Not with a bang but a whimper..

One of the problems of having a blog break - or a period of blog bone idleness - is that when you come back, you do want it to be with a bang not a whimper.

There was something of a bang last week after a visit to a garlic farm on the Isle of Wight, a tasting session and a garlicky lunch, but I’m betting you don’t want those details. It was a fantastic place though and, assuming you treat the garlic loading with a bit of respect, you’ll probably be fine during the following twelve hours.

I didn’t have a great journey to the UK. My first blister appeared before I’d left Bangkok airport. It turns out that you can’t put feet that live for eleven months of the year in flip flops, into contained shoes and not expect injuries. My plasters were in my suitcase (of course) which I couldn’t get into because I’d sealed it with a plastic cable tie: one of those things that goes on but not off unless you cut it. As well as not being able to carry any cutting implements on a flight, I’ve discovered that no members of the airside personnel are allowed to have scissors either.

I’d stayed up to watch a film on the flight – totally against my better judgment - and didn’t have enough sleep but things began to improve a bit at Paddington station. I thought. I found someone that had scissors and finally broke into my own suitcase; I found Vodafone open at 7am where I got a sim card sorted and I found a Starbucks where I drank tea and ‘What’s Apped’ Husband.

I just didn’t have the energy for the underground so I treated myself to a taxi between Paddington and Charing Cross. I tried to lift my case into the taxi but, in spite the laws of physics, it was heavier by several kgs than when I’d left Bangkok. And, damn it, I’d been taking things out of it… alright, so they were only plasters, but it was eight of them. How could it get heavier?

I could have slept in the taxi if it hadn’t been for the alarming rise of the meter. Although the Olympic vehicle lanes hadn’t yet opened, several of the roads were shut around Buckingham Palace and Whitehall so the fare was higher than expected; still, it was much easier than the tube.

At Charing Cross I thought I’d better replenish my dwindling funds so I went to the cashpoint but hmmm: no card. I searched through the crap vital receipts and cards in my wallet in case I’d slipped it in somewhere for ease… Nope; definitely no bank card. Through my addled brain I knew there was only one place the card could be: Vodafone. But, for heaven’s sake, they’d just sold me a sim card, so why hadn’t they rung me to tell me I’d left it there? I pulled out my phone: four missed calls and two text messages… I must have turned the sound off when I put the phone in my pocket.

I called my parents to let them know what kind of an idiot I was, put my suitcase into left luggage – ker ching! - and went down to the underground to return to Paddington – more ker ching! I was shattered by this time but so grateful to see that there was one last seat on the underground train. As the doors shut, I set off over people and their luggage to the spare seat. As I lowered myself down onto the seat, the tube train gave a great lurch and I landed in the lap of the man next door to my chair.

Things continued to improve over the four weeks (they couldn’t have got worse, surely?) I haven’t seen any friends – sorry to all of them but I am back in October – but I have had a rather lovely trip. My folks have been pretty good, it was my parent's 60th wedding anniversary and I’ve been on a couple of courses, which I will come back and tell you about soon. 

Just been released

I was nodding off in the departure lounge on Tuesday night. Anyone who knows me – actually anyone who’s read my profile – will know that sleeping tops the list as one of my favourite pastimes. A midnight flight, when it’s on time, is a challenge to me. But one that’s delayed causes me consternation: will I make the flight? Will I be curled up in a corner of the airport, sleeping?

So it was delayed and I really was nodding off in the departure lounge but when at last I did get on the ‘plane, I wrapped myself in my blanket, I buckled up, put my eye patches and ear plugs in and I went to sleep. I was unconscious before take off.

Not so nice was waking with a migraine the following morning, which beggared me all day yesterday. During landing I got my ear thing. (One out of ten flights, I can’t equalise my ears and I’m in rocking pain until they ‘pop’ themselves.)

My room is tiny but in an achingly trendy part of London and I am entertaining fantasies of a pied-à-terre here. That is what fantasies are all about.

Landing in my own (home) country is so odd. It never fails to surprise me how strange it feels to be in a place where I am likely to be understood. Still there is the feeling that I don’t understand the place, as though I’ve just been let out of prison and am not familiar with how things work. I had to buy a coat yesterday because it’s cold and I didn’t have one. My wrap wasn’t sufficient. I forgot to put my card into the machine – I tried to hand it to the cashier and he motioned to the machine as though I’m a bit retarded. “Do you want to wear it now?” he asks, and I think he thinks I’ve just been released too.

Jet Set?

I left my children in the UK last week when I came back to Bangkok. I wasn’t being careless – it was all arranged. Auntie L was looking after them and taking them to the airport where British Airways staff were on standby to escort my two children through immigration, security and all that stuff.

I was rather alarmed when I checked on them by phone to discover that just that day they’d been for a long walk in the forest with the dog and a picnic, been bowling and out for a meal. Further questioning revealed that ice skating, horse-riding, two cinema trips and a cousin’s birthday were also in the offing.

Oh dear, I thought, they won’t want to come home.

Mmmmm, home: have they just been home or will coming back to Bangkok constitute home? What if they decide they would rather stay there?

I still get a buzz of excitement at airports (despite being on eight flights myself in the last eight weeks!) and as I stood in the arrivals hall, I wondered what sort of a state the children would be in. Big one, Son, likes to stay up all night and watch movies and with no mum on board to tell him not to, well, he probably will, won’t he? Little one, Daughter, gets anxiety tummy ache when flying with mum, so how will she cope without me?

Two wayworn little creatures (actually one was hulking) came through into the arrivals hall and flew over to say hello (well, one flew over; the other – Hulk - ambled). They were very excited to have traveled on their own. They waited in a special ‘unaccompanied minors’ lounge, were whipped to the fronts of lines, had x-ray machines opened for them, got a buggy (Oh my god, the excitement) to the gate. Daughter got anxiety tummy ache all the way here and sat in the staff area with a hot water bottle. She wouldn’t eat and they tried to tempt her with treats, including soup from first class (oh dear, that’s a tummy ache WELL worth having isn’t it?)

'It's lovely to be home' they said 'but we never want to travel with parents again, thank you.'