Finally. I am home. Got woke at 8am yesterday by some Qantas girl telling me my flight would be delayed by 5 hours. Happy happy joy joy. I didn’t even know what was goin’ on at the time, just dazed. So I get to the airport, wait like I was a Hello Kitty freak and get on the plane. There’s 3 million schoolgirls travelling with us tonight. I get this okayly polite one seated next to me that only makes me get up and out twice so she can roam round the cabin with her mates. However, she has this burning need to chat away about how miserable she feels because she’s sleep deprived and how she missed Sherlock Holmes with her friend just in front of her.

A third of the way through the flight, this lady somewhere behind me screams for help. A bunch of cabin crew scramble over and everyone wakes up. Apparently, her husband wasn’t breathing despite her slapping his face. When the steward pops over, the man regains consciousness though. The commotion was to last another 15 minutes. I’d just fallen asleep after suffering one of Qantas’ Neil Perry guided meals. The man got an oxygen mask on him and was checked on every once in a while and yea like pretty much everyone felt bad for him but boy was I bushed.

I get off the plane. It’s sometime past 4 in the morning. I’d just missed my uni reunion because of the flight delay. The inflight entertainment was pretty mediocre. I watched The French Connection, a show about the UK’s celeb chefs and Jamie Oliver romping round NYC playing up the down home charitable save society jawn.

Yea. I am so out of whack right now.

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