Whoever said it's better to travel than to arrive obviously didn't have two small children in tow on a long-haul flight. So, much as I'm looking forward to a few weeks' summer holiday in Britain, I'm dreading the journey.
Our track record isn't good. There was the occasion when two-year-old Emily ran around Denpasar's business-class lounge, brandishing our new Ikat hanging like a sword, smashing a champagne glass and almost taking out the eye of a German tourist. And what about when baby James decided he'd had enough banana and threw the remains two rows back so it landed in the middle of another passenger's chicken noodles? All too horrible.
A year on, Emily is so au fait with planes I'm surprised she's not piloting one. Her mastery of the entertainment system (and the flight attendants) is total. Sweets and cuddly toys are as available on-demand as Finding Nemo. One mystery was solved when the purser from first class said, 'Goodbye, Emily' as we disembarked. Ah, so that's where the tray of strawberries came from.
When I call my father and
start complaining about the forthcoming trip, he listens sympathetically and then tells me stories about flying with my older sister and I when we were children, way back in the 1960s.
As a military family we were transported around the world by a special Royal Air Force service. We were allowed one trip home every two years. The journey from Hong Kong to Britain took 36 hours in a Britannia turbo-prop plane, which stopped for refuelling at Istanbul, Bahrain, Madras and Singapore. It took longer if spare parts weren't immediately available.
