Rarely have I had the olfactory experience in an enclosed space, as I have been provided this evening - it's actually gone 04:00 in the morning, but some licence must be allowed at this point. I'm on a plane, I'm always on a plane when I write thus.

On the most rare of evenings, I'm travelling back to the UK with AM by my side, so rare in fact that in the 6+ years she's been with me in Saudi, this may very well be the first time we've journeyed back to the UK together. That much is immaterial to my story this night (see, it's later already)...

We find ourselves behind the subject of the story by a row, he being in 23A, and us in 24A and 24C, with me holding the aisle. To get to the point, there is a problem, a gastro-intestinal problem that is gaseous in nature, and it's not mine. No, this is for Reek-O-Man alone. I'd quote Nursie and use lines like "great and fruitsome flappy woof-woofs", but one's "tiny noseling" believes that Messrs Elton and Curtis were referring to something rather more akin to vanilla and rose petals than I try to describe here. Let's face it, this guy smells like you wouldn't wish to believe. I pity AM, I really do. She has a sense of smell that can out detect the average bloodhound, where I suspect I may have been abducted by aliens who chose me to return me minus all nasal sensory equipment. When I begin to detect there's an aroma in the air, it's already searing steaks on the range for all others in the near vicinity.

The iPod kicks in as it often does at such moments with Chris Rea's "You Must Be Evil" - never has a truer word been uttered. Whether he knows of the offence he causes is unknown, and I won't ask; and of course there is the unwritten rule that says "What goes on plane, stays on plane", but enough already. I can take it no longer... for fucks' sake, get yourself a butt plug or something! Have I spoke too soon? I think he's headed to the bathroom - I'm not following. Not that it matters much, he's left the damned stench behind him anyway. I'm going to sleep, more later...

I have the singular duty and delight to report that you have just served me the most disgusting in-flight meal it has ever been my displeasure to partake of. Even at the best of times, airline meals are unlikely to be the stuff that Michelin stars are made of, but today saw you plumb new depths in culinary faux pas. It was with sinking feeling that AM and I were offered the expansive range of options today consisting as they did of lamb 'nondescript', or the vegetarian option, a mushroom 'bland'. AM doesn't go in much for anything involving fungi and would have rejected the 'bland' even if prepared and served by the Roux Brothers themselves. I, whilst not averse to mushrooms, didn't much fancy the meat free choice either, so the pair of us plumped for the lamb. We should have considered ourselves forewarned by the brown foil covering of the container in which the main course was concealed. Peeling the foil back revealed what I could only describe as a pair of glistening turdlets rating a Type 4 designation on the Bristol Stool Scale. As a flicker of barely warmed steam rose from them, it was clear that the accompaniment did little to disavow us of that initial allusion, the only possible improvement could have been a few squares of toilet tissue resting neatly atop the pile. I must confess dear reader, that through a feat of cast iron stomachry, I did in fact manage to consume one of the offending logs and am able to report that it tasted no better than it looked. Salvation came only from the rubbery orange thing masquerading as cheese. I was remiss in one of my earlier reports (New note book, new trip, new destination), that I did not mention that I & G served us with the finest piece of Brie I've ever eaten - you may take it as read that any comparison of this with today's rubber triangle would have as much meaning as comparing the ordnance carrying capability of a B52 with a SPAD. That aside, it was at least of the right side of palatability, as was the toffee and something else cheesecake. I'll not mention the tea, save to say that any hope of rescuing the dire state of the meal 'experience' took a nose dive as I first had to 'milk' the sachet in true rustic style, then retrieve the sugar packet from the lukewarm liquid. The only thing approaching a nirvana like plain, was when our serving person came to collect the mortal remains. I can only hope that there is some form of crematorium up front, where BMI can finally do the decent thing for it. Never before can any sheep have laid down its life so hopelessly in vain as was the case today. The votes from the English judges? 'Nil point' is surely too good for this one.

It's either very late or very early. My brain says the former, as I've not slept on this flight. I am as ever on the BMI flight from RUH to LHR, brain fried and horribly fuzzy. We're somewhere over Turkey but not yet to Istanbul - plenty of flight left yet then. Mecca is long behind us though, the map says Bucharest is straight ahead - what would I find there I wonder? The iPod is 'singing' to me, strictly speaking it's Dave Gahan and Depeche Mode, but that was long ago. Only the little white faced box is really working, Dave Gahan knows nothing of his performance tonight, much less to who.

I had words at one point, but I was too wrapped up in Iain M. Banks. I'm reading 'Matter' at the moment. Whilst I'm not sure I've read everything he's done, I'm much of the opinion that this is by far the best of the Culture stuff he's done - met him at a book signing many years ago, nice chap.

Why doesn't my mind ever switch off? I know I've not done a few things before I left tonight, and some of those that I did were not as good as they could have been. It seems a perpetual torment that I agonise over stuff that's not as good as I might think I could have done, yet those indescribably less capable than I, get away with turning out crap and couldn't give two hoots. I will die unhappy, knowing that however good I gave, it was never quite good enough (in my mind at any rate). I remain driven by the belief that I am slovenly and indolent and must try harder - where did I go in all this I wonder? I remain life's play thing to be directed at the behest of a greater cause.

That said, I feel more attuned to what's going on around me and feel better placed to influence it. If I want anything currently, it's my 15 minutes and the acknowledgement that I do contribute. I no longer wish to be someone else's passenger and desire the reward I feel I've earned. Clear a path, I'm coming through - something like that anyway...

The map says we're just over the Black Sea coast and are encroaching on mainland Europe, if only the dark (to me) Eastern nations, Romania I think, Hungary next. Places I know nothing of, though I did once meet a girl from Romanian girl serving in a bar in Bahrain. An image sticks in my head of her, as they have a distinctive look to them, that is very none British, or at least it was until the doors were thrown open.

We must be nearly half way there now and Tool are blasting out Lateralus. I'm nearly 48 and wouldn't trade this kind of music for anything - Stephen Fry, and his regular Tweets of Debussy and Mahler, I am not. Stick 6 strings on it and turn the fucker up LOUD! Moved onto Sian Evans and Kosheen - I don't mind that either. I have catholic tastes, whatever that means. Bucharest to our right now - what's it like down their?

About 3 hours to go, time for a doze I think. Dream of home maybe for a bit - not the place I left though. G'nite...