"I think, therefore I travel" - didn't someone once say that? I am once again 'on the road' to home and BMI are providing the steed for the evening. I have at long last discovered the highlight of this little airborne sojourn, a simple cup of tea. The meal come in pressed foil, the sweet in a plastic pot, the bread roll in cling film, but in a world of petty indignities (read 'economy') the tea is delivered in a china cup. Admittedly, it's not Wedgwood, but I'm sure Josiah would appreciate the irony here. If ever a journey needed a highlight, it's this one.

Getting to the airport and checking in was no great shakes, but then I came to immigration - seems the last time I travelled back from Bahrain, the Saudi authorities didn't quite get round to reporting the fact as accurately as their generally bureaucratic demeanour would normally have you believe. Instead, I discover that I've not been in the country for the last month. For someone who has apparently been idling his time away from the workplace, I really ought to have a better tan. So I sit. And then I wait. Then I read. Then I sit some more. The bonus is that I'm getting on nicely with my book, so no bad thing, but now the flight is less than an hour away and I'm cultivating bedsores sitting at the front of class on the naughty stool. I'm sure they have it under control though. Err.... scratch that and rewind. For a moment I forgot where I was. Hmm, for someone who approaches travel in the same way an ostrich deals with danger, even I'm beginning to consider the possibility that I may have to adjust the altitude of an immaculately groomed eyebrow! Finally I succumb to standing up and enquiring as to the RAG status of my passage out of here - am I on amber still, perhaps a green or heaven forbid I've been declared a red. Not to worry though, relief is at hand (ooh err...) and I've got the blue I needed and can at last hit the Costa Coffee. Luckily, the aircraft is still on the ground though the crew passed through airport control before I did. Rich is still here, we go to a meeting on Thursday before the holiday starts proper. That promises to be the most entertaining meeting I've ever attended, but as they say, forewarned is forearmed.

Actually on the aircraft now though and I take on my next 'opportunity'. The flight is full, my seat is occupied (decorum dictates that I don't describe by what), I appear to have insufficient space (too many essentials), and the iPod earphones have gone walkies. The overhead locker is turned out, my co-passenger is up-rooted and I resign myself to looking at a feeble white box of tricks for the next 6 1/2 hours with no possibility of parole and no chance of getting the damned thing back in my carry on bag. As I understand the subject, miracles are not an everyday event, yet as I look down the aisle, I spot a familiar little grey velvet bag - the earphones. In such small mercies are my co-travellers spared the sound of me uttering the word "FUCK!" once more at an escalating pitch - I only reached C# honest m'lud. It is such things that now permit me to listen to Marc Bolan as I write - what a lot of tripe he turned out. Fortunately, random play insists I listen to Rush's '2112: Overture' next. All I need now is for someone to take the child in the seat behind me, who has been kicking my chair incessantly for the last two hours and feed him into the engine intake. Better get the files out boys, someone is going to have to blend out those small nicks in the compressor fan. I'm sure Mr Whittle never thought of his pride and joy as an outsize waste disposal unit. You win some, you lose some.

It's now 03:20 though and I should grab some shut eye - just a shame that someone round here smells of piss - I should maybe clarify, that it's not me. Night all.