Day 1 – Transit to London

• delayed on tarmac
• olympic screamer
• leg room
• culture swap
• bizarre night club
• delayed landing
• run to Holborn
• checking in
• the flat
• the neighbourhood
• the noise
• the fruiterer

Trying something different, I figure if I put a bunch of dot points a the start then I’ll try to write to these and remember everything. Or most things. Or something.

It wasn’t the greatest flight from Changi to LHR, which had nothing to do with the lovely SIA staff. Got on the plane with plenty of time, though furiously chugged water at the gate before the screening, forgetting the whole liquids thing. Remind me next flight to pack an empty bottle. It’s weird, on SIA they give you metal cutlery in economy (though only sharp enough to cut bread) but have the whole liquids thing, where as flying Virgin domestic there’s plastic cutlery in cattle class but no liquid restriction.

We were delayed on the tarmac due to traffic or something, which wouldn’t normally have been a problem. I paid extra for an exit row, and on the A380 that means a buttload of space – about 2 metres in front of me. Also scored a spare seat next to me, handy for plonking stuff on. But we had a problem.

This isn’t a ranty diatribe about taking kids on planes. Children and parents have every right to fly wherever and whenever they want. Obviously it would be better if the freeloading juveniles paid their own way, and I’m sure their parents would agree, but until they get old enough to get jobs and criminal records and the like, that’s unlikely.

The problem was this kid, just one, in the next row over. He was a screamer. Olympic grade, gold medal top of the line. Full on circular breather no pausing for air. Right after boarding, right through waiting on the tarmac for 30 minutes, right through taxiing, take off, louder than the engines of the A380. Kudos to the parents and everyone on the plane for not snapping and killing everything that moved, because the pain was enough to make a shy poor buddhist reflect and plan a mass murder (that reminds me, must get copy of Morrissey’s autobio at a Waterstones). This kid, if channelled the right way, could end up one day making Pavarotti look like Tiny Tim. Respect where due, serious lung power.

But it didn’t make my flight any good. Part of me wants to blame someone or something for this, which I think is fairly natural. But who do you blame? Everyone has a right to travel, and it’s not like the kid had any choice in the matter. I don’t know what set him off, but I’m guessing it wasn’t simply having to fly economy and not getting champagne on arrival. Part of me wants to blame myself, firstly for feeling I have to blame someone, and partly because it was a situation I felt totally helpless in. There was nothing I could have done or been expected to do to ease that child, much as I wanted to (and probably would have got a medal for).

It just is. Chalk it up to something I can’t control and move on. But I’m not done with talking about children on planes. Stay tuned.

Breakfast was an amusing culture swap – two options, noodles with fish and seafood, or eggs and sausages. Asian and Western as it were. The other passenger on my row was asian, I don’t know where from (she read in english but watched what looked like some asian movies, lots of jumping and kicking and stuff). Between us we got a different breakfast, I went the noodles and she went the eggs (though she did also ask for chili saice). The world is sometimes neat and wonderful (the food was okay, too, this is airline food we’re talking about).

As the flight got settled, it turned out there was a whole spare row behind us, so my fellow rowsharer did what anyone would have done – I suggested it – and lay down and slept. I was happy with my legroom and listening to what my ipod gave me while doing a little dozing. At some point I had a definite feeling of not being alone. As we had the exit row with lots of room, a couple of the parents were standing there, rocking their kids to sleep. It felt like a surreal nightclub, as they seemed to be in time to the music of my ipod, which they obviously couldn’t hear. Is it some cultural thing that parents rock their kids in 4/4 time? It was like a surreal nightclub for midgets who like to slow dance with tall folks. Just one of those weird things.

Slightly weirder was one of them, though. This father kept going “Shhhh”, but I never heard a peep out of the kid, it was like the guy had developed a leak. I thought it a little presumptuous when he started sitting in the temporarily unoccupied seat, surely he could go back to his own seat or find another empty seat for that (there were a few spare seats).

Kids on planes.

Other flight observations: turbulence in the Bay of Bengal; flight path took us between Kabul and Kandahar.

We also got stuck in traffic coming into LHR, so were an hour late all up. Then the long stroll to customs, where a quick wave of my UK passport got me through before the obligatory luggage wait. As a Virgin Gold flyer, I’m entitled to ppriority luggage, but mine didn’t get this so it was a wait. Long time readers will be aware of my previous luggage exploits, so when only one bag turned up (the heavy book one) I was concerned. The other bag did eventually come out, and it was another stroll, through the nothing to declare gates (anyone reading still will know that while I have much to say, I have nothing to actually declare) and down to the tube. I don’t know why, but possessing an Oyster card gives me a good feeling.

Train straight to Holborn, Piccadilly (dark blue) line all the way no changes. Was in solid peak time, and carrying heavy bags, so did the obligatory stand on the right in the midst of the flood of humanity. Only got slightly misdirected exiting the station (and it would have got me to the flat anyway) and found the flat. I’d let the strange letters know (somehow attached to the Rockwell hotel but the whole setup seems mildly dubious) that I’d be late, and got there there in a mess of sweat and bags to no one waiting to meet me. Another call and was met by the Hungarian housekeeper who handed over the keys amid a mad dash to a cash point to get the whole cash balance (of which I think they may try to stiff me an extra 150 pounds deposit, stay tuned).

The flat is okay, for what it is and where I am. It has a washer-dryer, kitchenette, bed, table, bathroom and toilet, and crazy central heating that has seen me so far be both cold (which I can cope with) and bathed in sweat (which I’d prefer to avoid). At least the place has a fridge (not a standard feature of hotel rooms I’ve previously stayed in London),

The neighbourhood of Red Lion Street is a tad quirky, as it’s basically a busy thoroughfare between places and well marked on lorry driver maps, and with rows of two storey blocks it’s a great echo chamber. It’s also the first time in a long time out of suburbia for me, so I’m out of practice for city noise.

Across the road (left to right) is a chinese express, a fruiterer, a dry cleaner, and an off-license. All the essentials really, but the fruiter seems to cater to business, opens early in a flurry of lorries and is shut by 10am. Around the corner a little is a Sainsbury’s and a Waitrose, so can stock up on groceries. Already have some essentials: laundry detergent, chocolate, irn bru, fruit, crème fraiche and cheese.