We soar over Istanbul and Katmandu, travelling through time and space, finally swooping over Kuala Lumpa and descending to Singapore. I only have 50 minutes between the plane touching down and the next one taking off, so my seating placement makes sense now. I am one of the first off, after Business and Premium and the family, who clamber off to the tuneless singing of “Once I caught a fish alive” and “London’s Burning”. I have to do a concentrated hobble down much of the length of Changi Terminal 3 to find my connection. It is so far that by the time I reach the A gates I have forgotten which one I need. A small Singaporean man in an orange high-viz sees my confusion and whips out his smart phone. “A10. Quick! Quick! They are boarding!”
Thank you and hobble swiftly on. No queue at security and I join the end of the boarding line just as it disappears inside the aircraft, escaping the embarrassing tannoy and the accusing glares of delayed travellers. The same seat, but instead of children there are three Germans in front. The largest one in front of me. I sigh as the chair jerks towards my nose.
The cabin crew are very different this time. Instead of floating on air, the head man is stressed as he passes down the aisle handing out packets of dried peas. Dinner follows. I have only just had scrambled eggs in Bechimel sauce for breakfast, but the promise of another plastic glass of wine and chicken pasta is too much to resist. Does any one have any idea what time of day it is anyway?
I browse the in-flight entertainment rather unenthusiastically. New Hollywood releases, upcoming Hollywood releases, Brad Pitt films, (yes he does have a tab to himself) and I settle on House of the Dragon. In my weary condition I can only manage one episode of Matt Smith orgies and smashed heads. I am also feeling a little concerned for the mental health of the elderly couple a row behind to my left. I know they can see my screen because I have a great view of Thor wielding his hammer one row in front and across.