October 1st

I wake up early and forgo a shower in the dysentery filled bathroom. Despite having more than twelve hours to kill before my flight, I am not tempted to linger. I arrive at Heathrow armed against inflated airport prices with breakfast and lunch bought from a bakery at Earls Court before I left. All there is to do now is wait.

As soon as the check-in opens I’m there, second in line. Waiting, waiting, I’m fighting off fear and nervousness. I’m not concerned about the flight, or the unknown future, but after five long months of battling with paperwork, of hitches and delays, I’m worried that this might never happen. I recheck my passport, my ticket, my visa. I re-weigh my luggage – exactly 20 kilos, right to the gram and still I worry. It’s my turn. The cheery woman at the check-in hands me my boarding pass without further ado and I breathe a sigh of relief. I’m on my way.

The plane is amazing, enormous. This isn’t your Easy Jet or BMI Baby. I’m given a seat with a family of five ex-Brits-now-Aussies who are returning home after a family visit. The mother of the family shows me the ropes – how to work the television built into the seat in front, where to plug in the headphones, when to expect food and drinks, the purpose of the little bag of goodies given out by the flight attendants.

We chat for a few hours, enjoy the free drinks then I watch ‘Sex and the City’. I doze through ‘In Bruges’ as it’s already eighteen hours since I last slept, but despite the cosy blanket and little pillow provided, I can’t manage more than fifteen minutes sleep at a time before I’m woken by some announcement or random movement. The time flies remarkably fast anyway