Flying

When you live in Australia, going on holidays logistically requires you to get on a plane and travel for many, many hours.

The flight to London involves two legs of 7 and 13 hours respectively and a couple of hours layover in Singapore.

That equates to roughly 24 hours of pure and utter hell. Ears popping, sitting next to large people, unable to sleep, with indigestion from the airplane food and children screaming. And turbulence. And children screaming. And more turbulence.

It’s bad enough that your holiday has to end.  Saying goodbye to people that you love and not knowing if or when you’ll see them again is one of the hardest things in the entire world. And then after that emotional rollercoaster you have to get in a metal tube with 250 other people and sit in one foot of space for hours. And hours. And hours.

Arriving home should be a blessing, then BAM! Jetlag hits with a vengeance.. you get dizzy, and wake up disoriented with no idea where the hell you are.. clutching the bed beside you wondering why you are alone and not in bed with a sexy Yorkshireman.  If I didn’t love exploring the world so much I’d happily never ever get on a plane again. In fact, if I could get a train to London I would.

But alas, until I have perfected the art of teleporting I’m stuck with the giant metal bird in the sky.