In Linz...

I won't say it hasn't been fraught because it has and in so many ways it's just me allowing the little annoying things in life to hit me hard. Normally, it starts with the taxi ride to the airport, but not today. He was fine, he said nothing and just drove me to Heathrow Terminal Two at the crack of dawn, 0600hrs to be precise, although I'd been up earlier. I probably hit the sack around 2300hrs or thereabouts on Saturday night, wishing I didn't have to get up early and fly to Vienna, but I did. I must have woken up around 0330hrs and decided to just lie there trying not to fret about anything. It's easy to start fretting about things and then there's no hope in hell of nodding off again. However, I must have started to nod off because, just as I did my alarm went off. It was 0500hrs.

Time to head for gate A25 and the 0905 flight to Vienna...

The first problem was there were no dishes so I had to skip breakfast. Most of them had leftover food in them and were residing in the fridge. I just couldn't be bothered. Then there was no bread so I scavenged around until I found a bag of brioche burger buns, toasted one of them but could only eat one side as the other bit was burnt. That annoyed me, so I had another one, with marmalade but not toasted. That and a cup of tea was breakfast. I did my final checks and then I was off, the taxi arrived and I was gone. Not that I particularly wanted to go. I wasn't looking forward to the flight and I'd found out that I could take a train all the way to Vienna and that it takes 16 hours, sometimes a little less. I liked the idea of a stress-free journey.

On the plane...

I started to get annoyed when I entered the terminal building. Where should I go to check in? It was zone B and when I got there I found self-service machines. Now, I hate self-service machines. I used to hate them in the supermarkets (and still do) and I hate them even more at airports. These days it seems that we're all expected to do half of the job for the supermarkets and airlines, but I note that the prices remain the same or possibly higher. I hate supermarkets with a vengeance mainly because we all know, like with all capitalist scum, they're not there for the customer, they're there for themselves. I always have this desire for vengeance but I haven't worked out how to exact it without getting myself in trouble (yet!). I fully support shoplifters, by the way, and I'm so glad that our inept Government has made so many cutbacks that our police forces are unable to deal with petty crimes like nicking stuff from shops. 

Standing a little angrily at the the check-in terminals a man asked me for a reference number. I thought my passport would be good enough and told him so. "No, you need a reference number." "Well, I haven't got one," I said aggressively and he said nothing. "What about a human being?" I asked and he pointed to a check-in terminal. I skulked over there and had my bag checked in and then went through security, which would have been fine had my bag not been sent along the track to be double-checked by a human. Normally, this is because the system detects something of interest in the case, but mine was just full of USBs and a couple of notebooks. It happens to me regularly now and it means I have to wait just a little bit longer than normal before I can chill at the café beyond the Society of the Spectacle. I waited and waited. There was a guy from Brisbane en route to Stockholm and he clearly missed the memo about liquids; he had loads of them, probably mainly belonging to his wife as he didn't look particularly cleansed (nor did his wife). The security guy spent ages checking every bottle. When my turn arrived it was fairly simple. Basically there was nothing wrong and soon I was on my way.

Time to catch the train into central Vienna...

Because I was generally in a bad mood, probably because I'd allowed a situation to develop where I would have to fly off early on a Sunday morning – forfeiting a ride with Andy – I didn't really enjoy the breakfast. I ordered granola and yoghurt with a pot of English breakfast tea and sat there inwardly scowling to myself about virtually everything. I appear to be surrounded by absolute wankers. Whichever way I turn, there they are and their sole purpose in life is to annoy me. The gate was announced at 0825 and shortly after that time I paid up and headed for gate A25. And then the next hassle. I stood queuing and when I reached the passport check lady she told me I was in the wrong queue, so I had to go back, I wasn't allowed to pass Go or collect £200, I was suddenly at the back of the queue. 

View from room 41, Dom Hotel, Linz on Sunday 17th Sept

Soon I was through and sitting in the plane. I thanked God for small mercies, namely a window seat (19F). Outside it wasn't that clear. A blanket of grey cloud shrouded England but there wasn't much of it. Soon after take-off we broke through and the flight, bar a few bumpy bits, was fine. I took the train from the airport to the centre of the city and then jumped on a train to Linz. There were a lot of people and I could already feel my hackles rising as the seats, most of them, were booked and my ticket didn't seem to have a reservation. I stood up waiting for somebody to claim where I hoped to be sitting, but they didn't so I could eat my lunch in peace, although throughout it I kept thinking some bastard was going to turn up and turf me out.

A word (or two) on the weather: it was fantastic. No cloud cover in Austria just blue skies and sunshine. It was hot and at one point on the train journey I saw people paddle boarding on a huge lake. Summer clearly hadn't left the building in Austria and, to be fair, it hadn't left the UK entirely.

Room 41, Dom Hotel, Linz

I was sleepy and kept drifting off, almost missing my stop. The train journey to Linz from Vienna took around three hours, but I wasn't counting so I couldn't be 100% sure. My taxi driver took me to the wrong hotel, although it must be a common mistake as both had the word 'Dom' in their name. I had to walk all of five minutes with that irritating sound of plastic casters on cobbled streets. It wasn't easy and at some points I pulled and yanked at my suitcase as if it was an unruly a dog on a lead, unwilling to do anything I asked. I arrived at the right hotel and checked in and then realised that none of my shirts were pressed, but there wasn't an iron in the hotel room. Fortunately there was one in reception so I spent around 20 minutes on the floor ironing three shirts and then placing them in the wardrobe on hangers, at least I'm ready for my first meeting tomorrow morning.

I went out for a wander around town. It was warm and there were lots of women with smooth legs wearing summer dresses. I stopped at a bakery and coffee shop, Bäckerei Danecker, and ordered an English breakfast tea. And for a short while I felt better. I managed to sit and read a bit more of Climbers by M John Harrison. I've very close to the end now and I don't really want to finish it, although I have another M John Harrison book, the Centauri Device, so all is well on that front. The tea was served in a clear plastic cup without a handle, it wasn't glass but it looked like glass and was hot (the tea, not the 'glass'). Towards the end of my stay, the woman behind the counter gave me a jam-filled bun for nothing. I was chuffed! Somebody DOES love me, I thought, not realising at first that it was filled with jam, not that the filling meant she didn't love me. It was pleasant and it almost prevented me from having dinner, but after getting fed up with walking around I found a café and took a seat outside under an awning. It was warm and summery and I ordered beef stroganoff and an alcohol-free wheat beer. Perfect. I continued reading and then decided to retrace my steps back to the hotel.

I ordered beef stroganoff and beer

There wasn't much open. It was Sunday and it was like being in the UK when Sundays were sacred and nothing was open. Today, of course, everything is open in England. When I reached the hotel, the lift was on the ground floor waiting for me so I jumped in and pressed the button and soon I was in my room. It's a large room but it has one of those bathrooms where the walls are frosted glass. Now that's annoying because when I'm in a hotel I like to sleep with a light on. Normally I put the bathroom light on and then shut the door so there's just a little bit of light illuminating the room, like a little jagged piece strutting out from the source. But if I put the bathroom light on here it will blast out light all over the place I won't be able to sleep so I'll have to sleep in darkness and leave the curtains drawn back and thereby rely upon the natural light of the city. I'm in Linz, I've been here a few times and I like it a lot. In fact, on my earlier wander I actually arrived at a bike shop I remember from a previous visit, but being as it's Sunday it was closed.

I'm drinking a refreshing Gasteiner sparkling mineral water, which is much needed and afterwards I'm considering using my trim wheel, which I've brought along on the trip. I might not, though. Actually I will, why not, keep it going. I've been doing it daily for at least 10 days, probably longer, but so far I haven't seen any results. But I'm carrying on with it.

Alcohol-free wheat beer...lovely!

The bed doesn't look very inviting, especially that duvet laying diagonally across it, but I won't be hitting the sack just yet. One of the wardrobe's sliding doors sounds like a yelping puppy whenever I open it. Everything is so sterile and sad but I'm hoping that I'll feel better in the morning. Time, I think, to flick through the television channels and either watch something in a foreign language I don't understand (that's fun – not!) or check out BBC World, another sterile lump of politically correct, fence-sitting rubbish, not that I'm the sort of person who's going to watch GB News or Talk TV, they're even worse!

It's just gone 2100hrs and I've yet to switch on the television. I think the trim wheel will be first, although I'll call home and have a chat. They're watching Gaslight but I'll speak to them later.

After a brief call home I hit the sack around 2300hrs. I switched off all the lights and just lay there deep in many thoughts, one of which was thinking of my hotel room as an apartment. It was big enough. I decided that I would put shelves on the far wall for books and that was basically it. There were other thoughts, many, many thoughts, but I can't remember them now. I eventually drifted off to sleep and awoke around 0400hrs. Then I must have drifted off because the alarm rang out at 0600hrs and I kept pressing 'snooze' until it was 0630hrs, then got up and showered. It's not a bad hotel room, quite spacious and bright, but the most annoying thing about it is the door key. I've always been full of praise for hotels that don't have key cards, but not in this instance. There are three keys on the ring and they all look similar so the first hassle is always finding the right key, then it's all about getting the key in the lock and ultimately it means putting on my glasses, trying one key, then the next, does it go in upside down or the right way up, what is the right way up? Just opening the door is a faff, believe me.

Breakfast downstairs on the ground floor is fine. I ordered muesli with yoghurt, sultanas and nuts, a green tea and a couple of small slices of bread with apricot marmalade, not forgetting a banana. I sat there texting and then headed back to the room.

A busy week lies ahead of me and I'm looking forward to getting home. Shame it's Heathrow and not Gatwick, but you can't win 'em all.

It's Christmas every day in Rovaneimi...

I've been to Finland three times now. The first time was in February 2020, just before lockdown, the second time I flew there just for dinner in August 2022 and now I'm back again in April 2023. One thing has characterised all three trips: every hotel I have been booked in to has given me a room right at the very end of a corridor. Every hotel. Back in February 2020 at the Scandic Simonkentta, I think I was in room 602, I can't remember exactly, but it was right at the very end of a corridor on the right. It was the same with the second visit, when I stayed in the Scandic Paasi, and at the Santa Claus Hotel in Rovaneimi (room 560) AND yesterday (Saturday 15April) at the Indigo Hotel (room 411). Once again, I'm at the end of the corridor, this time on the left hand side. The only difference about the Indigo Hotel, from where I am writing this blog, is that the doors open inwards. Everywhere else, in fact, everywhere else, not just the hotels, doors open outwards to make it easier for people to escape their rooms if they need to kick the doors down to escape, say, a fire. Why the Indigo bucked the trend, I don't know.

Santa Claus Hotel, Rovaneimi

I flew from Rovaneimi at just gone 1400hrs. It was a very pleasant flight. The skies were clear and cloudless and below me I could see the barren landscape of Finland with it's frozen lakes and rivers and all I could think about was that I rode the night train to Rovaneimi and that all of that was below me; what took me all night will be over in an hour and all we got for free from Finnair was a small cup of blueberry juice. Not that I'm complaining. Finnair has been brilliant and it was only a one-hour, 10-minute flight. I was sitting in seat 1a with plenty of leg room. It was a small plane with two rows of two seats and it was packed.

On reaching Helsinki I took the train into the city and then trundled my suitcase along cobbled streets (not ideal) to the Indigo Hotel on Bulevardi. The pleasant nature of this hotel was revealed immediately with an efficient check-in, the room (411) was good and I decided to get a walk in before dinner. I paced it out for 2.14 miles, following a straightforward but random route in the shape of a square and then, when I got back to the room I phoned home and then started to wonder about where to have dinner. A trendy pasta restaurant was suggested, but in all honesty I couldn't be bothered with 'trendy' so I stayed at the hotel's Bröd restaurant where I enjoyed gravlax followed by steak with pollenta chips and rounded off with a lime posset, which I could have done without because it was tasteless. But let's not criticise the hotel, it was fantastic. I sat there reading The Big Midweek – Life Inside the Fall by Steve Hanley in between eating and drinking. I ordered a bottle of sparkling Pellegrino and, not really wanting a no-alcohol Heineken, I opted for a non-alcoholic cider, and let's face it, non-alcoholic cider is apple juice, why not simply offer me an apple juice? Either way, it was a pleasant drink, much pleasanter than a Heineken 00.

It's Christmas all year round in Rovaneimi

I had a long chat with the waitress, so long I almost let my green tea go cold, and then I paid up and headed back to room 411. I messed around with the room lights and then sat and read my book until I felt tired enough to sleep, but then I awoke around 0304 and here I am writing. It's now 0509.

Daybreak, 0444 in Rovaneimi. This the view from my hotel window...

In Rovaneimi yesterday I realised that Santa Claus works full-time throughout the year. There's a Santa Claus theme park full of souvenir shops and a decent buffet restaurant, the Three Elves, and after a pleasant lunch we headed for the airport and the short flight to Helsinki. But I found it hard to believe that Santa is working in April, meeting people from all over the world and agreeing to have his photograph taken. I felt that I was too old to sit on his knee and so only managed a brief glimpse of the great man - who I thought lived in the street next to mine in the UK (clearly I am mistaken) - but I found that it's Christmas all-year round up there in the Arctic Circle, even my hotel, the aptly named Santa Claus Hotel, had Christmas trees on top of the entrance canopy. Elsewhere there were Christmas lights too. First thing in the morning in Rovaneimi it was minus six degrees. As the day progressed it warmed up a little to around plus 2 degrees and there were patches of ice around that needed to be avoided.

Hearty breakfast in Rovaneimi

Snow is everywhere. It features prominently in family photographs on Finnish iphones and can be seen banked up on the roadsides and in car parks, huge piles of the stuff blended with black/grey grit giving it the appearance of a skunk, like the cartoon character Pepé Le Pew. From the air the snow makes the ground below look like a choppy sea full of white horses crashing hither and thither, and on the roofs of houses there are chunks of the stuff, unsullied by grit, waiting to slide off and hit the ground – and we're talking two to three feet thick slabs of it.

Rovaneimi airport is tiny and there are very little in the way of flights on the departures board, just the Helsinki flight that I'm on and another one. Security was, again, a doddle, and soon we were boarding the flight. I was told as we sat drinking our tea and coffee, that a famous Finnish actress had just walked past us, but such information was alien to me as I don't know any famous Finnish actresses.

While it's warmer in Helsinki than in Rovaneimi, it's still cold and there was a bitter wind that prompted me to do up the buttons on my coat before continuing my journey on foot from the central station to the Indigo hotel, but it's getting warmer here and the Finnish people are looking forward to having barbecues in their back gardens even if they will have to don coats. While the sun is shining and the sky is blue, it's still brass monkey weather. According to my pal Ilkka, the barbecue season has already started. In Tornio yesterday evidence of the beginning of barbecue season was there for all to see in a Motonet store where shop assistants were stocking up with gas cylinders. Inside the shop – which was a huge, cavernous space on the edge of town – there was plenty of different styles of barbecue equipment ranging from the disposable to some pretty impressive pieces of kit that wouldn't look out of place in a modern kitchen. As for Motonet, it was one of those places where you could buy anything: knives, camping equipment, weather-proof clothing, DIY equipment, sweets, outdoor games, stuff for your car, anything at all.

Yours truly at the Arctic Circle...

One of the best things about Finland is Karl Fazer chocolates. I was pleased to note as I walked along Bulevardi that there was a Karl Fazer coffee shop and it was just across the street from my hotel. I went in for a coffee and a pistachio cake and sat there reading before heading back to the hotel to decide upon my dining arrangements. It opens at 1000 this morning, which gives me a little time to chill although I'm not really sure if I'll do that, despite telling the people behind the counter that I'd be back. Instead I might mosey on up to the shops, but then again, perhaps not as I can't really afford to buy anything from Finland's expensive stores, like Stockmann, although it's nice to have a look. Or is it? Perhaps I'll just get resentful and I don't what that as this trip has been full of positivity in so many ways.

It's 0539. Is it even worth going back to bed? I should do because I've a long day ahead of me and then it's work on Monday

I was told the hotel had a swimming pool. It doesn't, although I might be confusing it with another hotel in Canada, across the river from Detroit. Annoying when you consider that I packed a pair of trunks. But all things considered I wonder whether I would have taken the plunge had there been one, probably not. There's simply too much to do, like getting to the station to catch a train to the airport and then all the hassles of security and sitting around waiting for the flight home.

Another virtually empty airport in Finland, this one is Rovaneimi

When I woke up this morning at the ungodly hour of just gone 0300, I checked in online and I'm so glad that I remembered. I had another aisle seat at the back of the plane but now, to my sheer amazement, I'm sitting in seat 3A, which is quite unbelievable. I'm so pleased that I remembered as the flight is full according to the BA website and they're asking for volunteers to take another flight. All well and good, I thought, but the only reason I'm here in Finland on a Sunday – giving up my entire weekend – is because BA was only offering a business class seat on Saturday and that would have cost £1,100 so there was no way I was going to give up seat 1A to possibly find myself spending another night here in Helsinki. Why Finland is so popular at the moment I'm not sure, but all the flights appear to be full. On that extortionate business class seat, it's simply not worth it. Later, sitting in seat 3A I was directly behind the two rows of business class seats, separated by a curtain, and that seems to me to be a piss poor incentive to fork out over £1,000. Alright, so I had to suffer small paper cups of water from the plane's supplies as opposed to a bottle of mineral water, but so what? In fact, one small gripe: I pressed the service button on the panel above the seat and when the cabin crew member arrived I asked if I could buy a bottle of mineral water. Moments earlier I had seen her walk past with a trolley full of bottles of mineral water. "I'm sorry, these are for business class," she said snootily and then offered me some sub-standard tiny cups of water from the plane's tap. I'm so glad I didn't pay that £1,100 for a business class ticket. None of those bottles were given to any of the eight people sitting in rows one and two, and that's what I hate about capitalism and the snobbery that goes with it.

Frozen rivers from the air...

Earlier, having woken up at an ungodly hour, I went back to bed having set the alarm to wake me at 0700 and when it did I pressed the snooze button. I repeated the process until it was 0730 (because I was tired and didn't want to get up) and then jumped in the shower, cutting my foot on the door as I jumped out to find a towel. I made a make-shift bandage with some tissues, which are still there now, wedged between my toes, but there's no pain and it's not that bad.

Breakfast at the Indigo was okay, but not mind-blowing and while I've always said that a hotel stands or falls on the quality of its breakfast, the Indigo is different: it's the friendly staff that hold it together. The fresh fruit looked dry and everything else had that insignificant look about it. I chose scrambled egg, mushrooms, vegetables and small sausages, a plate of the dry-looking pineapple chunks, two miniature apple pies, a tiny pain au chocolate and a small Danish pastry and then later a small bowl of yoghurt, I think it was strawberry-flavoured, but you can never tell with yoghurt. I also had three mini chocolate HobNob style biscuits - and I mean mini, they were tiny - a glass of cranberry juice and an English breakfast tea. I sat there reading and then I went back to the room. 

I planned to nip out for a brief walk, wary, of course, that blue skies and sunshine in Finland don't always mean it's warm out there, it's not. I had a late check-out so my plan was to mooch around, possibly have a coffee, but it's easy to get carried away, especially as I'm reading Steve Hanley's The Big Midweek so perhaps I'll leave the book behind, get a brief walk out of the way and then come back to check out. I didn't bother with the walk in the end, but decided to walk to the central station rather than order a cab. I never order a cab unless absolutely necessary.

View from room 411, Indigo Hotel, Helsinki

Apart from cutting one of my toes in the shower, I'm generally feeling fine, but there's no time to chill out with a book. Despite the fact that I've been forced to stay in Helsinki for another night thanks to BA's greed, apart from dinner in the hotel, that's about all I get. After breakfast, time started to run out and I quickly realised that my plan to sit in a cafe reading was out of the question as I'd needed to get moving towards the central station to catch a train to the airport. I had the full two hours once I'd reached the airport. I found somewhere to eat and ordered a foccacia bread filled with cheese and ham and followed by a caramel cheese cake, not forgetting a cappuccino. Once finished I checked the announcements board and noticed that I needed to make my way to passport control. I wish that I'd known about this earlier as once through passport control there were more cafés and I realised that I could have sat in a Starbuck's closer to gate 40. In fact I was lucky that there hadn't been queues because I was under the impression, having already gone through security, that there was nothing more to do other than go to the gate, and that the next step was boarding the plane. How wrong was I! But there were no queues, this was Finland after all, and there's nobody around so all was well and soon I was boarding the plane. It was a pleasant flight of roughly two hours and twenty five minutes and I read a lot of my book whilst occasionally glancing out of the window at the hazy blue skies.

No trains! It wouldn't happen in Finland...

UK Grim

As we approached the UK, of course, the clouds gathered, but there was no turbulence. We landed safely and then the shite started to happen. Travelling by train from Helsinki airport to the centre of town cost 4.30 Euros (around £3.50) but in the UK, a one-way trip on the Heathrow Express into London set me back £25. What a rip-off. Then, once on the train, I was faced with a shuffling beggar and a nutter in a bright yellow tracksuit and then, to top things off, when I reached the concourse of Victoria station I noticed a sign saying 'no Southern trains' due to engineering work. I went back on the tube, headed for Blackfriars and then got a Thameslink train to East Croydon before jumping in a taxi home. Oh to be back in Finland, I thought to myself. All the trains run on time – and are state-owned – and the people are happy even if it is a little cold.

Heathrow baggage reclaim...a very long wait

22 August 2022 - Flight AY1332 London Heathrow to Helsinki...

The taxi to Heathrow was fine. I was left alone, which is the main thing and that was thanks to the driver not being English and, therefore, not being a racist or a bigot, like some of the British taxi drivers I've experienced on past trips. Very little conversation passed between us and I was allowed to look out of the window and engage in my own thoughts. Perhaps that should be 'engage with my own thoughts'. I reached the airport with plenty of time to chill out before I departed, that is after passing through security, which is always very annoying. Fortunately, I didn't have to take off my shoes. That said, despite not having any metal on my person, the alarm still went off and I was forced to use the body scanner.

Flight to Helsinki...

Finding somewhere to eat did prove problematic as everywhere I had to queue. First at The Curator so I didn't bother; then at Caffe Nero so I gave that a miss and then I found no queue at Wagamama so I took my seat, decided on what I wanted to eat and waited for somebody to take my order; but they didn't so I upped and left and then found a table at a very pink and girly establishment, which had once been Oriel. I was, of course, in Terminal 3, but the restaurant in question was rubbish. A couple to my left were already moaning to the manager about the dry and stodgy nature of the baked goods they had purchased. I had ordered from a menu that I had to request otherwise I was supposed to scan a QR code on the table and use my phone. They couldn't be bothered basically to hand out menus and asking for one caused mutterings from the staff as if I'd asked for something over and above the call of duty. Expecting paying guests to rely upon technology is all about doing as little as possible for the customer... but still asking for the same money. From now onwards, I will always say that my phone is faulty; similarly for paying the bill: I'd rather use my credit card and no, I don't want them to email me a receipt, I want a paper one...go cut down a tree and make it snappy! Not really. Well, not really in the sense that I don't want them to cut down a tree, but that's about it.

Looking out...

I am now onboard the flight and tucking into my second bar of Fazer chocolate (a quality Finnish chocolate brand). This is also mildly annoying as I have been doing very well on losing weight and keeping fit, but this week I'm away from the bike and it looks as if I'll be forced to eat crap on the hoof, like most travellers find themselves doing. I'm not moaning about the chocolate, though, as it is fantastic. But let's get back to the weight loss. First, the cycling to and from work over the past few weeks: it's been great (as you know) and I've managed to lose around a stone, perhaps just under a stone. I'm now (or I was) just a pound or two over 12 stone, thanks to exercise and salads and not too many potatoes. Now I'm away for a week, I've left my shorts on the washing line back home and that means no exercise unless I buy some shorts and that, of course, depends on whether my hotel has a gym with an exercise bike. Let's see.

Nobody around...Finland population 5.5 million

Outside of the plane window I can see clouds below me and blue skies above. The flight time to Helsinki is two hours and 17 minutes and I must say that Finnair has been good. Friendly cabin crew, a vast improvement on British Airways and it has to be said they (the Finnish crew) have a far nicer attitude. I'm looking forward to reaching Helsinki as I'm meeting Illka, somebody I met in New Delhi in 2018. He works for a Finnish company called Pesmel - they're into 'material flow how' - and we're having dinner in town. Then I'm off to Sweden (Stockholm to be precise) where I am planning to interview two people individually about steel making technology. 

View from Room 602, Scandic Paasi

The plane is big, an Airbus 350-900 and I am sitting in seat 23a, there's only one other person in my row and he's in the aisle seat, which means there's a much welcomed space between us which I'm sure we both appreciate. As I write this, we have been in the air for just over one hour which, if you'll excuse the pun, has flown by. The scenery outside the plane hasn't changed much, which is fine by me and there's little else to do other than write or read. Looking at the map, we're over Copenhagen at the moment and there must be around one hour and 15 minutes left before we land. Once on the ground I'll make my way to the hotel, the Scandic Paasi, and see what the situation is with regard to the gym. All the recent cycling to work has made me a bit of a fitness freak and now that I'm losing so much unwanted weight I want to keep it off, hence the possibility that I might need a pair of shorts if there's a gym and an exercise bike.

The flight is very serene, people are relaxing, there's little conversation, babies must be sleeping, adults reading or watching movies, it's great. I can see land below me and sea; I wonder if the Danish government has dumped loads of shit and other sewage in the sea. Somehow I doubt it very much.

Deserted platform...

There's about 30 minutes to go before we land. I'm always looking at the map and watching as the little plane (the plane on the map, that is) makes its way towards Helsinki. The descent has started and we're 15 minutes ahead of schedule. The temperature in Helsinki is 21 degrees and, as the pilot said, the sun continues in Finland. The in-flight service has come to an end, not that i was going to order more chocolate. The skies below us are clear and blue and I'm looking forward to being on the ground. If there's a minibar in my hotel room I won't be using it. The last time I was in Helsinki was in February 2020, just ahead of lockdown. Back then, it was cold and unbearable to be outside for more than a few minutes. Knowing that the weather was going to be pleasant I considered a wander around the city for a to see if I could find where I was the last time I was here, but time caught up with me. I wish I had booked the ferry from Helsinki to Stockholm instead of the flight as that would have been good fun, but I didn't think, which means another, albeit short flight tomorrow. Outside it didn't look as if we had descended at all. We were, however, flying at 41,000 feet. I would have to wait until the stats appeared on the screen in front of me. 

'We will land soon' said a recorded voice. As I suspected the clouds  reappeared. We are now at 20,000 feet so we've come down a long way, it just didn't look that way. Actually, perhaps it did as those clouds I'd been looking down upon were now much closer so perhaps I simply wasn't paying attention. There was only 15 minutes of the flight left but I wondered if they could get all that way to the ground in such a short space of time? It's a thought I always have at this stage in any flight and, quite frankly, it never ceases to amaze me. I could see lakes below. Quite a few lakes. It was a fairly clear day and I could see roads and houses. "Landing in 10 minutes," said the captain, but it still seemed impossible that we would be on the ground in such a short space of time. I could make out apartment blocks and even an airstrip. There was the odd rogue cloud and a hazy mistiness as the plane descended. Fields, fir trees, forests, the plane banked left a little making me wonder whether the airport I saw earlier was, in fact where we were landing. More banking left. I could see cars on the roads now as the plane straightened momentarily before banking left again. My seat (23a) was right on the wing. To my left I could see the sea, the undercarriage was now down and the plane was almost gliding to the ground. I could see back gardens and forests and industrial buildings, car parks, four-lane highways and we were on the ground, engines switched to reverse thrust, we had arrived in Helsinki and slowed to a virtual halt as we began to snake our way towards the terminal building.

The ordeal was almost over...

During the week, somewhere along the line, I managed to injure myself. I don't know how I managed it, there was no trauma to any bones or joints, but at some stage I damaged my right foot. It's funny because whenever I say something like, "You know what? I haven't had a bad foot in ages!" Or whatever, but if I say something like that I'll get a bad foot or I'll be stuck somewhere and inconvenienced in a big way.  Last week, that's just what I said, "Do you know what? I haven't had a bad foot in ages!" And it was true, I hadn't. Occasionally, let's say once, possibly twice a year, I did something to one of my feet, God knows what, but it left me limping for a few days, my foot swelled up, I took a few Nurofen and that was it, but for a long time now, absolutely nothing wrong with my foot, until I mentioned it a week ago. I don't remember exactly when it happened, probably Wednesday, and I checked it out on the internet. "Lateral foot pain – caused by excessive walking wearing the wrong shoes." It might have said 'inappropriate footwear'. Walking in inappropriate footwear. Well, that's roughly what I was indulging in last week, excessive walking. In Doctor Martens shoes that have worn down a little on one side of the heel. In a nutshell, I can't walk and I'm in pain when I do. I hobble, that's the best way of describing it. One minute I was fine, the next I'm hobbling like a tramp and getting nowhere fast. Fortunately, my work was done (or most of it) so it had no detrimental effect on anything other than on myself. But I'm hobbling, right? Making slow progress. And its when I'm in this kind of state that things start to go wrong. 

I have shared most flights on this trip with my colleague Catherine, but not this last one, she was on an earlier flight that was severely delayed. As I write this I am sitting alone in Terminal 7 of JFK and I have two hours to go before I take off. Earlier, I had to queue for well over an hour to speak to one of two people who were dealing with passenger enquiries in a very slow and infuriating manner; it was painful to watch let alone be a part of, but there was nothing I could do about it. After a long while, however, I was given my flight documents, told to go from Terminal 8 to Terminal 7 and that it was advisable not to leave the airport. I stayed in Terminal 8 with a bunch of people who found themselves in the same boat. Some even slept under blankets provided, others, like me, sat chatting with other stranded people and there was, of course, an element of the Dunkirk Spirit about the situation. I found myself with Lisa Schiller, an American lawyer from Fort Lauderdale who had given up being a solicitor to run her own business. She was travelling to Oman for a holiday, but her flight from Miami had messed up in some way, leaving her temporarily stranded and wondering whether to call the whole thing off. She spoke of her dogs and how she gets a lot of iguanas in her back garden and how her dog chases them. I helped her book her seat and check in online and we chatted about this and that until I had to change terminals and she made her way to the Admiral's Lounge (the first class lounge for American Airlines). She was happy for me to be her guest, but I had to be in Terminal Seven, which was decidedly different from Terminal Eight, let's say a little more basic.

Air Train to Terminal 7.

I hobbled to the Air Train, which took me from Terminal 8 to Terminal 7, and nobody (I mean nobody) was going to come to my aid, offer help in the shape of a wheelchair, which was what I needed. Not that I was going to accept any assistance. Jumping into a wheelchair equals defeat in my book and I wasn't in any mood to surrender. I hobbled from the Air Train to Terminal 7 and started to queue for a boarding pass, but then decided I'd be better off using the terminals provided and, unusually, they worked and I was issued with a boarding pass. It was time for my favourite part of the game: security. I was told to put everything in one tray, I didn't have to take the laptop out of its case, which was odd, but I had to take my jumper off, revealing the legend of my tee-shirt: "I bring NOTHING to the table!" The slogan was absolutely right, I brought nothing to the table. I had to take my shoes off too, which was most annoying, thanks to Richard Reeve, the shoe bomber - I'm so glad he's in prison - and soon I noticed that, unlike in Terminal 8 and on every plane I'd flown in, everybody was wearing a face mask and the police were advising people to wear them. Plenty were, but a few broke the rule (including me). That was all I needed, to be arrested, so I stuck close to the gate was told that would start in 20 minutes.

The flight home was as boring as hell and there was plenty of turbulence to keep me on my toes, except that my foot was in a bad way so the likelihood of me being 'on my toes' was low. Like on the outward flight last Saturday, I couldn't really concentrate, I simply wasn't in the mood. Unlike previous trips abroad I wasn't particularly fired up about anything; normally I might read the papers from back to front, dip into a book, read the inflight magazine, enjoy the airline food and so on, watch a movie, listen to music. Not this time. It was my first trip since lockdown, perhaps that was it, but basically I simply endured it. You could say I 'did my time'. I sat there, talked to nobody (not that I ever talk to my fellow passengers), I didn't even look at the map of the plane as it made its way across the Atlantic, I wasn't interested. I started doing the 'time' thing: 'in one hour there will be two hours and 45 minutes to go' and so on and I tried not to look at my watch, and when I did look at it only five minutes had elapsed despite the fact that I thought otherwise. I ate what they gave me: a full English breakfast, which was quite enjoyable, and then a turkey and ham roll that I eventually discarded. There was a mini Milky Way chocolate bar (in the US they're more like Mars bars) I endured the flight and the turbulence and the severely cramped conditions and, as always, I built up a tremendous hatred towards class divisions, which are more than evident on a plane, which is sectionalised based on how much you're prepared to pay. If you're sitting at the front you get more space and better food and service, they call you 'sir' for heaven's sake. If you're at the back, 'sir' doesn't come into it, your conditions are squeezed and the food is basic and poor. Curtains divide the sections and you don't encroach on the space of those who pay more than you, they don't want to mix with plebs like you. But I always think that if the plane goes down we will all die, even if those at the front die clasping a glass of Champagne. Bully for them! 

Now boarding flight BA178 

The plane touched down around 10 minutes earlier than scheduled (big deal!) and then I discovered that British Airways had lost my luggage. After faffing around filling in forms I met my taxi driver and was driven home along the M25 and M23. I reached the house around 2200hrs and sat watching before I willingly hit the sack, waking late in the day. It was Sunday and sunny and the garden looked good. I checked out my swollen foot with the guys at 111 and a doc advised a visit to A&E to check out the swelling. I'm not in too much pain, I'm better than I was, but I'm still limping and the foot is red and swollen.

My lost luggage was delivered to the house later in the day.

The photograph on the left was of the interior of flight BA178 from JFK to London Heathrow. I'd just sat down. It was a full flight (always is) but there was no way that British Airways was going to give me a more comfortable seat to ease the hassle with my foot. They never help and I was stuck in the cramped conditions for just over seven hours. I found two vacant seats at the back of the plane and was told they were for the crew, but the crew never used them and later I found two men there when previously nobody occupyed them. British Airways is always like this and if you ever need to contact them, ALL the numbers listed are useless, even if it says 24-hour assistance and you call out of hours, there's always a recorded voice asking you to call between 0800hrs and whenever, but they're never available when you want them to be. In so many ways a sham of an airline. 

What I think (and write) about at 38,000 feet...

Thursday 7th February 2019 – notes written on board BA256 from New Delhi to London

I woke around half five this morning and lolled around until it was time to get up. My alarm was due to sound at six o'clock, but I turned it off and then made final preparations for leaving New Delhi. I nipped upstairs to the business centre on the hotel's tenth floor and printed out my boarding pass for the flight and then headed downstairs for the last time. The plan was not to have any breakfast, just check out and get out, but the driver wasn't due until seven thirty and when one of the hotel staff asked me if I'd had breakfast I decided I just about had time for a couple of those small iced doughnuts, some masala porridge and a black tea without milk.

Checking out of the Park Hotel was very simple and soon I was sitting in the back of a cab (it wasn't a cab, it was a white Toyota car and I was one of three people sitting in it). I should have written 'on board' and saved myself a word.

Indira Ghandi International Airport, New Delhi, India...

We drove through the streets of the Indian capital and despite the early hour, there was still traffic on the road and an inevitable traffic jam. Once again, the sound of honking car horns, although not so much a honk, more a toot.

At the airport I checked in my bag and went straight to the rest room. The plan was to get 'nature' out of the way before embarking upon the nine-hour flight to London Heathrow's Terminal Five. And this was where disaster struck and, as always, it was all my own fault. I found a cubicle and did the necessary stuff that needed to be done, what myself and the International Man of Mystery call a 'mixed grill'. Everything was fine until I reached the wash basin. I placed my laptop case on a ledge above the sink, soaped my hands and then there was a loud, crashing bang; my case had keeled over and deposited my lap top in the sink, giving it a shower under the running tap. It all happened slowly – or so it seemed – but then it was damage limitation time. One of the attendants helped me dry the lap top while I sorted out the case. Unfortunately for me, I hadn't zipped up the case, so everything inside was falling out and into the sink where it took a soaking under the tap. This very notebook [these notes are being written in a notebook long hand] shows evidence of being exposed to water. It took a while to dab down the lap top and, as always, I was annoyed with myself for not zipping up the case. Still, what will be, will be. I gave my last 20 rupees to the attendant who helped me and then somebody else handed me a Dictaphone, which had also tumbled out of the case and into the sink. What a fucking unnecessary disaster.

Whenever the travelling resumes, the nightmares begin. Next up was queuing at passport control and then going through security. It's at this point that I wished I was home and not separated by nine hours of flying. Eventually I was through and had to run the gauntlet of commercialism that is the duty free shops. I hate them with a vengeance and ever since I gave up drinking nearly 16 months ago, I look at cans and bottles of booze in a different light; I group them in with cigarettes and when I look at them I feel a huge sense of relief that I have stopped and won't be going back. The bottles of whisky look bad for my health and I can't envisage ever buying one again. One way or another, I realise, I have been a fool and for many years, putting myself in harm's way for no reason. I must have been crazy to drink all that beer and wine. Was it ever any fun? The sore heads, the dry mouth, the humiliation the morning after, the upsets? Alcohol has never, ever done me any favours. I won't drink again and I'll never 'need a drink'.

There was a food court at the airport and I took the escalator to see what was on offer: McDonald's, a coffee shop (there's always people queuing at a coffee shop), some Indian operators, but I'd eaten enough over the past few days so I wandered for a while before resigning myself to go to Gate 1 and await boarding.

I am now on board the plane and I think we've been airborne for a good four hours, probably a little longer. I am sitting in seat 26A, an exit row on this Boeing 777, billed as a window seat, except there isn't a window right next to me, it's behind me and this I find annoying because it means that the woman sitting in seat 27A can shut down the blind whenever she wants, because it's her window and I have no say in the matter. Eventually, some time after we have taken off, she exerts her authority and I have no power to say 'leave the blind open'. There is a small window on the exit door in front of me, but I have to leave my seat if I'm to see what's going on outside, but eventually a steward comes along and closes it because the people to my right are both under blankets and asleep. How can people sleep on aeroplanes? I can't. Throughout my entire flying history I could count on one hand the number of times I have nodded off, only to be awoken by turbulence. I am not one of those people who cover themselves in blankets or make themselves at home by taking off their shoes, and you won't find me standing outside the toilet waiting for the occupant to come out. That said, I've just come back from the cramped bathroom. Sometimes I go in there just for a good quacking, other times just to stand up and stretch or undo the top button of my jeans to let things hang out for a while. Sitting down in a cramped seat for hours on end must cause all kinds of problems for one's internal organs, so it's nice to stand up straight for a few minutes. On other occasions, I go in there for no other reason than to pull faces at myself in the mirror or stick my fingers up and make 'tosser' gestures at my fellow passengers without them knowing. I find this particularly satisfying. Some times, I go in there and do everything – I multi-task – starting off with a good old quack, followed by a much-needed pee and, of course, a good old bout of silent obscenities aimed (unfairly and unnecessarily) at the other passengers. I wonder if they do the same? And don't you hate that whole 'mile-high' club thing? Surely, it's nigh on impossible to have sex in there, it's miles too cramped. A quick five-knuckle shuffle, maybe, but who would want to get their old man out on a flight, long haul or short haul – not me! And who would be that desperate? Can't they wait until they get home?

On the ground at T5, this is the plane that got me home... 

There's nothing better than being alone behind closed doors. I bet you I'm not the only one who, once alone in my hotel room, takes off all their clothes and then hops around the room naked whilst pulling funny faces at themselves when they pass the full-length mirror. I wonder how many other people hop around like a rabbit, naked, or with their pants over their heads, making noises that resemble the foreign language of the country they happen to be visiting, but are little more than unintelligible sounds laced with plain stupidity? Surely I'm not the only one. What about world leaders? Narendra Modi, Donald Trump, the Pope. Who out of that merry bunch would make a Hitler moustache out of shaving foam and goose step around their room or run through a pathetically choreographed dance routine while slapping their cocks and shouting "cashier number one, please!" I wonder how many hotel chains have video evidence, secretly filmed, of such behaviour?

I'm on a day flight (my favourite kind) but it's all pointless because the blinds are down and, as I mentioned earlier, I don't have the authority to open them. Imagine getting violent about it: "Oi! You! Yes, you! Open that fucking blind!" And then rubbing pasta salad in the face of the person occupying seat 27A. The trouble is the crew would probably gaffer tape me to my seat and the police would be waiting at the other end. I'd be an internet sensation for a day or two and then down at the Job Centre looking for a new job.

Perhaps I'll take a walk to the back of the plane, but that can be a pain in the arse too, a lot depends on the friendliness of the cabin crew. When I flew home from Tokyo in October last year, the crew was excellent, handing out chocolates, chatting and having fun. But when the crew lack that approachability, a trip to the back of the plane is mostly a waste of time if the reception is cold and frosty. Still, it's a chance to stretch my legs.

Something else I can't stand about flying is when one of my fellow passengers gets up and starts running through some kind of exercise routine as if they're just about to compete in an Olympic event. "Go back to your chuffing seat!" I feel like shouting, but of course I don't. I simply sneer to myself and check on the time. I reckon there's about two and a half hours left.

A baby is crying. It's the same baby that was crying at take-off. There's nothing worse than crying babies on planes. I guess we all feel like crying, but we can't because we're not babies and we're not insane.

I bought a Tin Tin book at Delhi Airport – or Indira Ghandi International Airport as it is known. Red Rackham's Treasure. It passed some time. When I was a kid I remember watching an animated adventure of the same story. It started with a voice exclaiming "Herge's Adventures of Tin Tin", and then the name of the story. The one that has stuck with me for years is "Herge's Adventures of Tin Tin: The Crab with the Golden Claws!" I can't remember the last time I read a comic book, although I guess it was a 'graphic novel' as it was over 50 pages in length. I've finished it and I'll take it home and place it on my book shelf.

I've just practiced what I've been preaching. I got up, went to the bathroom, quacked around, answered the call of nature, pulled a stupid face in the mirror and then waved my arms about above my head before opening the door and emerging with a completely straight face. The woman in seat 27A was looking at me suspiciously and I nearly laughed before taking my seat. I think she knows what I was doing in there, probably because she does the very same.

A very large woman dressed in black ('dressed in black, dressed in black, dressed in black, black, black') has just gone into the cramped bathroom. I remember her from the queue at passport control – or was it security? – back in Delhi. She was on her phone constantly. Whenever I saw her she had the phone to her ear. For all I know she's on the phone in the bathroom, but I doubt she'll get a signal. Actually, I'm more concerned about whether or not she'll be able to get her trousers off, there's such limited space. Worse still, what if she gets stuck in there? I reckon they would have to cut open the plane from the outside and winch her out. I pity whoever is sitting next to her. She's been in there a while and she's miles too big to do a dance routine. She might be doing 'tosser' signs at me right now or pulling a funny face in the mirror, who knows (and who wants to find out?). I wonder how much longer should we leave her in there before raising the alarm? Oh, hold on, I just heard the flush.

But hold the bus, I thought she was coming out, but perhaps she's not. Perhaps she needs the right angle of exit. The flush is pulled a second time – damn those floaters. She's a big lady but there's no sign of her. Perhaps she's in there now cursing herself. "You've practiced this many times, girl, now put your training into action, open that door and get the hell out!" But no, nothing. Should I politely tap on the door, inform the cabin crew or what? If in doubt, do nothing.

For a moment I thought I'd worked out the time incorrectly and that there was more time than I originally thought, but after making a few more calculations I realise that I was mistaken. I'd got it wrong. Fortunately, my original calculations were correct and we have under two hours to go. The cabin lights have come on; this is good news because it means that food of some description is going to be served. Judging by the time of day and depending on whether they are working on New Delhi or London time, we're either going to get something loosely based on afternoon tea or even another dinner. Lunch, rather predictably, had been roasted chicken breast. I'm sitting in cattle class, however, and that probably means I'll get a nose bag full of hay and a glass of water, unlike those posh and undeserving bastards in Premium Economy, Club and First Class.

It's hot food! Yippee! Chicken and pesto with pasta, plus a hard bread roll and a slice of cake. Just what the doctor ordered, I thought.

The people sitting next to me are still asleep. Actually, one of them stirred briefly and is now probably awake and just resting with her eyes closed. The man next to me, however, is still out for the count and covered with a blanket. He missed the meal. I considered asking Suki, for that is the name of the lady charged with the task of serving me during the flight, whether I could have his meal. I could do with another chicken with pesto and pasta, but I didn't bother asking. And besides, he'd probably opt for the vegetarian meal.

Slowly the passengers are coming round, there's more noise than previously so we're all gearing up, preparing for the moment when we disembark.

Soon we hear "cabin crew, take your seats for landing" and at this point I look out of the window and note that we're still miles away from the ground. The plane circles a bit and eventually descends. I can see the whole of Croydon at one point as we cross the Thames heading south and then bank west and run along the river, over Richmond and down on to the tarmac of T5. Once the plane comes to a standstill and the doors are opened, it's just a matter of standing there until it's my turn to leave. Soon I'm heading towards passport control, which was straightforward and hassle-free and then it's the baggage reclaim conveyor, number 8. Soon my bag arrives, I waltz through customs – there's never anybody there and I always wish I had a huge consignment of heroin and that somebody's going to pay me big for being the mule – and then I'm through to where taxi drivers hold up cards for weary travellers. I'm back home, but I'm concerned about the fat woman, although I know she did get out of the bathroom because I saw other people going in. Somehow I must have missed the moment. Then, suddenly, there she was, walking along the automated walkway – the typical behaviour of somebody with serious weight issues. Not that she bothered me. I simply headed for the exit and made my way home.

In Tokyo...

After losing an entire night's sleep, I seem to have found a new lease of life – but I know it's a false economy and a very temporary situation. My original plan was to reach the hotel, having flown from Heathrow Terminal Five with British Airways to Tokyo's Narita airport, and immediately hit the sack. But it seemed like such a waste, arriving in a city like Tokyo, for the first time, and simply going to bed. So I took a wander, as I'm prone to do, in search of somewhere to eat lunch, albeit a late lunch at around 3pm. Not that I was that hungry. I'd touched down around 11am (Tokyo time) and then had the faff of making my way to the hotel – without using a cab (which I am told is very expensive).

Ueno station on the Hibiya line heading for Roppongi station

Getting around was easier than I thought. To reach my hotel, which is in the Roppongi district of the city, I took the Skyliner train to Uedo, changed on to the Hibiya line and rode all the way to Roppongi station. In the carriage people came and went, nobody said a word, but there was a general politeness about everything and it gave me a tremendous sense of calm. There was nothing threatening about the situation and everybody was relatively well turned out, no scruff pots, not like in the UK. When the train arrived at Roppongi, I jumped out, walked about 100 yards, turned right and then right again and there it was, my hotel, my conveniently located hotel, no more than a few steps from leaving the subway; it's great when things work out so smoothly.

A train arrives at Narita Airport – not for me, mine's next...

I don't want to make too big a fuss about it, but the room is, well, let's say tiny, compact and bijou – alright, you'd be hard pushed to swing a hamster, let alone a cat. But everything works, it's clean enough and what else could I possibly wish for in a hotel?

Mint tea and a chocolate chip cookie...

I was in the room for all of 15 minutes, feeling fidgety, restless and, no doubt, in need of a long sleep, but that urge to do a little exploring, albeit miniscule, proved too much so out I went in search of a restaurant I'd both understand and enjoy. To be honest, I didn't fancy anything too 'Japanese' – not at the moment at any rate, just something straightforward and westen – so I skipped the noodle bars and a rather odd-looking pizzeria – and ended up in, of all places, a Starbucks, and only for a mint tea and a chocolate chip cookie, and then I went back to the hotel to try and get some shut-eye, but as you can tell, I'm up, out of bed and typing these very words you're reading.

One of many things I don't understand is this: why do some Japanese people walk around with surgical masks on? What do they know that the rest of us don't? It'll bug me until I ask somebody. I'm going to crawl back into bed now and see if I can get some sleep. Needless to say I'll be back soon.

I say I'll be back soon, it's now 1010hrs and I'm awake. The sound of voices outside in the corridor clearly disturbed a light sleep. My daughter has texted me a photograph of Karl Pilkington because she thinks (quite rightly) that I'm an idiot abroad. I am. This room, room 302, really is very small, although in all honesty, it's no smaller than the smallest bedroom in my house and they've managed to cram a lot in. The bathroom squeezes everything one might need: a shower, a toilet, a washbasin and outside of that there's a bed, a flatscreen television, a desk space and a small, square window of frosted glass, affording no 'view' whatsoever, it barely opens more than a couple inches. There's a mirror in front of me and I can see my naked self, illuminated by the halogen glow of the computer screen from the waist up. I don't like what I see, I never have, but does anybody really look at themselves and think 'oooh, very nice!' I don't think so. There's a full-length mirror by the door, but I'm not going to get up and stand there, although I'm sure I will as soon as I walk to the bathroom (in that sense it's unavoidable).

Dimly-lit hotel corridor...

It's ironic that such a small room has a minibar and that it's empty. There's also a coffee machine but no coffee. In essence, this hotel must be familiar with the phrase 'the bare minimum'.

I have just opened and taken a swig from a plastic bottle of still mineral water left on the desk by the hotel. There's nothing to suggest it's going to cost me any money, but I won't find out until I check out  in a week's time, as I assume there will be a fresh bottle tomorrow once the cleaner has been in. My guess is they will charge me, but I might be wrong.

Outside of the room, the corridor is dark and dimly lit and despite the voices earlier on, it's one of those places where you don't really see anybody, apart from at breakfast time. In fact, I'm really wondering about breakfast time and what it will bring. I can't imagine a full Japanese breakfast will consist of sausages, egg, bacon and tomato with a literal sprinkling of fried mushrooms and a few slices of toast. I hope it is like this, but I seriously doubt it. Not having a hearty breakfast is going to be very disheartening as it will mean I'll have to seek out some kind of restaurant outside. Earlier, I passed a Wendy's burger kiosk, but whether it was the actual American chain, I don't know and besides, I'm not a burger sort of guy and who wants to eat breakfast walking along the street.

There are more voices in the corridor, Japanese voices. At least I'm making that assumption; they might be Korean or Taiwanese or Vietnamese, who can tell the difference? Well, they can, I guess, but I'm no expert of the region.

It's quite strange being in Japan. It's a long way away and the plane travelled across the desolate Siberia and then across the ocean. I feel odd being so far away on the other side of the planet and again amazed at how it's only a 12-hour flight away. Not that a 12-hour flight is in any way a short flight. I found it fairly taxing and passed the time watching movies: Leave No Trace was good and so was a British movie, Ghost Story. As always, more for comfort than anything else, I watched Toy Story 1 and after that little lot there was about three hours to go. Two meals were served on the flight: chicken with rice and then breakfast, the full English, which was very enjoyable. During the flight I also skimmed through a copy of the Daily Telegraph that I picked up in a WH Smith at Heathrow.

From where I emerged on to Tokyo streets...

If there's one thing I can't stand it's those situations, like yesterday, when I get to the airport and find I have to go straight to the gate, no time to chill with a cup of tea and a cookie or, better still, a proper meal. I had to make do with a chicken salad sandwich, which put me in a bad mood, knowing that I had a good 12 hours on the plane. As always, the plane was packed, but I was fortunate enough to have an exit row seat, which meant I could stretch out my legs in front of me.

Long flights are bad enough, but they're even worse if there's nobody you know on the flight enduring the same ordeal. I was flying alone so I only had myself and my thoughts and they were fretful. I'm glad I had the movies to distract me and in that respect, they were all worth watching.

I should really be getting some sleep, but I feel awake. Back home it's a quarter past three in the afternoon on a Sunday and oh how I'd like to be there, probably going for a drive to Chartwell or some sleepy Kent village for a cup of tea and a piece of cake, or perhaps even further afield, like Felpham, to the Lobster Pot followed by a walk along the beach. But no, I'm here and don't get me wrong, I'm not ungrateful (not everybody gets to be in Japan on a Sunday afternoon, apart from the Japanese, of course). In many ways, the fretful, unrelaxing state of mind I found myself in on the plane continues in this tiny hotel room, which instead of flying through the air is flying through time. A long night ahead awaits me, it's an ordeal and it won't end until the morning. In a sense it's not sleep, it's another flight and I still have eight hours to go. All I can do is get through it. I might give mum a call.

There's an eight-hour time difference between Tokyo and London. In London it's now around 3.27pm on a lazy Sunday afternoon.

In Chicago...

This is the first time I've been to Chicago without being 'in transit' somewhere else. Normally I arrive here at some ungodly hour and then, after eating a meal at Romano's Macaroni Grill, I catch a connecting flight to Cleveland, Pittsburgh or Indianapolis. Today, I went no further than Chicago. In fact there was one time recently – or possibly not that recently – when my flight to London was cancelled due to a faulty aircraft, and I was forced to make an overnight stop in the Windy City. It's documented on the blog. I stayed in a Marriott close to the Cumberland CTA station, so the following morning, prior to flying home later in the day, I took a trip to Clark and Lake, wandered around for a bit, had lunch in the Corner Bakery and then took a taxi back to the hotel where I enjoyed a glass of Cabernet before taking a shuttle bus back to the airport and then onwards to London. I remember feeling that Chicago was a boring place, but this was because it was a Sunday morning, I found myself in some kind of business district where everything was closed and that was the end of it.

Soup IN a roll! I ate the lot.

On Friday I took flight BA297 out of Heathrow's Terminal Five at 1605hrs and got there with enough time to have lunch at the airport – at a place called Huxley's. I had breakfast there once and it was pretty good. I remember because I uploaded a software update to my iphone and it took ages to sort out. Anyway, Huxley's wasn't as good as I expected it to be; I ordered butternut squash soup followed by a chicken burger with chips and a couple of glasses of Merlot – much needed. The soup didn't come in a dish but in a hollowed out bread roll with a lid, like some kind of pastry pot. I wasn't sure of the protocol but I ate the pot. And then, feeling a little down (alcohol can do that, it accentuates how you're feeling and I wasn't feeling good), I wandered aimlessly for a while wondering why women like shopping so much as I passed by Louis Vuitton and saw a few of them admiring the handbags. I considered a cup of tea and a cake at EAT, but couldn't be bothered and eventually took the escalator down to where the driver-less trains take people to various gates. In my case Gate B47.

The flight was uneventful. I swapped seats with somebody's 'mom' so they could sit together. I still had an aisle seat, which was what I wanted, but I would have much preferred seat 37A, an exit seat with plenty of legroom. The annoying thing was that I could have taken it when the seats became available on line 24 hours prior to flying – but at a cost of £58! Even the woman on the BA desk at Heathrow said they should have been free. Had I been sitting in that seat I would have enjoyed the flight much more. As it was, I stood most of the way. Once I'd eaten my dinner – chicken curry with rice followed by a chocolate mousse and a small piece of cheese with two crackers – I walked to the back of the plane and basically stood around for most of the flight. I chatted to a computer consultant from Cleveland who plays the stockmarket and buys property. A nice guy, Lebanese, on his way back from a trip to Beirut via London, without his wife who, for some reason, didn't fancy the trip. Apparently there used to be a direct flight from Cleveland to London operated by Continental, but not anymore. I wish I'd known that, although, if I had I would never have known how wonderful it was to sit and enjoy Pollo Caprese and a glass of Cabernet in Romano's Macaroni Grill (opposite Gate H3).

View from the rear of the plane – an arduous, boring flight

Sometimes, to ease the boredom, I used the toilet, but only to stand there for a few seconds of solitude, not even to take a piss. Then I flushed the toilet, purely for effect, and re-emerged feeling just as weary and cheesed off as before I went in. With about one hour to go, the trolley dollies brought out a chicken sandwich and a mini Kit Kat, so I returned to my seat where I'd spent no more than two hours during the entire flight. I'd listened to Saint Caen's Symphony Number Three (fourth movement) plus Stylo by Gorillaz, Park Life by Blur, Boy in the Bubble by Paul Simon, Jive Talking by the Bee Gees (I like the bass line) and The Wizard by Black Sabbath, not forgetting Joy Division's She's Lost Control and Love Will Tear Us Apart. I couldn't be bothered to watch any movies.

The flight was smooth – no turbulence – and daylight all the way. We glided into O'Hare and even the usually arduous task of immigration was smooth and fast, thanks to machines rather than humans. My suitcase was there on the reclaim – now that's an anxious part of flying – and soon I found myself in a taxi heading downtown to my hotel on North Michigan Avenue. My cab driver was from Namibia – where he says there are lots of Germans – and used to work for the cosmetics company Avon here in the Windy City, but was made redundant and took up cabbing. He moved to Chicago because he knew people in the city and hadn't been impressed with LA or New York. He found the latter dirty and wasn't keen on LA's downtown. It wasn't a long journey and soon I found myself in my room preparing to get some sleep. I haven't slept well (who does after a transaltantic flight?) and I know that over the next day or two I'll feel tired and weary at odd hours of the day until my body clock kicks in to US time. And then, of course, it'll be time to go home.

Even the view out of the window was boring

I've slept for about four hours. It's now 0608hrs and I've been up for around an hour.

The hotel room is fine: the TV works, the room temperature is just right, there's a minibar full of 'stuff' and a 'snacks draw', not that I'll be indulging in any of it. The room is sort of L-shaped. You come through the door and turn first right for the bathroom and second right for the bed. The desk, however, is too close to the cabinet that houses the minibar and 'snacks draw' and it took me an age to get the laptop's cumbersome charger plugged in – the desk is too heavy to move and so is the cabinet. Other than that, no hassles. I've entered the breakfast time zone so I think I'll head on downstairs to check things out. I could do with a decent cup of tea and some cereal.