En route to Pittsburgh...

I've managed to get a direct flight to Pittsburgh from Heathrow T5, but that doesn't make things any better; it's still a fucking hassle from the word go. I ordered a cab to pick me up at 1230pm, allowing a bit of extra time just in case. Sure enough there were problems. First, the cab driver had to fill up with gas, which took a long time, then there were traffic jams on the motorway and then I had to queue for the bag drop-off, moving from one machine to another because my one piece of out-sized luggage couldn't use the conveyors. I can't understand why I was moved from one line to another as the bag in question had to be placed with the out-sized luggage guys across from where I was standing. I think the woman took a dislike to me for some reason and I hate that as whoever it was, she works for British Airways, my airline of choice. Or I'm paranoid, perhaps that's it.

Close to Gate B38, Terminal Five, London

There was some good news: I managed to get an exit row seat AND a window seat, so in a sense I was upgraded from my original aisle seat. Or was I upgraded? Thinking back, the seats directly in front of me, where my seat, 24c was located, looked suspiciously like premium economy seating, now I come to think of it, so I might have downgraded myself simply by asking for a seat with more leg room. Who knows? And who cares? I've got an exit row seat on the return flight.

But then there was 'security'. I hate 'security'. The lap top comes out, everything goes in the plastic tray and then I have to pass through the scanner and wait on the other side for stuff. Then things calmed down a bit, although my experience of the gaudily coloured Giraffe, an air-side restaurant, left a lot to be desired. Oddly, it bore no resemblance whatsoever to the graceful animal we see on nature programmes. A pretty awful chicken burger with chips and a peppermint tea accompanied by terrible music guaranteed to annoy the Dalai Lama. Inwardly, I was scowling, as I wolfed down the food and got the hell out of there after paying the bill (it was £15 and I think I tipped £2, I'll have to check my credit card statement).

Thankfully, we were through the clouds...

My flight leaves from the B gates so I mosey on over to them, past the duty free shops, the society of the spectacle, which makes me angry again, but eventually I find myself at gate B38 and I take a seat, away from the madding crowd, open up my lap top and start writing. I must remember to go straight to the B gates next time as there are foodservice outlets close to the gate, a Starbucks that I've used before, but now that I've already eaten and need to consider boarding very shortly, I'll pass on a Danish and a mint tea and wait for the in-flight hospitality.

I can't say I'm overly keen on flying. There are so many things about it that I simply don't like, such as turbulence and flying in bad weather. And I'm firmly of the opinion that the weather deteriorates deliberately as soon as it knows I'm flying somewhere. I wake up and there's bright sunshine and clear skies, but as the day presses on, the weather sets in, clouds form, rain falls and, well, there you have it.

It was daylight all the way over...

Right now it's 1532hrs and the skies are brightening up a bit, following rain, but there's still a lot of cloud out there. I've got to go to the gate so I'd better say bye for now. The tarmac is shiny and reflective like a mirror.

The frozen wastelands of Newfoundland...

Pittsburgh, 2100hrs, local time: Getting on board the plane was easy. I stood in front of my seat for a while getting myself sorted out when along came a morbidly obese woman and her husband. Yes, morbidly obese, and I hoped she wasn't planning on taking the middle seat otherwise I'd have been squashed into the wall. Fortunately, she took the aisle and her other half sat next to me with his hairy forearms and bright orange laces on this trainers. He had a very annoying, make that interesting, Kermit the Frog nasal voice, which I'm planning on practising in the hotel bathroom tomorrow, but in all truthfulness, he didn't bother me and nor did she. In fact, they were nice people, at least I think they were, and I felt a little sorry for the woman. She was massive! Alright, I'm exaggerating a bit, but not by much. She managed to squeeze into the seat and sat quietly for the duration of the flight, which was roughly seven and a half hours.

When we broke through the cloud I checked my watch, it was 1710hrs and from then on, when the clock hit 10 past the hour I knocked an hour off the flight time, so a countdown of sorts had begun and I figured that when the clock read 0010hrs (although my watch is analogue, not the 24-hour clock) I'd be virtually there. I tried to imagine myself being at home, so at 1810hrs I would have been boarding a train to Purley, at 1910 I would have been home watching mundane television, probably the One Show or Channel Four News, by 2010, God knows what and so on; and slowly the time passed.

I won't stick my neck out for Giraffe again..

I spent most of my time reading Will Self's Psychogeography, which is a brilliant book, in between trying to read a copy of the New Statesman, which, it has to be said, I found extremely boring, a waste of £4.50 as there was nothing in there by the great man, Will Self. I should have bought the Economist. There was, of course, High Life and John Simpson's column, this month about the Commodore Hotel in Beirut, but that was it. Food punctuated the journey and I took a couple of strolls to the back of the aircraft to stretch my legs. It was a good flight, even if there was thick cloud as we approached Pittsburgh and I hate cloud. I'm talking white-out conditions and then being sandwiched between white-out conditions. While the scenery from the plane's window was never more than cloud below and blue sky above, there was a great moment when I looked out and saw, some distance below, a kind of bank of cloud that resembled a huge wave, a tsunami even, roaring and rolling towards an imaginary shoreline.

People do weird things on planes, like they turn up and start doing stretches in the aisle. Fine, people do that sort of thing on planes, but I can't abide exhibitionists.  On this occasion it was a woman - of a certain age - and it's moments like these that put me off women, I don't know why. I find myself looking at them doing their stretches and thinking 'what is it we men get so excited about?' Perhaps it was just this particular woman, I found her annoying for some reason, but sometimes I get these moments of clarity when I see through the fog and the smoke and mirrors of 'being a bloke' and view women as they're supposed to be viewed, as the human beings they are, and it is both liberating and a little depressing. This woman, in the act of doing her stretches, took away a little of the magic and there's nothing worse, although I think as you get older (and in my case grow up) the magic dissipates and you begin to see the world for what it is rather than what you think it is. At least she wasn't morbidly obese, I thought, as I watched her twist and turn in her white trousers that stopped a few inches short of her ankles.

And once the woman had moved on I started imagining a random scenario, completely out of the blue, involving a gunman who was loose in a restaurant, not in Pittsburgh, but somewhere in Europe, my favourite restaurant, Da Bruno, in Dusseldorf. I escaped through a back door, hid behind it and then slammed it into the gunman as he ran through it in pursuit of yours truly, dropping the gun and enabling me to pick it up and return fire, disabling the terrorist and thwarting whatever evil he was planning, although I guess he'd already committed his evil act, that of shooting innocent people. None of this was true, of course, it was all in my mind.

There was heavy cloud as we started our descent into Pittsburgh and I hate it. I find it disorienting gliding through white-out conditions and not seeing the ground until just before we hit the tarmac. It wasn't as bad as New Delhi when we never saw land until the very last minute before hitting the tarmac with a thud, an instruments-only landing, the pilot said. In New Delhi it wasn't fog or cloud, it was smog.

After we had landed, everything was easy from thereon: immigration was fine (albeit a fairly long wait in the queue); my bags were on the conveyor when I got there, I drew some money from the ATM ($100) jumped into a taxi and here I am. I had cumbersome luggage otherwise I'd have found a train into town.

The hotel's fine and I need to get some sleep, although it's only just gone 2200hrs here in Pittsburgh. That said, for me it's almost 0305hrs so I'm going to say goodnight.

In Warsaw... and David Cameron's on the plane!

The first thing worth pointing out is that I never, repeat, NEVER, take an early flight unless it's absolutely necessary; but if I allow somebody else to book my plane ticket... well, what can I say? This morning I had to get up at the crack of dawn (0400hrs) in order to catch the 0725hrs BA flight to Warsaw.

I showered and shaved late last night and then jumped into bed, but was rudely awakened by my iphone alarm at 0400hrs and had 20 minutes to make the final preparations for my trip, namely sort my lap top out, eat a banana and zip up my suitcase. The taxi driver was already waiting outside, but after my trip to Nashville, when the bastard took me to Gatwick instead of Heathrow, I wasn't holding out much hope. In fact, I got a bit worried when he said he was going via Fulham rather than round the M25, but being as it was only 0430hrs I figured there would be no traffic and it was fine.

Once at Terminal Three of Heathrow airport I enjoyed a breakfast of omelette, toast and tea – top marks to the waiter for offering me a free top-up of tea – and then, after a minor wander about I headed for Gate 11 and the flight to Warsaw.

Omelette for breakfast at Oriel, T3.

What amazed me about Terminal Three – although perhaps it's the same for all airport terminals, I don't know, is that very early in the morning it was empty, hardly anybody there. I strolled nonchalantly into the duty free section, sprayed myself with some expensive after shave and then found Oriel and, of course, breakfast. The restaurant was empty but slowly it filled up and before long it was a bustling place along with the rest of the terminal, a bit like watching one of those speeded-up time movies.

Former Prime Minister David Cameron was on the same flight, but I never saw him, although it explains why there was a uniformed copper in the jetty joining the plane to the terminal building. I wonder where he was going? I considered 'having a word' about the in-out referendum he'd been responsible for, but figured it wasn't worth it. "Leave it! He's not worth it!"

The flight was fine, as smooth as you like, until it hit some cloud on the descent into Warsaw, then it got a little bumpy, but nothing to write home about, he said, mildly shitting himself. I know, ultimately, I'm a wimp, but I don't care; and besides, it doesn't really bother me. I'm so used to it these days I just go with the flow.

I'm glad I had breakfast at Oriel because I resent paying BA for an M&S sandwich and a cup of Rosie. No, they should be giving away their food and drink as part of the fare, and, hey, I bet you any money you like that the fare has gone up rather than gone down.

I had some writing to do while in the air and it worked out well, although thanks also (once again) to John Simpson's column in High Life, which is always my saviour on flights long and short. I like Simpson's writing style and I love the stories he tells, this month about a brick he found (and was allowed to keep) in Iraq back in the 1990s. All good stuff in my opinion.

View from room 201, Sheraton, Warsaw...

Having written what I needed to write and not having a book to read – I couldn't fit Steinbeck's East of Eden into my case – I spent the remainder of the flight circling all the destinations I had visited on the High Life route maps and then realised that there were many places around the world that hadn't been graced by my presence. One day, I thought, one day.

Once through passport control and baggage reclaim, it was a short cab ride to the Sheraton Hotel from where I write this. From what I've seen of the hotel so far, it's very good; the room is excellent, not dissimilar to the Hyatt Regency in Irvine, California, except that the weather's not as good.

A curry for lunch – you can't beat a curry for lunch or dinner – and now it's down to work, but I might take a shower and freshen up a little bit first.

Earlier, when I first reached the room after a fairly straightforward check-in process, I did my usual foraging around to check things out: First, the hotel DEFINITELY trusts its guests. Second, the coat hangers are just that, proper coat hangers with hooks; and third, there's a fully-stocked minibar. There's a large double bed, a huge flatscreen television, a decent-looking bathroom, a desk, free WiFi, tea and coffee making facilities, an iron plus an ironing board, a safe and ample wardrobe space. In other words, it's all good – so far – and everything looks neat and tidy as it's all packed away and out of sight.

Room 201, Sheraton, Warsaw, Poland – nice room!

Ramblings from Dusseldorf airport...

Thursday 12 November: As I write this I am sitting in a cafeteria – there's a counter and trays so it's definitely not a café – enjoying a cup of black tea (as they say in Germany). I can't ask for a cup of 'builder's tea' as they wouldn't understand  me. There's no milk either, just creamer, which always reminds me of the days of my childhood when, for some reason, we sometimes had to endure our tea with Carnation evaporated milk. I can only assume that mum simply ran out of milk on some occasions. In Europe, largely, when you order a cup of tea you'll get a cup of warm water, a sachet containing a teabag and no milk. Awful.

It's around 1650hrs and it's getting dark outside. I'm through passport control and I'm killing time writing as I left Mark Beaumont's The Man Who Cycled the World (which I've almost finished) in my suitcase, when I checked in.

The Rhine from the Schellenberg's breakfast room

As always when I stay in a hotel, I didn't get much in the way of sleep. I'd hit the sack around midnight last night and I woke up at 0700hrs so I reset the alarm for 0730hrs and tried to chill a little before getting up, taking a shower and heading down for breakfast. Although it wasn't 'down' it was up and over and, of course, it involved going outside into the fresh air (see previous posts for details). Not a big issue because the weather was mild, but it could have been much worse. Imagine getting drenched by heavy rain before reaching the breakfast room!

When I reached the breakfast room (the restaurant from last night) I was able to take full advantage of the Schellenberg's riverside location. It was, as I mentioned in the previous post, right on the banks of the Rhine. I sat there, having collected everything I thought I'd need – cereal, fresh fruit, a pastry, some scrambled egg and a pot of tea – and watched as huge barges passed by; they were passenger barges, designed for river cruises, and they were very long. Some had rooms with patio doors so I'm guessing there are overnight river cruises along the Rhine too; now that's something I'd like to do.

Viking River Cruises was one of the operators and there was another barge moored up on the bank below the hotel. At first I thought it was part of the hotel: extra rooms, perhaps; but soon the engines started the churn up the water and the barge disappeared up river.

Room 27, Schellenberg Hotel, Dusseldorf

On the opposite side of the river there were what looked like gently sloping 'sandy' banks that were almost beaches. It was probably mud, not sand, but it didn't look very muddy and I'm guessing that in the summer people might enjoy lying there, taking in some rays, but it was mid-November and the 'beaches' were deserted, despite the mild weather.

Breakfast was pleasant enough and so was dinner last night (I had cod with polenta followed by raspberry mousse, a glass of wine and a bottle of still mineral water). The entire bill was just 189 Euros.

I checked out and left my suitcase with the concierge while I nipped over the road to the convention centre until around 2pm when I met a colleague and his client for lunch at the hotel (potato and leek soup followed by salmon and a couple of glasses of Malbec). We talked shop and then I was driven to the airport (an incredibly short drive). Now I am sitting here having drank my tea. It's 1703hrs and soon I'll have to make my way to the gate for the return flight home. I've been reliably informed that the plane is another turbo prop, but unfortunately I've got an aisle seat. Not that it matters as it'll be dark when we take off and besides, it's only 55 minutes so I'll have to amuse myself in some other way. I have a notepad and a pen so perhaps I'll be inspired to write something, who knows?

Once again I forgot to buy myself some Ronnefeldt tea.  I know they've got some decent flavours because I've tried them and it's available throughout this fine land. It's always a shame to leave Dusseldorf, but I'm sure I'll be back. I seem to visit this great German city three or four times during the year.

View from room 27, Schellenberg Hotel...

I wandered to the gate (Gate 91) and then, as I waited to board, I added up the numbers of the flight, hoping that the total wouldn't be 13. It wasn't and I was relieved as I hate it when the numbers stack up against me, although they rarely do.

Next to the free bottles of Chilean Cabernet Sauvignon that I always enjoy on any British Airways flight I take, the next best thing is John Simpson's regular column in High Life magazine. This month it was about the cities of Brazzaville in the Republic of Congo and Kinshasa in the Democratic Republic of Congo (previously Zaire). They're chalk and cheese according to Mr Simpson and his preferred capital is Brazzaville, although it never used to be. "I remember landing at the airport here in the 1990s with mortars and artillery fire thumping down...", he wrote in his column. I've said it before, but High Life should devote more space to Simpson's writing.

Annoying passengers
What never fails to annoy me on planes is when instructions from the cabin crew are ignored, especially when those instructions are designed to make things safer. We were told to switch off all electrical devices during take-off and landing and, of course, I did as I was told. But there were others close to me who simply ignored the request and continued texting and watching fucking Cumberbatch on their tablet. I felt like intervening, but decided to keep my powder dry for fear of starting some kind of international incident.

The flight was good and, being a turbo prop, a little more exciting than a jet. Turbo props, a bit like helicopters, 'chug' through the air and while the flight is a little rockier than that experienced in a jet, I think I prefer it.

We landed at London City Airport and after retrieving my suitcase from the reclaim I headed for the Docklands Light Railway to catch a train to Bank and then onwards to London Bridge where I picked up an overground train to East Croydon and then to Sanderstead.