“Are we there yet?”
These are the dreaded words that will ring in my ears from the very moment we board the plane, to the moment we stagger off. Yes, all 25 hours of tomorrow’s flight to Australia.
I won’t be the one asking the questions; I’ve been there, done that and know that no amount of crying, whingeing or sleeping will make the flight pass by faster. I know full well that the novelty of cute pre-packaged airplane food wears off after the second meal, that the seemingly never-ending movie channels do grow boring and that downing bucket-loads of the free mini wine bottles will only end in tears when you can’t get to the loo in time.
Unfortunately, my boyfriend isn’t aware of the joys of a long haul flight… and it will be his voice piping out over the heads of our grumpy, cramped neighbours.
If I was the praying type, I’d be asking for one thing… don’t put any screaming babies in my cabin and PLEASE let me remember my passport when I arise at the ungodly hour of 5.00am. Please let the taxi arrive on time, please don’t let the Heathrow Express break down and I beg you; make mine a window seat!
My biggest worry is the distinct possibility of my bag blowing the weight restriction-scale. Do you know how long it took to try on every item of clothing I own, wail about tightening waistbands and crying over the shoes I have to leave behind? It’s official; I hate packing.
If I do make it through the icy jaws of steel that greet me at the check-in, I then have to face the evil temptation of Tax Free shopping. My plan is simple; bypass the pre-Christmas sales and head straight for the boarding gate. I will then use all my powers of womanly persuasion to convince the man on duty to let me climb the stair to first class. Gawd help me if it’s a woman.
Yes, it’s a tough life for the economy class. I may be heading home to the family farm but I think the cattle-yard experience on the way over will serve me justice.
Despite it all, the thought of the 25 hour barrage of “I’m bored”, “My legs hurt”, “Want to swap dinners?” and “Can I have your peanuts” can’t even dampen my excitement now. I’m off to the sandy white shores of Australia and the open arms of my family. 3 years of homesickness and sun-deprivation is finally coming to an end.
The next time you hear from me I’ll be swanning about the Versace hotel in an oversized dressing gown. The champagne in my hand will shake from the pure exhilaration of my very own ‘Pretty Woman’ moment. I’m sure you shouldn’t jump on a Versace bed but I’ve always been one to break the glitterati rules. I’m gonna bounce those gold edged sheets like they’ve never been bounced before!
Bring on the massages, bring on the drawling Aussie locals, the pubs, the beer, the outdoor BBQs and the sand between my toes. I may be a high maintenance madam from the city now – but the farm girl within will be released this Christmas.
I’ll milk a cow or 2,500, ride a quad bike like a woman unleashed and get covered with the inevitable wave of cow manure. Watch this space for all the gory, ‘udderly’ bovine details.
