Some time during last night, when it was still dark, I awoke with a start to a loud noise. For a moment I thought I was back on the plane (on the fourteen-hour long, dark leg of the journey between Dubai and Sydney) because the horrible noise reminded me of the French band-producer who had sat next to me throughout. You see, every so often the unfortunate fellow was apt to snort, sniff or cough violently, depending on the requirement of his condition; and each time he had made one, or all, of the variety of cringe-worthy noises in his repertoire I reacted instinctively. At first I would jump with fright, then turn away whilst holding my breath, and simultaneously, I would raise my shoulders up about my ears to guard against the germ offensive.

Intermittently, when the coast was clear, I occasionally smiled or conversed with the otherwise pleasant Frenchman in order to ensure that he realised I bore him no ill-will; and when I stuffed a pillow between my seat and the arm rest between us, I believe I was successful in misleading him to think that I did so for our greater comfort rather than to create an additional barrier. Meanwhile, the man in the opposite aisle seat (and the chap  behind him), perhaps encouraged by my frequent turns in their direction, often took the opportunity to chat to me because, although it was dark for fourteen hours, nobody could sleep properly owing to the general discomfort of trying to sleep in a packed plane.

The loud noise that awakened me last night was a cross between a big sniff and a snort… and it came from me. I swallowed and found that I had a frog in my throat, which was fitting, considering it was given to me by another frog. And now I have a streaming cold and I do not feel at all well so I am retiring to bed early. I was going to tell you about something nice that happened today (before the worsening onslaught that has sent me to my room) but it will have to wait until tomorrow – unless I ‘croak it’ overnight. Croak… I hope you haven’t got a French cold…