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Coming
Home
After a little bit
of organising, BA managed to sort a flight home. Everything was booked
up because of the rugby so it was a bit of a ball ache, no pun intended.
I began my four legged journey home on Friday morning nearly a week
after my first hospital visit, Coolengata-Sydney-Singapore-Heathrow-Manchester,
a grand total of 38 hours all by myself in airplanes and lounges. Oh
joy. You do get to meet some characters though. On the
Sydney-Singapore-Heathrow bit I was sat next to a lady who had a son my
age and didn’t stop asking me questions and generally being really
supportive (Good practice for when I met my mum). I was a wanker to one
of the trolley dollies. He said in a camp sarcastic voice “Aren’t you
flying home a bit early, England are still in the competition” to which
I responded “I’ve been diagnosed with cancer”. Bit of a conversation
stopper but he kept making sure that I had everything I wanted. He could
have got me a 1st class upgrade, which would have been nice,
but unfortunately I had to settle with peanuts.
Meeting the parents:
okay so there I am completely knackered after a day and a half in the
air and I thought the worst was over. How little did I know! I found out
my mother hadn’t slept since I phoned her about a week ago. Dad was
putting on a brave face trying to deal with it by taking over and
organising, un-organising and re-organising everything. The only person
who was actually any help for the first couple of days was my brother.
After his motorbike crash (long story) I guess he realised I didn’t need
sympathy and a simple chin-up was the best course of action.
NEXT
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