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…

Jet-lagged and tired as I am, my blog post today comes in the form of an email… mainly due to the fact that it was an email written to my husband. (He says that nothing is sacrosanct since I began blogging.) You (and he) will be pleased to note that the email in question is really just a humorous account of a very hot day…

My Darling,

Thank you for the short, but sweet, goodnight message you sent me. You must have been galled to lose the previous, much longer one that disappeared when you tried to send it! What a shame that our communications are hindered so by your computer problems. Isn’t it maddening?

Apparently it has been the hottest day here for thousands of years and everyone is lethargic and melting (very good for weight-loss, hopefully!). Going out of doors was like going into an oven. Hence, I took my bikini over with me to Roland’s girls’ place and I went in the pool on my own (Roland didn’t have my forethought to bring swimming things), while nearly everyone else – including the hot and languid cat and their two little white dogs – stayed inside, preferring the air-conditioned, hermetically sealed house (not that I am knocking air-conditioning – just that I like open doors and windows).

Then we went to Glen and Sue’s place for a chat… over the cricket (the “Ashes” was on), which meant I couldn’t hear very well, especially as I was sat closer to the television than to Sue. I think Sue may suspect that I am deaf. I was also somewhat distracted from the conversation by the thought of the promised, and long awaited, prawns for lunch, which I feared would become afternoon-tea because the afternoon was already well under way. Nevertheless, I was pleased to note that it was lovely and cool in the air-conditioned house that is soon to become my luxury residence for two months. By two o’clock my tummy had begun to rumble and the jet-lag tiredness swept over me again. I reminded Roland about the prawns – you know how every meal becomes so important when you’re dieting. I was also rather eager to see my new car…

You know that cars all look the same to me so I had to pretend that I knew it was a great car. It’s a Subaru with four wheels that work together (if that means anything to you!), and it’s only four years old with 25,000 kilometres on the clock! Roland made me drive it around for a bit to get used to it. Think I worried him a tad when I nearly went through a red light – blasted jet-lag! – but I promised him I would be extra careful on the way home, which I was. Thankfully, there was very little traffic to be careful of because most people stayed at home… to enjoy their air-conditioning (presumably). Oh, and the car drives beautifully.

Do you remember me telling you that I’ve never seen the whole of “Mary Poppins”? Well, it was on the television tonight and Bill and Lita had it on. I still haven’t seen all of “Mary Poppins” – I kept falling asleep!

(And so on….)

Now I really must go to bed.

I was in the spa with Michael at the time – it was 37 degrees centigrade today – when one of the inhabitants of Bill’s garden walked over to us to have a gander.

“Who are you?” he asked rather snootily as he gave me the once over.

“Well, actually, I am the sister of the owner of this beautiful garden,” I answered amused. (He looked a bit comical as he cocked his head to the side to see me the better.)

“Oh, alright then, I only asked,” he added before walking off with his feathers ruffled a touch.

“There are fourteen of them,” Michael explained, “and they think they own the place.”

“Does Bill mind them?” I enquired, “Aren’t they supposed to be dangerous?”

“Not really, although one went for William. Dad likes them and gives them food. And so does the next door neighbour – she buys them mince,” continued Michael.

At that point Bill came on the scene with a bite to eat. Here are some photos of what happened next…

“This doesn’t feel like Brisbane,” I said to myself as the QF2 Airbus landed on Australian soil earlier this morning, or was it yesterday morning? Night is day, day is night, it is all the same to me at the moment, which is why I am writing this at two-thirty in the morning, Australian time!

Well, it did not feel like Brisbane because it was Sydney, and when we arrived in Sydney, whichever hour or day it was, it happened to raining. But I didn’t mind a jot because it did not feel like winter – it was hot –  and, after nearly fourteen hours of being cramped in darkness on the packed plane, it felt great to be out in the light. I was as joyous as Henri Charriere emerging, pale and withered, into the light from his five years of solitary confinement (long haul flights always remind me of that part of the film, Papillon) and, as always, I asked of one of my fellow weary passengers:

“How do I look?”

“Fine,” they say at last, after a quizzical look from them (as if to say, “Do I know this woman well enough to tell her the truth?”).

Of course, you have to ask someone old enough to remember the film or the joke is lost.

The rain had stopped during the time it took to collect my baggage from baggage collection, work out how to use the easy secret chip in the passport identifying machine, go through customs, book the baggage onto the domestic flight, lose my paperwork, thank the airport staff profusely for troubling to chase me with my lost vital documents, make my way on the shuttle bus over to the domestic terminal, dunk my head in a sink of cold water, change clothes, put on fresh make-up, and make it, just in time, to board the internal flight bound for Brisbane; it was a beautiful sunny day.

“What lovely big seats!” I thought to myself as I boarded the smaller plane.

A little farther down the plane the seats were not quite as large. It was easy to distinguish the haggard and stooped, “in-transit” passengers from the fresh, perky, smart and jaunty regular domestic flight users. An older man wearing a powder-blue polo shirt and white shorts sat on the seat opposite mine on the aisle; and every time I turned around his brown face glowed with a sunny welcoming smile. An Indonesian lady with an Australian accent sat in the seat at the end of my row of three, and the space between us was soon amply filled by a handsome young man with tired eyes, beautiful white teeth and long muscular thighs revealed in shorts.

“That seemed an incredibly short flight,” said Aidan, after the one and a half hours it took to reach Brisbane.

And it did seem short – well it does when you are chatting to a hunky professional rugby player, even if he is only twenty-three years old. All the same I was in a tired daze as I emerged into the arrivals area and looked around for any familiar faces. As luck would have it, a very nice familiar tanned face appeared from nowhere and planted a kiss on mine.

“You look good!” Roland exaggerated heavily.

A moment or two later another tanned face smiled with the familiarity of a lifetime.

“Come on, let’s hurry to the car and avoid the parking fees,” said Bill, my eldest brother.

So we went to Bill’s and sat, drinking coffee and chatting, in the gazebo, where it was shady and an occasional breeze alleviated the increasing heat of the day. Before long my brother, Henry, joined us too…

And now it is almost another day. I wonder if I should try to catch another hour or so of sleep before greeting the sun….