Well, that’s England done. Not overly thoroughly, admittedly, but elsewhere calls. I’m off Downunder.

Lots of people would be all kinds of excited about this, but I’ve been there lots of times. As in, you know, the first 21 years of my life. Still, it will be nice to have a merry old time with the friends and folks again. Temporarily, at least.

At Schipol airport, Amsterdam: boarding at last! But it’s the interminable airport game: just as you are graciously permitted to leave one lounge you realise you’re only going as far as the ‘boarding’ lounge where they will strip you of miscellaneous personal effects, such as bottles of water, your favourite pair of expensive tweezers and your pet rocket launcher.

Boarding again! For real this time. But you lose hope now because you find you’ve been stuck with the wretched middle seat, doomed for the next ten hours to be both climbee and climber. It’s the worst of both worlds. What’s worse, there’s no individual tellys (curses on KLM!) and you learn that the three words you do not want to hear on a long haul flight from your neighbour – with the possible exception of ‘I’m a terrorist’ – are ‘I’m in software’.

Three hours later after I’ve politely thumbed through my Swedish neighbour’s Phd thesis – which evidently he does carry around with him – but firmly declined a PowerPoint presentation on the ins and outs of back-ending (websites, people…), an episode of Ugly Betty beams up on the communal screen. Ah – sweet, sweet Ugly Betty. But it’s been dubbed in Japanese.

I beg the stewardess for an eye mask and pretend to sleep the rest of the way. I even sacrifice the morning meal of porridge with unidentifiable floaty bits for the cause.