Below is a picture of our arrival at Auckland airport in New Zealand two weeks ago. At right is me - my feet and legs always swell up to twice their normal size and stay like that for a day. For some reason the photo actually doesn't do justice to the enormity of my cankling. Babies scream and grown men weep. The middle person is Cy, seven, who somehow arrived with only one shoe (but still carrying his two-day old school lunch of spag bol, as you might remember.) And the person on the left is my sister, Sharon, who met us at the airport at 5.30am and was wearing one of each of her sneakers...
|Arrival: my sister Sharon, Cy, and me, Big Foot|
The huge legs have everything to do with ignoring the Joan Collins old school mode of embarking gracefully and presumably slender-legged: on the plane move the legs and feet continually, don't eat the plane food (not even a salty cracker, especially not a salty cracker) don't touch the alcohol and sip water continuously.
Just as I was shoveling down a plateful of beef bog with a chaser of the kids' cheese on whitemeat meals, finishing with wafer-thin choccies, I suddenly remember. "Joan, Joan... Why have I forsaken you?"
|Me and Tallulah on the way home|
And how very much I could have achieved on that 12 hour flight. As I've said before, that plane ride could have lent me time to write that elusive novel (about what? who knows...) or at least address the 100 "Happy New Year! Joy!" cards we failed to send before boarding. Or at least at least, watch some of those improving arthouse movies I've read so much about in the New Yorker. Instead there's loads of staring into space for me and blobbing mouth-wide-open at any of the blockbusters with weddings in them. Contributing to the fuggy air, tinged with the all-too-human movements of humanity. Yes, our seats are next to the toilets again.
Any glamorous travel moments in your weekend?