You'll be allright for as long as you're not in rubber thongs

It was a promising start for the journey, despite my initial fears that 60 minutes between arrival at the infamous Terminal 5 and departure towards Melbourne (via Hong Kong) from Terminal 4 at Heathrow was cutting it a tad fine. The transfer guide in the seat pocket onboard the BA flight Manchester-Heathrow advised passengers to allow 120 minutes to transfer between T5 and T4. An hour would have just about done it, but as it happened, the Qantas flight to Hong Kong was delayed by almost an hour. A fact I discovered only after having legged it to the gate thinking I have minutes to spare.

This second leg of the journey was gruesome. Mercifully, I had a window seat and the two seats next to me were occupied by a very nice Dutch couple in their 50’s, no screaming children anywhere near.

The problems started some time after the main meal: “greek beef” with very suspicious mini bottle of red wine with a long list of additives. I want to know why wine always tastes shocking during flights, is it just the quality of the wine (sub-standard) or is there something about serving wine at that altitude/atmosphere that is best avoided? After the food was served, coffees drunk and everyone snug in their seats somewhere over Russia the crew switched the lights off and it was time to go to sleep. The moon shone beautifully on the landscape way down below, we were following the silver ribbon of a river which reflected the moon remarkably brightly. There was fat chance of me catching any sleep. My body clock knew it was only 17:00 GMT.

Up until that point I hadn’t familiarised with the in-flight entertainment kit, I had been too busy reading “Le Dossier” (or how to survive the English) and the Rough Guide to Melbourne, making mental notes as I went along. Now I was stuck. I could read no longer, the plane was dark and the only thing to do (apart from sleeping) was to watch “on demand” films or documentaries. My headphones wrapped in plastic, the remote control stuck on the side of the armrest, I fiddled with each for a while but soon understood I was not going to find the socket for the headphones in the dark and gave up.Thankfully I had my Mp3 player to keep me company.

My legs were aching, I hadn’t had a chance to go for a walk along the corridor, and now I really wanted to but the nice Dutch couple next to me were in slumber land - I couldn’t bring myself to disturb them.

By the time the lights were switched on again, breakfast about to be served, I was stiff, tired, achy and just about to fall asleep.

Breakfast, my friends, was an extraordinary affair, not in any positive sense. “Baked egg” with some unidentifiable objects which were supposedly imitating sausages, a rubbery piece of bacon all sitting in a pool of what can only be described as brine. My analysis is that the whole affair came from a tin. The Dutch couple next to me were grunting their approval and discussed the green matter that formed part of the “baked egg” experience. Yep, spinach, yum-yum, tuck in.

A refuel and a welcome stretch of legs in Hong Kong, and it was back to the business of flying. Disappointingly didn’t see much of Hong Kong, it was very foggy (or smoggy) so visibility was nil. Could just about make out high rise buildings and steep mountain sides in the distance.

On arrival in Melbourne I somehow knew I wasn’t going to be reunited with my luggage. Reluctantly I made my way to the carousel only to confirm that my fears were indeed correct. “Was it a tight connection in London” the operative asked me. Well, it could have been, I said, but the flight was delayed by an hour so there should have been plenty of time to get all the bags onboard. To apologise for the inconvenience, Qantas gave me a little pouch containing the following items:

Qantas pyjamas consisting of a t-shirt and boxer shorts; toothbrush; toothpaste; comb; shower gel; deodorant; body lotion; and disposable razor.

It is now Sunday morning and I am yet to be reunited with my luggage.All the free pyjamas in the world are not going to make up for this inconvenience. After four uses, the bristles are coming off the complimentary toothbrush.

It is not funny.

Although, sourcing a pair of shoes to allow myself to dine respectably Saturday evening, I enquired at a shoe stall at the famous Queen Victoria Market what sort of footwear one gets away with in these parts.

“For as long as you’re not wearing rubber thongs, you’ll be all right” she said.

OK, that was funny. I told the friendly assistant not to worry, that I had no intention of wearing rubber thongs for dinner.

For information, “rubber thongs” refer to flip flops of the Havaianas kind. For further information, Ozzie people do widely go about their business wearing rubber thongs in the city. I also spotted several pairs of naked feet in Melbourne yesterday (it was +29 degrees and very humid, but still).