed haze, and pulled my hat back down over my face. There was no way I could eat in the state I was in. Despite the wafts of hot meals penetrating my nostrils, exhaustion had outpaced hunger by a mile. _I'll have a bite after I get some more shut-eye_ , I decided.

That seemed a good plan until I woke up an hour or so later, only to find that my meal box had vanished without a trace, no doubt whipped away and thrown into the bin by the delightful stewardess.

_Oh, great!_ _I could just go for a midnight snack about now, too._

My tummy rumbling, I was feeling downright grumpy. First I'd been rudely awoken—when, to anyone with half a brain, the signs were all there that I had 'shut up shop' for the night. You know—the reclined position, the earplugs, the hat so completely covering the head that it looked like I was doing a burnt match impression. Then, instead of checking if I was happy to starve, the meal had been surreptitiously removed.

What the hell was the stewardess thinking?

Flight attendants must deal with sleepy passengers like myself all the time, I reckoned. So, to me, it didn't seem like rocket science. The stewardess would've had the seat allocation for a veggie meal and could've just popped the darned thing onto my table without disturbing me, then moved on. Any errors would soon have gotten sorted out, surely.

Irritation roiling in my gut, I was determined to see justice (and a replacement meal) so I went down the back of the plane to the food prep area. A huddle of flight attendants was standing there. and I enquired about the missing meal. But all I got were firm shakes of the head. No one could tell me what had happened to my mystery meal—not even the stewardess who had served it in the first place. I eyeballed her, hoping she'd fess up, but she just shrugged and gave a blank look.

My jaw tensed. It must have been her! _How could it not be?_ They wouldn't have switched staff for the clean-up after the meal, surely?

Feeling powerless to do anything, my original determination to see justice crumbled before me and I held back from singling the woman out in front of her colleagues. After all, without evidence of some kind, I couldn't prove she was the one who had stolen my meal from under me. And there was no point in bandying accusations around, I would've just come off as some ranting passenger. But in my heart of hearts, I knew she was the perpetrator. I could see it in her eyes. She knew what she had done. And _she_ knew that _I_ knew, too.

"I don't suppose you have anything I could eat?" I asked, putting the question to the group.

"Sorry, we don't carry spare meals," came the reply.

My eyebrows raised. _Don't carry spare meals?_ _What—not a single one?_ I thought. That couldn't be right. Were margins that tight? Or was I just one of the few people in the history of air travel who has actually enjoyed their meals and requested more?

In any case, by now, I was all out of ammunition. Dog-tired and despondent, I returned to my seat and slumped back down, the youngster nearby still kicking up a fuss.

Goodness me! Roll on London Heathrow!

# Singapore—Stopoff

"How long is a minute? Depends which side of the door you're on."

The Fresh Quotes website

Landing in Singapore, the plane emptied out and the inevitable flood of passengers descended onto the nearest restroom. But this time, I had no intention of following the crowds and stand in a queue for goodness-knows-how-long trying to cork things up. Instead, I was going to use some smarts.

On our last stopoff in Singapore, I'd found a near-empty bathroom right at the other end of the airport where it was quieter. So why not go there again?

By chance, Steve and I discovered another public convenience just beyond it—and this one was even better.

Stepping into the space, the plush, soft lighting and sparkling cleanliness were like comforting arms that enveloped me. This was Luxury Central indeed, with more stalls than I had time to count before ducking into one of them.

_How could it be,_ I wondered as I got comfy inside, _that women are jam-packed into the toilet near our plane exit and yet not_ one _person has found this Bathroom Oasis?... No one except me, that is!_

No doubt, at other times, when the nearby boarding gates were open, this place would be bustling with women. But right now, I had it all to myself.

Given that most women's facilities are chock-full whenever you go anywhere—to a museum, a music event, whatever— it's pretty obvious that they are sorely lacking, as a general rule. In other words, they normally need two or three times as many cubicles as are provided.

Unfortunately, most lavatory designers have not worked this out yet—and, without wanting to appear sexist, I'm guessing that's because they're male and have never stepped foot inside a public female lavatory in their lives. For men, a visit to the loo is generally a quick in-and-out affair, splashing about in what amounts to a small tiled storm drain; and venturing into a cubicle is the exception rather than the rule. So why not take all that unused space allocated to the men's facilities and dump it over in the women's section? Makes sense to me. Men might not notice the difference, but women sure would.

I took the opportunity to perform my various ablutions in a relaxed manner. Only a female janitor hovered about now and then as I cleaned my teeth and gave myself a spritz in the sink. So, ladies, if you're ever stuck in an airport toilet with a brimming queue that ain't shiftin', look around and see if you have better luck elsewhere.

By the time I finished in the restroom, I felt refreshed—or as refreshed as one can be when sleep-deprived. But at least by now, I didn't feel like my eyeballs were hanging out.

Outside, Steve was waiting patiently. We spotted a sign pointing towards something called the Cactus Garden. _Hey, that sounds nice!_ We headed in the direction, imagining what we might find when we got there... A serene garden area set aside for passengers, an oasis filled with cactuses and relaxing leafy fronds. _Aaah! Soothing!_

Unfortunately, the Cactus Garden was a bit of a disappointment. Because it wasn't so much a _garden_ as a _pub_ —and a pretty stinky one at that. Even out the back on the large patio area, the place reeked of cigarettes—some strange exotic Singapore ones, by the whiff of it—so we could forget about breathing in the rejuvenating natural fragrance of lush vegetation tonight.

Oh, well, we live and learn! Back to the departure lounge!

# Singapore to London

"Whoever came up with 'sleeps like a baby' clearly doesn't have one."

Unknown

When we got back on the plane, the tables had turned—or should I say 'seats'? Before catching our flight in Sydney, it had dawned on me that Steve and I wouldn't be sitting together, so I'd managed to rebook our ticket and get two adjacent seats on this last leg of our flight. So now, instead of sitting near the front of Economy, we were right at the back.

As we passed our old seats, I said a prayer of gratitude that we were no longer in that row—because, sitting there now, was a young lad letting rip with one of the noisiest screaming tantrums I've ever heard.

Whenever I mention to people that we've encountered screaming kids on flights, some step in and give the excuse that the little darlings are probably suffering from cabin pressure on their eardrums. I totally get that youngsters suffer like that—and on most occasions, that would be the right conclusion. But in this case, we hadn't even taken off yet. So the only people who had any pressure on their eardrums were the rest of us trapped here in the confines of the cabin, having to listen to it.

Steve and I found our seats, which were several rows back, and as the plane took off, the boy's ear-piercing cries continued relentlessly. It was hard to tell whether his mother had tried to quieten him, or whether she'd given up in despair. Either way, the session continued ceaselessly for fifteen or twenty minutes before it finally petered out.

When you begin to look into it, the number of anecdotes highlighting the discomfort—sometimes excruciating—that many passengers suffer from sitting near noisy kids on flights is quite staggering. A reporter for the Daily Mail, for instance, wrote an article back in 2015 describing her experiences when flying to Perth to visit elderly parents. The cabin space was dominated by a boy aged two or three, who writhed about, wailing 'primal scream'-style. After barely half an hour of this, the reporter said, people had "slapped their laptop covers down in despair and disgust".

The lad managed to get free of his seatbelt restraint and ran around the cabin unbridled, causing untold anguish to passengers trying to sleep. Two hours in, the reporter's noise-cancelling earplugs were letting her down, so she approached the father and asked if there was anything wrong, whether the child was ill and needed a doctor. But he proudly replied: "No, he's just expressive. We're just letting him be his own person". She was aghast at what she felt was "jaw-dropping arrogance".

Upon speaking with an attendant on the flight, the reporter discovered that "it is becoming increasingly normal for affluent parents to book seats in different parts of the plane, so at least one parent gets a rest" and "the usual trick is for mum and dad to be in Business Class while the screaming kids travel Economy with the nanny." In this particular case, it turned out that the mother had been squirrelled away in First Class. _Hmm... Maybe I should try that one!_

What surprised me most about this story was that the reporter was travelling in Business Class, not Economy, a section of the plane which I'd always assumed would be an oasis of tranquillity. Given that passengers pay a premium to be in there, I would've expected an environment for travelling entrepreneurs which was conducive to doubling down on work, catching up on sleep between meetings, or having a drink-a-thon on the company tab.

Believe it or not, that's not the most extreme incident I came across...

In the travel blog, _Ask the Pilot_ , Patrick Smith tells of his experience on board a plane when he was surrounded on all sides by a huge family—again, in Business Class. "The adults in the group are obnoxious enough, shouting across the aisles at each other," he wrote. "The kids, though, take it to the next level." And how did they do that? By "screaming, running up and down the aisle" and "climbing over the seat-backs, their heads popping up, whack-a-mole style". He went on to say that, for the next seven hours, one of the little girls screamed out at her sister every two minutes.

Seven hours of screaming not enough? Then Business Insider refers to a YouTube video that "shows a toddler screaming, climbing on a chair, and running through the aisles during an eight-hour flight".

_Yeesh!_ _And I thought we had it bad!_

In some cases there's probably a good reason for disruptive behaviour that goes on for so long—maybe a child has a learning difficulty, for example, or as previously mentioned, is suffering from pressure on the eardrums. But otherwise, the only excuse I can think of for it is that there must be something in the upper atmosphere that has a negative effect on certain kids—you know, some kind of radiation, as yet undetected, which infects a normally well-behaved and beloved young sprog's brain, causing them to develop a new and slightly wicked side to their personality when in the air.

Now, this 'radiation contamination' is just one of the theories I'm working on at the moment. But, having scanned quite a few articles on this topic now, it's clear that, whatever is going on is affecting quite a lot of kids—because contending with the sort of antics described above isn't a one-off, by any stretch. According to various surveys, a hefty number of flyers want out, feeling there should be child-free zones on planes—and they're even prepared to pay extra. Unfortunately for them, only a few airlines—mostly in Asia—have so far taken the leap and implemented this.

Until I did some research for this book, I didn't realise how controversial this topic was. Apparently, the question of how airlines should handle children has been raging for some years—and, from what I can gather, it's as if people in the debate are on opposite sides of a gaping crevasse. In one camp, you have people wanting some peace and quiet on their flight, and on the other, you have "furious parents of screaming tots claiming: "It's discrimination"", as one article sums it up.

According to Airfarewatchdog content editor, Tracy Stewart, in an interview with Business Insider: "Whenever this comes up, people get so upset about it... Once parents become acclimated to living with young children, it can be difficult to recognise how disruptive their children can be to those around them."

This certainly isn't true in all cases, though. Some couples travelling with babies have reportedly dished out sweets, earplugs and a note asking for understanding "as a pre-emptive strike in anticipation of the infant causing havoc on board". I was surprised to hear that their actions weren't without critics, though. Some argue that "we're all in this together" and that parents shouldn't have to apologise or give out earplugs. That's understandable, but to me, it just comes across as a thoughtful gesture, an act of kindness, a way of considering and reaching out to others. And if I knew there was some possibility I'd disturb fellow passengers, I might do the same.

Think of it this way... Let's say that I have an intermittent bowel problem, the sort where I get bouts of flatulence that crack off as unpredictably as an Icelandic volcano. When one of those eruptions hits, I spew forth clouds of gas that reek of the foulest stench, and end up choking those poor unfortunates around me. I could choose not to fly, of course, but given that my (hypothetical!) medical condition is troublesome at irregular intervals and that I may not hear a peep from my nethers for an entire flight, why not take the risk? _You only live once, right?_

Now, in such a situation, would anyone criticise me for handing out packs to fellow flyers containing a nose peg, some strong-flavoured sweets and a little note to apologise in advance, just in case smelly hell should break loose? Surely that's only being considerate.

In reality, nose pegs, earplugs and sweets can only get you through for so long, and sadly, when the going gets tough for grouchy restless flyers like me, the airlines don't let you bail out—I've tried, and they just wouldn't let me open the emergency exit while we were thousands of feet in the air. Apparently, it endangers the lives of other passengers.

Now, given that this is such a hot topic, I'm bound to tread on a few toes here (if I haven't inadvertently done so already), but I reckon that we should all be able to put our heads together and come up with a workable solution that will give passengers the sleep they crave whilst including youngsters. It'd be a win for the whole cabin. So how's about something like this for starters...?

What if parents and airlines could agree to bend the rules a tiny bit—just while we're in the air, that is—by providing complimentary alcoholic beverages to kids? I think things would make a huge turnaround in Toddler Corner after a stiff whiskey or two. The little tykes would magically transform into slumbering angels and be out for the count for hours. And the rest of the cabin would naturally follow suit.

How good is that?

Of course, this is just hypothetical, for the sake of an example, you understand. You don't _really_ think I'm advocating that kids should be allowed to drink, do you? No, they'll have to wait until legal age for that, just like the rest of us.

Hey, wait! I think I have another crazy idea brewing for how we could—hypothetically speaking—get kiddies off to sleep...

In my time, I've come across a surprising number of women who have, behind closed doors, admitted that they've used a particular over-the-counter brand of cold remedy to self-medicate and get a good night's sleep. So what if we added a thimbleful of the stuff to kids' drink bottles when they hopped on board?

It's a rather tempting thought, but once again, I'm not really suggesting we do this. This is just a make-believe scenario. And besides, I have no medical training (apart from a first aid certificate I did years ago), so that would be straying into unethical territory, right?

Hmm... Perhaps I should try these ideas for myself next time, though—if I can ever bring myself to endure a flight again, that is.

If I've trodden on any parents' toes with the above, I apologise—that wasn't my intention. In fact, while everyone's busy batting opinions back and forth about how airlines should handle children, our nations could be missing a trick. I mean, just think about it... All these youngsters are belting out untold amounts of energy, so surely there must be a way to exploit this precious commodity. For example, maybe the energy could be harnessed somehow and used to top up the grid. Or what about using those high-decibel frequencies to create sonic weapons? At last, children's vocal ranges would be fully appreciated as airlines double up as recruiting stations for kids with a talent for eardrum-splitting.

This is all well and good in theory, of course, but with youngsters, there's always the unpredictability factor to contend with. One minute they're screaming their socks off, the next they want you to read them a bedtime story.

Truth be told, it's unfair to make out that, even with child-free zones on planes, all would be peachy on board. As Karol Markowicz put it so well in her TIME Magazine article back in 2015: "While adult behavior may be more consistent, are we really so much better? I have sat next to smelly people, drunk people, loud people, lecherous men, overperfumed women, close talkers, a teenager crying loudly over her cheating boyfriend and an old lady who showed me no fewer than 78 photographs of her cats."

Hmm... Given the choice, I think I'll pick cat-lady to sit next to, thanks... Although, 78 photos? That could be a long journey!

In another article the same year, Marketwatch reported that the top complaints listed by flyers were bad hygiene, someone kicking their seat, and sitting next to a drunk person. A TripIt survey from 2014 found that being rude to crew or staff was the top bugbear, followed closely by letting children misbehave or disturb others. After that, it was "crowding another's seat or hogging the middle seat" and talking too loudly.

"Most of the time," said Marketwatch, "these indignities are, though irritating, run of the mill."

Taking all this into account, it's obvious that we need to start from scratch and create a whole new section on planes to deal with these irks, which I'll call the Pristine Pester-Free Zone. It's a section that goes beyond the highest expectations of First Class. Each amply-sized seat would set you back a serious amount of cash, but once you were hermetically sealed into the compartment, you'd be able to sit in complete comfort without being annoyed—let alone breathed on—by other flyers. Of course, in order to qualify as a passenger and gain entry, you'd have to sign a legally-binding agreement promising not to do anything that would remotely disturb anyone else either. Let's list just a few of the things that might feature in the contract...

* No violation of another's personal space (unless it's to reach over and help them put on their oxygen mask in an emergency)

* No tapping on laptops, not even ones with soft keys

* No crying, wailing or running up and down the aisles (this applies to adults as well as children)

* Rustling or crinkling of packaging (eg crisp packets or plastic bags) is to be kept to an absolute minimum

* No body-related odours—be it natural sweat, deodorant, perfume or cologne—is to be so strong as to invade another passenger's nostril space

* Body hair to be well-groomed and suitably contained—eg offensive-looking nostril and ear hair should be trimmed, and vigorous chest hair should not protrude from the top of one's shirt—please tuck it away, out of sight.

* No lingering eye contact or 'polite conversation' with fellow passengers

* Should passengers wish to imbibe alcohol, they must occupy one of the allocated seats (these have a Quick Eject function for those who become unforeseeably troublesome)

* If sitting in the middle of a row, one should disturb passengers on either side as little as possible. A maximum of one visit to the overhead locker is permitted, plus two trips to the bathroom, during a long-haul flight. Therefore, if you have bladder or bowel issues, it may be unwise to sign up for the Pristine Pester-Free Zone.

Those found to be in breach of the contract will be given the option of being removed from the compartment and made to sit next to screaming toddlers for the remainder of the flight, or else ejected from the plane forthwith—obviously with a parachute to keep them company on the way down.

Unfortunately, I wouldn't have been a very good candidate for the Pristine Pester-Free Zone, and it will become clear as to why in a moment. On the last leg of our flight, Steve and I were installed into a three-seater row on the rear left side of the plane, with a thirty-something male taking up the aisle seat. Effectively, our exit was blocked and we were boxed into a window and middle seat.

I don't like to label myself as claustrophobic, but the fact is, I really hate crowds and being hemmed into small spaces. And right now, I felt like I had no room to breathe.

Hell's bells! How many more hours of this do we have to endure?

The very thought that I didn't have free movement in and out of my seat made me feel trapped. Basically, we couldn't get up without disturbing 'Aisle Guy'—and, judging by my performance on previous legs of our flights, I'd be hopping up and down like a frog souped up on caffeine, needing to visit the bathroom or stretch my restless legs. By the time we touched down in London, Aisle Guy would be praying he'd booked himself into a window seat instead.

I took a deep breath, self-soothing. _Come on! You can get through this!_

Tapping at the in-flight screen on the back of the seat in front of me, I decided that watching a movie would take my mind off things. But a second later, the seat slammed back, leaving the video screen almost up against my face.

Jeez! Is this never going to end?

I looked through the gap in the seats and beamed my best death-stare at the back of the man's head as he sat in front of me, apparently oblivious to the effects of his aggressive manoeuvre. Was he really so innocent? Or did he know perfectly well that he was rudely intruding upon my personal space? Jamming me in so I could barely breathe?

Then I did what any self-preserving person would do in the same situation... I yanked the lever to my side and reclined my own seat. _Apologies to whoever's behind, but you'll have to suck it up, just like I did._

To anyone watching the scene from afar (or as 'afar' as you can get on a plane), the seats probably would have looked like a line of dominoes falling in slow motion as each passenger reclined theirs in response to the one in front.

Seriously, when are the airlines going to work out that there are much better ways to transport people from A to B? I mean, if passengers were given the option of substituting their in-flight meals for a hefty course of knock-out drops to render them comatose for the duration of the flight, I'm sure they'd snap it up in a heartbeat. Everyone would be spared the discomfort of having to jostle with fellow passengers within such tiny confines for so long, and the widespread fear of flying would disappear overnight because if the plane went down in a ball of flames, passengers would be none the wiser.

If flyers could be put to sleep, the airlines could redesign planes to accommodate way more passengers, stacking them into cots just like items on a supermarket shelf. No one would have to be fed and watered, or entertained, or need to get up for the loo. And best of all, screaming kids wouldn't antagonise nearby eardrums.

Clearly, it's a win-win all round. Flight companies would be able to transport more people at once, so their costs would go down—which means a benefit for both airlines _and_ passengers.

I hate to toot my own horn here, but I can't see any flaws in this idea. _So what's not to like?_ Richard Branson, I know I've sent you some of my suggestions before and you've been too busy to take any of them 'on board', but I really think it's time to give me a call now because this one's a winner.

During the night (or whatever it was) the flight crew finally switched off the lights and most people went to sleep—including the lad with the overactive tonsils.

After resting a while, I felt the need to move around—or, more accurately, my legs did. I looked across at our Aisle Guy compadre and wondered whether I should disturb him. He looked so relaxed there with his head back and his eyes closed.

Hmm... Might as well. I'm going to have to do it sometime.

"Sorry, mate. Need to get up."

Without complaint, Aisle Guy stood up and let me out, and I walked off down the plane towards the restroom. The cabin was shrouded in darkness, with just the occasional night-light switched on to illuminate someone's book or newspaper. Apparently, those of us who couldn't sleep were in a minority.

While I was in the toilet cubicle, there was a bit of turbulence and my imagination ran wild thinking of all the aeroplane horror stories I'd ever heard about. _What if that wasn't just turbulence? What if a bomb had gone off in the cargo hold and the plane had exploded into little pieces?_ In my mind's eye, I saw myself finishing up in the bathroom and flinging open the door, only to find that the rest of the plane had completely vanished around me. As I plummeted down and the wind rushed past me, all I could see were the tattered edges of the bathroom and random plane parts hurtling alongside me through the stratosphere. Frantically, I'd grab at the discombobulated restroom, as though clinging to a floating piece of debris on a stormy ocean. But I could only pray that I wasn't tumbling to a certain death on some hard ground below. Maybe there was a shred of hope and I'd land on water and survive instead.

I flushed the toilet and snapped back to reality. _Hmm... Probably shouldn't jinx the flight by thinking about these things_ , I thought as I washed and dried my hands. Another lump of turbulence hit and a knot formed in my throat as I reached for the handle on the bathroom door and turned. _What would I find on the other side?_ Gingerly, I opened the door, and it was immediately knocked back by someone walking past. I was startled but relieved that the plane and its passengers we still intact.

As I stepped out, I discovered I had been wrong about the number of people unable to sleep because, since I'd been inside the cubicle, a queue had formed to use the facilities. _Crikey! Where have they all come from?_ We hadn't long left Singapore, so how was it that so many passengers suddenly had the urge to empty their bladders? And at the same time as me, too! But maybe I was wrong. Maybe they were all lining up to get my author autograph. _Fans, eh?_ I tutted. _Doesn't matter where you go, you just can't escape them!_

Unfortunately, despite attempts to ignore the discomfort in my legs, I spent most of the flight getting up and down out of my seat—just as I'd been dreading. In fact, with the amount of walking and stretching I was doing in the cabin, it probably looked like I was putting on an exercise class for insomniac flyers.

I got up so frequently, that I eventually stopped disturbing Aisle Guy to ask him if he could get up and let me through. The poor thing was dead to the world and, having been deprived of sleep during our flights, I knew how valuable it was. So I came up with a nifty plan to escape from my seat... I would put my hand on the back of the seats, lift myself up and swing myself over him as he slept—and, surprisingly, he never stirred. Passengers in the vicinity might've thought they'd seen the outline of a monkey in the darkness and wondered if one had managed to escape from the cargo hold. But I just hoped one of the flight attendants hadn't spotted me, otherwise I might end up getting charged with roughing up the airline furniture.

Given that the stewardess had removed my meal on the earlier leg of the flight, my stomach was, by now, protesting in a painful way. So I stopped a flight attendant and asked whether it was possible to get any food. But he just parroted the message I'd heard before. "Err... We don't normally carry spare meals."

Come on, mate! My stomach's caving in from hunger here!

I don't know whether it was my hound-dog expression or if he was worried the loud growling pleas of my stomach might disturb other passengers, but something persuaded him to offer me a cup of tea.

Thank goodness! It may not be food, but at least it might quieten my rumblings for a while.

When the steward returned, he not only handed over tea for both myself and Steve, but he'd also managed to rustle up some packets of peanuts. I felt immensely grateful for this small act of kindness—and I told him so before ripping open the packets like a starving bear raiding bins for food scraps.

In that moment, the last thing on my mind was: has anyone in the vicinity got a peanut allergy? In hindsight, I realise my actions could have led to a death on board—although I could probably have shirked my responsibility by blaming the airlines for having peanuts on board in the first place.

Once I had something in my belly, I sat back to sip the tea and thought about the difference in the level of care I'd received from the two stewards on my flight: the young man who had taken pity on me and rummaged about in the cupboards for something to eat, and the woman who had whisked away my food earlier without a moment's consideration. They were poles apart.

Irritation still lingered at the stewardess for having depriving me of a meal. _Hey! Maybe I could sue the airline for that!_ I thought, mentally rubbing my hands together. _And while I'm about it, I could probably throw in allegations of sleep deprivation as well._ Not only had I been too hungry to sleep by having that meal whipped away, but the cacophony of crying youngsters during the flight had also kept me awake.

I thought suing the airlines was just one of those useless things that whingers like me fantasise about in their strung-out, sleep-deprived moments on board, so I was surprised to discover, not long after we arrived back in England, that someone actually _had_ brought out a lawsuit for sleep deprivation...

According to an article in eTurboNews, a Russian businessman who flew with Aeroflot claimed that "crinkly" food packages had "prevented [him] from catching up on sleep during flights".

Conjures an interesting picture!

It appears that "the crinkly disturbance was particularly harmful on occasions when he had to perform several flights in one day as a result of his business activities". He also argued that he went to meetings feeling bad and in a depressed mood, all of which "had a very negative impact... on [his] business reputation".

If fellow travellers had tossed the crinkly packaging away the minute they were done with it, all might have been well. But, instead, they kept it after their meal and "continued to make crinkly noises for the duration of the flight".

Most annoying when you're trying to catch forty winks!

To be honest, I couldn't help wondering if this situation pointed to a deeper underlying problem. For instance, perhaps no in-flight entertainment was provided for passengers, so they amused themselves by continually scrunching up bits of crinkly packaging—much like a child might when bored witless. Or maybe for some passengers, this was a way of coping with their fear of flying. Sounds bizarre, but hear me out. Apparently, if you wear a rubber band around your wrist and twang it against your skin whenever you feel yourself becoming agitated, it's supposed to take your mind off the turbulence and help mitigate the fear that you might be about to nosedive into oblivion. So were passengers crinkling bits of packaging as an alternative method for coping with the fear of flying? It's possible.

Still, even if one of these scenarios _was_ in play, I couldn't imagine that _so_ many passengers on _so_ many flights would've been crinkling quite as often as was alleged. _Was the guy just being a bit paranoid? On high alert for crinkly sounds and magnifying them to gargantuan proportions?_

Admittedly, I was finding it hard to feel compassion for his plight. Despite some of the previously-mentioned stories about kids going ape in Business Class, I assumed package crinkling—and perhaps the light flicking through of pages in a flight magazine—are about the noisiest it gets most of the time.

Oh, to be in his shoes!

Seriously, I'd be happy to do a ticket swap with him if we're ever on the same flight. I'll put up with compulsive crinkling in Business Class and he can take my seat in Economy where he can while away the hours listening to a dissonant toddler opera. I'm sure the experience would give him a renewed perspective.

In any case, the Russian dropped his lawsuit when Aeroflot promised to resolve the issue, so unless he keeps getting rankled by noisy crinkles, that's where the story ends... Although, watch this space, because once this problem fades away, he may start to complain about other irritating sounds such as scrunches, rustles, crumples, belches and slurps.

Come on, mate, just buy a set of earplugs, like the rest of us!

OK, I'll try harder with the compassion thing next time—but I'm not promising anything.

I sat back and breathed out a sigh. _Perhaps it's time to stop daydreaming about seeking redress for my sleep deprivation_ , I thought. _I mean, I've been kindly fed and watered now, so at least my hunger problem's been solved._ On top of that, Noisy Nipper Corner over the far side had miraculously quietened down for a bit, too.

I popped my empty cup onto the tray in front of me and relaxed back.

Yep! Time to let it all go and try to catch a bit of shut-eye before we land.

# EPILOGUE—Arrival in London

"Sorry about the bumpy landing. It's not the captain's fault. It's not the co-pilot's fault. It's the asphalt."

In-flight announcement (unknown)

Whilst flying in extreme turbulence, travel columnist James Wysong had a horrendous experience that he later related in one of his articles...

A female passenger started screaming at the top of her lungs, "We're all going to die, make it stop, make it stop." This set off two other fearful fliers, where a man broke out in hysterical tears and another female yelled back, "No we're not, no we're not, somebody kill her now!"

Now, whenever you touch down at your final destination without any such shenanigans having taken place on your flight, it's always worth taking a moment to get down on your knees, kiss the ground and proclaim your heartfelt thanks. And, just in case you're wondering—no, I don't _actually_ do this. No one wants to run the risk of looking more of an idiot than they already do, so I suggest just running through it mentally instead.

As if long-haul flights aren't already long enough, Steve and I arrived late in London Heathrow. We still hadn't gotten much rest, but at least our personal safety was intact and we were, at last, on terra firma.

Amazingly, we also managed to get through customs without being captured by Interpol for bringing in that stash of drugs we'd stuffed in our luggage... Only kidding, guys! No, seriously—I really _am_ kidding!

Eventually, we found our way out of the airport and over to the train station for the final leg of our journey, back home to Cornwall.

Five and a half hours on board. It couldn't be over fast enough.

While we were waiting for the train, we sat down outside a food kiosk sipping tea. Despite our tiring and somewhat vexatious flight, I suddenly realised something that brought a smile to my lips. By some miracle, we had been spared another round of those bizarre Chanel perfume ads which had followed us from London and through to Brisbane on our return.

Now, if being squashed like a sardine into a tin can for twenty-plus hours wasn't going to put me off flying again, inane adverts in airport lounges might just do the trick.

As I relaxed back and took another sip, I felt pleased. _Thankfully for the moment, though, I have to suffer neither._

* * *

I sincerely hope you've enjoyed reading Sardines Might Fly.

If you'd like to be the first to hear about upcoming books I've written, why not get my newsletter? qwerWhen you join, you'll also get the author's newsletter, where you'll hear about sneak peeks and early discounts on new titles, special offers and other exclusive goodies. Just click here to sign up.

Well, there are still a few goodies in this book you might like to read so...

Stay tuned for...

A **special note** to my readers,

**More** of my travel **adventures** ,

My infamous **'faux reviews'** by pseudo-celebrities,

A **preview** of _Up a Creek Down Under_ , plus

Find out more about me and my **other titles**...

# More Travel Adventures

Want to continue reading Alannah's travel adventures?

Click on a title below to find out more and to pick up the links to your favourite store...

Up a Creek Down Under

Adventures in an Australian Homeland

www.thePyjamaWriter.com/up-a-creek.html

The Jacaranda Trail

A Journey of Discovery Down Under

www.thePyjamaWriter.com/the-jacaranda-trail.html

Campervan Capers

A Couple's First Year Exploring the World of Campervanning

www.thePyjamaWriter.com/campervan-capers.html

# FREE BONUS Travel Tale

OFF THE RAILS

A Train Journey to Grouchville

Cows on the tracks, frustrating delays, stinky toilets,

and grouchy passengers who like to police the carriage.

Isn't that what British train journeys are all about?

Join the author on a meandering train voyage from London to Cornwall in this short humorous, reflective and informative companion read to _Up a Creek Down Under_.

_Off the Rails_ is an **exclusive** ebook, available only to members of the author's Readers Group!

When you join, you'll also get the author's New Releases newsletter, where you'll be the first to hear about **upcoming books** , **early discounts** on new titles, and a few other **exclusive** goodies.

CLICK HERE to get started.

# NOTE TO READER

Dear Reader

I sincerely hope you've **enjoyed reading** _Sardines Might Fly_. This book came about while I was writing _Up a Creek Down Under_. When the sections dedicated to our journey to and from Australia started to **grow arms and legs** and dominate the space, it seemed a good idea to funnel them into a shorter ebook on the topic of air travel instead. But by the time I'd done some research, there was so much to say that it ended up doubling in size from what I'd originally anticipated.

As I mentioned in _Sardines Might Fly_ , I was **born in Australia** and **raised in England** , and have parents who come from each of those countries. In my twenties, I returned to my birthplace—a journey which turned out to be **life-transforming** —and I wrote about this in The Jacaranda Trail. After five years, I returned to England, thinking it would only be for a short time. However, life rolled on, and it wasn't until a couple of decades later that I finally made the trip back—and you can read about my **adventures and discoveries** along the way in Up a Creek Down Under. If those books take your fancy, why not click the links to check them out? Alternatively, if you stay tuned, there's a **preview** of _Up a Creek Down Under_ coming up shortly.

If you're new to my work, I'm a **multi-genre** author who loves to write 'across the board'. So as well as travel books, I currently have **mysteries** and **short fiction** on my shelf, and enjoy writing **satirical portraits** about life's foibles (some of which are still in the pot!). And if you're keen not to miss out on new titles I have coming out, be sure to get my New Releases **newsletter**. It's guaranteed **pester-free** , and you'll be the first to hear about **upcoming books** , **early discounts** on new titles, and a few other goodies **exclusive** to my Readers Group. Right now, I'm offering a free travel tale called Off the Rails **** when you sign up. This isn't available anywhere else, so why not click here to get started?

If you feel so inclined after reading this book, I'd be most grateful if you'd leave an **honest review** online. As you may have discovered yourself, reviews can be useful when trying to select a book you might like. Yet for authors, they are often hard to come by—and without them, it's hard to promote our work. So if you have a moment, kindly click here to visit my website, where you can pick your favourite store on which to leave a review—even if it's a short one!

Once again, **thank you** for reading _Sardines Might Fly_ , and remember to pass on the good news if you've enjoyed it!

Warm regards

Alannah Foley

aka 'The Pyjama Writer'

# Faux Reviews

Here are just a few of the author's infamous 'faux reviews' by pseudo-celebrities for her travel book, _Up a Creek Down Under_...

One word: awe-inspiring! Or is that two words? In any case, after reading about Alannah's whale-watching adventures in _Up a Creek Down Under_ , I am thinking of recommending her to take over from me when I finally hang up my wildlife camera. In the meantime, I hope this dazzling review will help to shift a few books. Well done, Alannah!

David Atinburrer

Broadcaster and Naturalist

Us bushmen don't normally wear our hearts on our sleeves, but I have to say, I was a bit upset that Alannah didn't write about our little meet-up in the bush in _Up a Creek Down Under_. I was also hopin' she woulda mentioned crocs somewhere along the line, too—I mean, just about every other Aussie animal got a look-in, so why not the good ole croc, eh? Lookin' on the bright side, I appreciate the invite to review another of Alannah's books. Yeah, _Up a Creek Down Under_ certainly is a good read (well, that's what I'm told—I can't actually read too good meself).

Crocodile Dundee ('Mick' to his mates)

Until I read Alannah's travel books, I thought my life was full of adventure. But throughout _Up a Creek Down Under_ , my eyes were popping with excitement. I mean, seriously—did she _really_ swim with platypuses in Australia? _No way!_ And that whale-watching trip she went on? It just makes me realise how we undervalue these beautiful creatures. So the next time I make a _Mission Improbable_ movie, I'm going to insist it features whales—maybe we could rustle up a few stunts where I lash myself to a whale to escape from the bad guys or something?

Tom Crews

Actor

N.B. - Disclaimer (To be used in cases of acute gullibility):

As denoted by 'faux' and 'pseudo', the above reviews are completely spurious in nature. Although they are loosely based on real-world characters, note that they do not reflect the opinions of any person, whether alive, dead or fictitious. Needless to say, no offence is intended upon the original characters.

# PREVIEW—Up a Creek Down Under

![Cover image: UP A CREEK DOWN UNDER
](images/BOOK-2-DEATHBED-OF-ROSES-WS.jpeg)

UP A CREEK DOWN UNDER

Adventures in an Australian Homeland

Bothersome insects, delightful creatures, and the man who transforms potholes from death traps to works of art... Meet these and more in this humorous, informative and reflective travel tale.

After twenty years off the mosquito menu,

the author returns to the Land Down Under.

But is it what she expected?

And what adventures does she get up to along the way?

Find out in this humorous, informative and reflective travel tale.

They say that time flies—and it certainly did for the author. After five years in her Australian birthplace, where she discovered long-lost family, experienced new lifestyles, and was regularly used by mozzies for target practice, Alannah Foley returned to England, the country where she was raised.

However, what she thought would be a short visit turned into a yawning chasm of two decades.

Finally, she decided it was time to go back and set out on a new journey of discovery—but with some trepidation. After all this time, how much had things changed? And would it be for the better or worse?

Join the author as she traces over old haunts and new vistas, and encounters a host of bothersome as well as delightful creatures in this humorous, informative and reflective travel tale set in sunny—and sometimes not so sunny!—Australia.

Click here to pick it up at your favourite store, or catch a preview below...

* * *

PROLOGUE

I'm not sure whether I have Steven Spielberg to blame for my fear of sharks, but at least since his _Jaws_ movie came out in the seventies, nightmare images have lurked somewhere in the dark recesses of my mind... Large, sharp teeth prowling with sinister intent beneath the waves as youngsters splash about, oblivious to the threat. A leg bitten off at the kneecap, arteries and veins dangling as it floats down to the sands below. Desperate cries, clawing for the shoreline, only to be yanked under and devoured in the murky depths, never to be seen or heard of again... And all, of course, against the backdrop of a menacing soundtrack.

Trouble is, once those images are implanted into your brain, they're hard to eradicate. And, unfortunately, that infamous shark-bait movie didn't end there. After it smashed the record for the highest-grossing film to date, another was made, then another (not all Spielberg's doing, I have to add). And if, by that time, you weren't frightened out of your wits by sharks, you could go and watch _Jaws 3-D_. _Yikes!_ Of course, you could switch them off, boycott the movies, but such terrifying fiction is compelling—we can't force ourselves to look away.

Having moved back to the UK in the late nineties after a five-year stint in shark-infested Australia, my fears happily took a nosedive back into my deep subconscious. After all, in British waters, sharks known for carrying out unprovoked attacks aren't the norm... at least, they haven't been. Warmer seas due to climate change are set to alter that in the future, and there have already been a few reported sightings. _Eek!_

Up till now, we've generally only heard about the odd basking shark skulking about in England. So why don't I sound too alarmed about this? Well, let me put it in a nutshell for you...

Picture if you will a shark in front of you. Now imagine it's lost its set of false teeth. And there you'll have a basking shark. In the same way that some people prefer a fruit smoothie to a nice juicy steak, basking sharks are more interested in dining on plankton than chunky limbs. They may be the second largest fish in the world, but they just don't have the kind of killer bite that's called for in a spine-chilling movie. So if Spielberg (or one of his mates) made one featuring basking sharks, it would probably be called _Gums_ \- and it would be a massive flop.

Basically, no bite from the shark, no bite at the box office!

The only way around it would be to sell us on the idea that basking sharks are even more insidious than great whites because sucking the marrow out of their victims would be a slow and much more gruesome demise than a quick (and reportedly painless) chomp. But since basking sharks don't attack humans, the premise is flawed from the start.

Given the above, the topic of conversation has rarely ever come round to sharks whilst I've lived in England. But now that my partner Steve and I were on a plane to Australia, my secret phobia, as I've always thought of it, was reluctantly being dredged back up from the depths of my psyche and into the light of day. You see, this was Steve's first ever visit to the continent, so he was keen to know about all the nasties that might await him once we hit Aussie shores. _Forewarned is forearmed, right?_

"So, is it safe to go out in the sea, or are we likely to get a leg chomped off?" Steve asked as he sat back in his seat.

I wasn't sure what to say. Plenty of people went out swimming and surfing without undue hassle from sharks in Australia, and when I lived there, I'd gone out quite a few times myself. Thing was, once in a while, you'd hear about someone who'd had a limb bitten off—a stark reminder that the danger was ever-present.

Probably the most famous shark attack story features a Hawaiian-born surfer called Bethany Hamilton who, at the tender age of thirteen, went out on her board only to have her arm ripped off by a 4-metre tiger shark. But did she cower at the thought of ever going out again? No way! She jutted out her chin, picked up her board with her remaining arm and was back in the water—incredibly, just one month after her attack. And within two years, she'd scooped her first national surfing title.

Now, I might have been born in my mother's native Australia, where surfers are pretty broad-shouldered, but I was raised in my father's British homeland, a place which has a culture of being lily-livered about biting insects, let alone giant biting beasts. So if I were in Bethany's board shoes, I would've been a total scaredy-cat and far too anxious that one of the shark's relatives would come along looking to bite off my other arm. (I say 'relatives' there because they found and killed the shark that attacked her. It obviously hadn't brushed its teeth because it still had bits of surfboard caught in its mouth.)

Anyway, despite 'dipping my toe' when I lived in Oz, I'd never felt comfortable going in the sea. But what should I say to Steve? Should I share my fears and put the poor guy off entirely?

"Err... Well, the odds of being attacked are incredibly low," I replied. "And they have shark nets in some places," I added, trying to soften the blow. I pulled a hat over my eyes and hunkered down into my seat, hoping that would be the end of it.

"So what about snakes?" Steve asked.

_Crikey! Was there no let-up on this journey?_ Ever since the start of our flight in London, there'd been one thing after another, thwarting my attempts to doze off... The stewards coming round at odd times with meals and drinks... Restless legs from sitting down for so long... Being hauled on and off the plane for a two-hour stopover in Singapore... The constant drone of the engines... And the youngsters nearby who had been crying non-stop, their piercing shrieks cutting through my normally-trusty earplugs like a knife. On top of that, I'd slept badly the night before our flight, and we'd spent a day on the train just to get to London.

All in all, this was Sleep Deprivation Central. But now that the wailing had quietened down in Kiddie Corner, I was keen to take what was probably my only chance to catch forty winks before we touched down in Sydney.

I opened an eye and peeked at Steve from beneath my hat. Couldn't he read the signs? _I'm trying to get some desperately-needed shut-eye here, mate._

"Are we likely to encounter any _venomous_ snakes?" he continued to probe.

Jeez! He's like a terrier!

Leading up to our trip, I'd successfully dodged this avid line of questioning. I could tell that Steve was _ever so slightly_ obsessed with the many nasties that can hurt, kill or otherwise pester you in Australia. But who wants to focus in on the fact that you're about to visit one of the deadliest places on the planet? Better to think of all the _good_ things Australia has to offer. Like sunshine, koalas and hot beach hunks. Only trouble was, Steve now had me cornered, so I couldn't avoid answering him any more.

With a sigh of reluctance, I pulled the hat off my face and sat up. He wasn't going to leave me alone until I gave him a reply. But, once again, I was stumped. Truth be told, I figured we were much more likely to get bitten by a snake than a shark while we were Down Under, given that we'd be staying mostly in the bush. With lots of long grass around, there were plenty of hidey places for snakes, and therefore plenty of opportunities to step on one. And if you did that, it would probably be pretty pissed off and strike out— _not good news_.

"You know, not _all_ snakes are venomous, Steve, and they're not normally aggressive without a reason," I said, side-stepping the issue somewhat. In any case, it was possible we wouldn't go walking in long grass at all. It was early spring in Oz right now, so the grass might still be short and shabby in places. It seemed to me that there was no need to fill Steve's pretty little head with the bothersome details. Like the fact that, if you got bitten by the wrong snake and it was left untreated, you could be dead within half an hour. No, better to keep quiet. Steve would just get anxious about things that might never happen otherwise.

It was obvious from the look on his face that he wasn't finished interrogating me. "Well, do you reckon there'll be lots of creepy-crawlies?" he asked next.

"Oh, don't worry about those!" I replied, brushing his concerns aside with the waft of a hand. "You soon get used to them." The part I missed out was that they'd probably drive him mad first.

To be honest, all of this was a bit 'old hat' to me. When I lived in Australia, the itchy, scratchy, bitey and life-threatening creatures tended to blend into the background after a while—they were just part of life. So such menaces were the last things that were on my mind as we neared our destination. In fact, in the run-up to leaving, I'd been obsessing about a few things myself—like whether I was going to survive without my comfy night-time pillows and strong English teabags. Yes, I know it's pathetic, but there are a few basic items—things which seem like luxuries when you're travelling—that make all the difference to the quality of your trip. And we were going to be away for a month, so you can see why I might be a little anxious. Besides, my obsessions—trivial as they may seem—weren't without solid foundation. A few years back now, Steve and I took a weekend break in a Torquay hotel—and the experience I had there formed the root of my current pillow fixation...

All weekend, we were kept awake at night by the reverberations of the guy in the next room, his lungs sounding like they were filled with something slimy and disgusting as he snored like rumbling thunder. Lying there awake at night, I'd wriggle about, trying to get comfortable on the spongy hotel pillows. I can only guess they were filled with some kind of super-foam because it was like the pillows were actually rejecting my head and bouncing it back up. I'd pick other pillows from what was on offer, but to no avail. They were _all_ like giant rubber marshmallows!

And so it was that, by the end of our thankfully short time in Torquay, I left bleary-eyed, feeling like I'd gone a few rounds with wrestler Giant Haystacks (God rest his soul). But the real kicker, the thing that has imprinted itself on my consciousness for all time, is the fact that I came away with a painfully-cricked neck that didn't right itself for weeks. If we were in America, someone would probably have encouraged me to sue, but the Brits don't like to make a fuss in public, do they? Better to suffer in silence then drive your partner mad moaning about it for weeks on end instead, eh?

Of course, what I suffer from is 'Pillow Paranoia', and if you haven't heard of it before, here's the official definition...

**Pillow Paranoia** _Noun_. A rare contemporary psychosis whereby sufferers have a foreboding sense that, whenever they stay away from home, they'll be lumbered with uncomfy pillows that may cause the neck to sustain agonising long-term injuries.

Well, that's the official definition according to _Foley's Fictionary_ , anyway.

Perhaps I seem a trifle alarmist when it comes to pillows, but all over the internet, you can find evidence of the importance of getting the right pillow under your neck at night.

Take an article on the 3 News website, for example. Not only do they reiterate my point that "a bad pillow can cause serious neck and back pain", but they go on to claim that this "can shrink your brain and reduce your brain power."

Whoa! Brain shrinkage? I thought you only got that from pickling your brain in alcohol.

The article went on to say that neck pain can lead to lots of other health problems, including severe headache, nausea, dizziness, anxiety, depression and a feeling that you're always tired, even after sleeping all night.

_Flippin' heck! And there I was thinking I was being a bit extreme!_ But it turns out I had just cause to have pillow paranoia. And if I didn't get a decent pillow to sleep on, I could feasibly be in a right state for the whole trip—depressed, anxious, dizzy and nauseous—and with a banging migraine to boot. Basically, it would be like having PMT for the entire month!

If all that wasn't enough to contend with, there was my tea obsession. Some people are addicted to coffee, but with me, it's tea. And my tea has to be strong—the colour I look for in a brew is that of a well-bronzed surfer on Sydney's Bondi Beach. Unfortunately, this is where we hit a snag because when I lived in Australia around twenty years ago, the teabags on offer had no muscle to speak of (unlike the aforementioned Bondi surfer), and I'd need to use a couple of bags in order to have enough strength to satisfy my taste buds.

The brand I remember most was Lipton because they produced 'Jiggler' teabags which had a quaint little string attached for jiggling the bag in hot water. Unfortunately, as a consumer, I wasn't impressed, and it soon dawned on me why you'd need to jiggle the bag. It was because it took forever to coax any flavour out of the blighter. So you'd have to jiggle... and jiggle... and jiggle. For someone who likes their tea strong enough to stand a spoon up in it, it sadly didn't make the grade.

No strength, no flavour, no oomph!

Now, I don't want to sound like I'm picking on Lipton Jigglers—all the Aussie teas I came across were similarly weak. By the time the leaves had infused, the drink had cooled down (even on a warm day) and wasn't worth drinking unless you fancied turning it into a thinly-flavoured iced tea.

But who am I to judge the merits of such products? More recently, Hollywood actor Hugh Jackman featured in a Lipton advert where he demonstrated his fond affection for their ice tea through the medium of dance—and funky dance at that. In fact, he was so full of beans, I couldn't help wondering if the tea contained something a little stronger than caffeine. I might not have been impressed by the company's tea myself, but I doubt a huge celebrity like Hugh would endorse them if he didn't think it was a half-way decent brew—even if he was offered big bucks for doing so.

Regrettably, you can't take foodstuffs through customs, given that Australia is even more anally-retentive about that sort of thing than Britain, so I couldn't stock up and bring any teabags along for the ride.

Anything to declare, Miss?

Just a suitcase full of teabags, cobber.

No, on this trip, I'd really have to live on the edge, throw myself at the mercy of the Teabag God and pray he'd feel benevolent enough to bestow teabags of sufficient strength for the next month.

Come on! I thought. Let's look on the bright side! I'd lived through five years of weak teabags once before—and I'd survived. So what were a few weeks?

As for pillows, well it wasn't like we were visiting the hotel in Torquay again, was it? The manager there had probably furnished the rooms with pillows he'd bought in a bulk lot at a bargain basement price. But we'd be staying for a week with friends in rural Queensland, then go on to my sister's farm in northern New South Wales. So with any luck, I'd get some decent pillows and wouldn't knacker my neck after all.

I decided it was about time I pulled up my bootstraps and manned up (even though I'm a woman). I needed to put my first-world obsessions aside and think of Steve. After all, he was the one venturing into unknown territory here. And if I was too busy fixating on stuff that was effectively trivial and out of my control, I wouldn't be able to give him any support he might need.

Tiredness had got the better of me, that was all. As well as feeling wrung out from sleep-deprivation on the flight, I was still reeling from the pre-trip shenanigans—you know, like sorting passports and visas, hiring a car, booking trains to the airport—and, worst of all, fending off inane (and insane) questions from certain 'concerned' relatives. Here's the sort of thing I'm talking about...

**QUESTION:** Have you got any sunscreen yet?

**What I was thinking:** Err... You know, we're going to _Australia_ —one of the sunniest countries in the world. I sent off for some sun cream the minute we booked the flippin' flight.

**What I actually said:** Ooh, you know what? It's a good job you reminded me. I'd better order some. And while I'm about it, I'll see if I can get hold of some anti-venom in case we get bitten by one of those deadly Australian snakes. (I didn't really say that last bit, but recommend lines like this if you really want to work up nosey relatives into a lather. All holiday long, they'd imagine you wrestling with dangerous creatures, wondering if you'd ever return home.)

**QUESTION:** You must be excited about your trip. What've you packed, then? (Note: this was asked a whole month before we left.)

**Actual meaning:** Are you sure you know how to go about packing? Australia's a long way, you know!

**What I was thinking:** Christ! Who packs a month before they leave? I mean, what's the rush? Oh, and by the way, you do know I've been around for a few decades, right? I've lost count of the number of times I've had to pack a suitcase. So if I haven't worked out how to do it by now, you might as well shoot me.

**What I actually said:** Oh, **** it's OK, I'm good. I'll just do what my dad does when he goes away and throw a few pairs of socks and knickers in a carrier bag before we leave. (This kind of response is guaranteed to rile up fuss-pot relatives. Anyway, why sit there listing all the items I might take on my trip? That's just boring. Use this kind of tactic if you really want to shift the energy and fire up the conversation, folks!)

It doesn't seem to matter how old you are, certain members of your family are destined to fuss over you and fret on your behalf.

For some, making plans to go to Australia, it seems, is like planning a trek in the Himalayas or venturing into the deepest and darkest recesses of the Amazon. It's at the other end of the earth—the Strange Unknown where anything might happen to you. There's little to no civilisation, you won't be able to find a store if you need supplies, and if you get stuck, you're completely alone, right?

Hmm...

I sometimes wonder what our lives have come to, given that we obsess so much about getting things right when preparing for a trip.

If someone came along and handed me a plane ticket to Australia that took off in just 12 hours, I could quickly throw some clothes together, hop on the plane, then buy anything else I needed at the other end - and it wouldn't be any great shakes. And if, for whatever reason, my luggage got lost with all my clothes in it, I would still manage fine. Stores are never far away from an airport!

As for my teabag and pillow obsessions? Well, if the situation called for it, obviously I'd just have to wing things, tough it out and trust that I'd survive through a few discomforts if they came my way.

By now, Steve's brain seemed to have stopped cogitating on Australia's deadly beasts, so I eased back into my seat again, trying to put my concerns aside. "Come on, let's see if we can get some sleep," I said. But a second later, the tonsil chorus started up again in Kiddie Corner.

I heaved a deep sigh. _Good grief! Is it ever going to end?_ "Might as well watch a movie," I said. That might take our minds off things.

Steve nodded and started tapping the screen on the back of the seat in front of him. "Hey, look!" he said. "They've got that old movie, _Jaws_ , on here!"

My head nearly snapped off as I spun round to take a look. _No way!_

But as I leaned over, I noticed Steve's smile. "Only kidding!"

I rolled my eyes and hit him playfully on the shoulder.

"No, actually," he said, "it's _Snakes on a Plane_."

![Cover image: UP A CREEK DOWN UNDER
](images/BOOK-2-DEATHBED-OF-ROSES-WS.jpeg)

UP A CREEK DOWN UNDER

Adventures in an Australian Homeland

Click here to order

Up a Creek Down Under

NOW

# ABOUT the Author

Alannah Foley... aka 'The Pyjama Writer'

Raised in the UK, Alannah lived in her Aussie birthplace for five years in her twenties, where mozzies regularly used her for target practice. She managed to return to Old Blighty devoid of shark or snake bite, however, and currently lives in picturesque Cornwall with her cycling-obsessed partner.

Alannah is a multi-genre author who has published mysteries and short works of fiction as well as travel tales about her capers in a campervan and adventures Down Under. She also enjoys writing satirical portraits of life's foibles (some still in the pot!).

When she's not writing, Alannah likes to hit the trails on her bike, take walks in nature, and go kayaking—basically, anything that will get her butt out of the chair for a while that doesn't involve going to a sweaty old gym.

Find out more about the author and where she got her Pyjama Writer nickname on her website at www.thePyjamaWriter.com/about.html.

# CONNECT with the Author

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Contact

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# OTHER TITLES by Alannah Foley

Alannah Foley is a multi-genre author who has written mysteries and short works of fiction as well as travel tales and satirical portraits of life's foibles (some still in the pot!). Take a look at some of her other titles...

~ TRAVEL ~

Up a Creek Down Under

The Jacaranda Trail

Campervan Capers

~ FICTION ~

The Campervan Bushman Mystery Series

The Tales from Corny Cove Series

Cyclopathic Tendencies

Short Stories

~ HUMOUR ~

Cycling Widows

To find out more and check out what's on her shelf right now, visit the Books page on the author's website...

www.thePyjamaWriter.com/books.html

# COPYRIGHT Information

Copyright © 2018 Alannah Foley

Licence Notes

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author.

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.

This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please go to the author's website for the links to purchase your own copy at:

www.thePyjamaWriter.com

Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Ebook published in 2018 by

Pyjama Writer Publishing

