The journey begins after Christmas. I climb aboard the National Express airport service and munch my way through the Christmas leftovers – 3 sausage rolls, 2 mince pies and a chocolate coated date. I save the half a chocolate orange for later. I am twitchy. I cannot not read or play with my phone. I watch the high whispy clouds against the blue winter sky. At Newmarket an angel appears. He spreads his mighty cloud wings and lifts his arms, (I have been watching too much of His Dark Materials). He stays for a long time and even as the clouds dissipate the cross of his outstretched arms remains. I stop worrying. I see him again as we drive from the airport towards Methven, his wings stretching above the patchwork of the Canterbury Plains. He does not stay for long. Job done.

At Heathrow I make it from the totally inadequate bus station to Terminal 2 bag check in. I join a very long queue behind an excited mixed race family holding a small infant with curly black hair. He squeals with joy as they pass him between them like a much coveted Christmas present. He is the only one enjoying the queue.

Then bang bang go the self service trays on the security conveyor belt. Stand there. Hands up. No! Not that much!

Finally to the calm of the high domed Departure Hall, where shops sell expensive bottles of water because they know everyone has binned theirs during the security checks. The silent sneaky cleaning robots glide across the open floor. Cool travellers perch next to counters eating sushi.

Last WhatApp messages. Check the inflight menu. Saunter to the gate and wait. The Singapore Air pilot and his crew swoosh past with their little black wheeled suitcases. The cabin crew ladies are dressed in ankle length patterned dresses, and are obviously chosen for their slim frames and small bottoms. A great asset when gliding effortlessly down the narrow aisles and dodging podgy passengers.

Finally we board, filing past the brown sofas of Business Class and the only-very-slightly-bigger-than-Economy seats in Premium. My aisle seat is directly behind the families. Great for getting your arm knocked off or for making a swift exit to the tiny toilets.   A mother and father are occupying the seats in front with three small children. They are a well oiled team. The cabin crew are helpful, and so are the Disney films. They exhibit exemplary parenting skills to the watching cabin, and make it to Singapore allowing their exhaustion to show only through small sideswipes at mummy’s or daddy’s packing skills.

The mother and daughter in the seats next to me ignore me so I ignore them. The window is black and the shades go down. When lifted in the morning there is only a white wing.

Dinner arrives in all its ingenious traysome deliciousness, along with a much needed plastic cup of wine. I decide to watch “Downton Abbey – a new era” which turns out to be a mistake. I stick with it until Maggie Smith’s improbable death scene. She utters a perfectly annunciated speech to the family who are gathered around her spotless bed in strict hierarchy, closes her eyes and stops breathing. People do not die like that. Especially elderly people.

Then it is lights out and we try our best to snore inconspicuously and not allow any inappropriate body noises to escape.