The Joy of Turbulence

Helas! As they say in France, the holiday is over. I embark on a journey I have made often, only this time with a few twists and turns...In London I am offered lots of money to stay an extra night as the plane is overbooked! "Pick me, pick me!" I shout and put my name on the list and wander off to eat dinner, mentally planning how to spend the money on 15 different things: clothes, a handbag, another holiday, paying off this holiday on the credit card or paying next month's rent. Some options are more exciting than others. But just as I'm ready to collect my dosh and text all the London friends I didn't get to see this time around that I've got another day in Londinium (as they used to call it long long ago) they tell me to board - immediately. "No duty free shopping?" I exclaim and they say "No, run straight to the plane, but here we will give you a voucher to spend on board." It turns out to be for ten pounds.

Not only does this not go very far towards the ipad I'd like or the sunglasses or even the perfume but my sleeping tablet kicks in before they come round with the duty free trolley so I miss the onboard shopping altogether. Ah well, I'm broke anyway, but would have still liked the little tweezers with a built in light that looked very useful and gadgety and were only 12.50. Suppose my life will not be much the poorer without them.

I am armed with my super sleeping kit (which I bring with me as they don't give much away in my section of the plane) eye mask and socks, earplugs, sleeping tablet, lip-ice, pashmina and 3 blow up pillows and lovely soothing meditation music. The pashmina you wrap around the pillow so it doesn't cut into your neck, and the lip-ice you try to remember to put on AFTER blowing up the pillow otherwise the mouth bit is all greasy and slidey and it becomes quite impossible. Yes, I did the lip-ice thing again this time. And the spare pillows can be tucked between you and the window and used when it turns out one has a hole. Or for your partner if his has a hole. (however if he's on a different plane, as it turns out, this doesn't really work)

Although I was in the aisle seat, I managed to knock myself out shortly after dinner was served so the poor sumo wrestlers next to me had quite a job getting to the loo but I do vaguely recall a spaced-out conversation with me standing in the aisle at 2 or 3am.

Only in Joburg once again, the home of the white shellsuit tracksuit with furry collar and flipflops (I counted at least 5 people wearing this outfit in my 3 hrs there), did the fun and games begin. The airport staff were so busy pilfering people's luggage, including removing the padlock from my locked suitcase, that the luggage took about 45 mins to arrive which meant I missed my connecting flight. I stood around on standby again, like last night, and then finally was told I'd made the grade and I should run for the plane. Fifteen minutes after a bumpy takeoff, the pilot said the cargo door had popped open and we needed to return to Joburg. That was the co-pilot I think, the main pilot came on a bit later and said it was just a "technical issue with the door sensor but aviation rules dictate we must return." Except we had too much fuel on board to land and must "jettison one tonne of fuel". Crikey. I was already green from the low altitude turbulence and it didn't sound good. I spent the next 45 minutes hurling into vomit bags as we circled furiously around the brown nothingness near Joburg, while trying to be deeply funny about it, because if there is one thing worse than a passenger barfing beside you, it's one who is barfing and crying for her mother. I went through four bags and had everyone around me in stitches as they passed over theirs. My neighbour suggested 10 bags might be the record and I should keep going. Thank you for small mercies.

I hate small planes but do believe their use is justified when they are delivering you to a tropical island for a holiday. When they deliver you back to the same stupid place you came from and were trying to leave, minus your breakfast, it's just a waste of everyone's time and effort.

31 hours door to door and here I am, home sweet home. I had my lovely nephews and baby niece to greet me and my sister had put all the lights and heaters on. Returning to a dark and cold house after a summer holiday can be a little too reminiscent of being ripped from the womb. I hug my nephews and inhale the gorgeousness of baby head smell and think how nice it is to have children to return home to after a holiday. Pity this scenario is not really possible if they're your own.