Thursday, 20 December 2012

UK: Going home for Christmas

After several attempts to check-in online last night, a chap on the Singapore Airlines help desk with an indiscernible name determined that there was a problem with the website. The conversation later revealed that we had been assigned different seats on the main deck on the Airbus 380 to those on our original booking (our preferred two-seat location on the upper deck).

While checking-in this morning, the supervisor stated that the travel agent had not confirmed the seats on the outward journey. Doubt was cast upon this statement.  It probably didn’t help when in a moment of uncharacteristic political incorrectness, Mrs M stated that she didn’t want to sit next to an oversized person again, however a few phone calls later we were offered two seats with an empty seat in between. Mrs M was content.

On board the aircraft, the space between our seats meant I could pretend that I was not with Mrs M as she changed into her compression socks and travel pyjamas, arranged her pills and hung up her bowel movement chart. I should be used to it by now.

I’m not sure what happened with breakfast but they ran out of scrambled eggs and the alternative, cornflakes, coagulated noodles with fish, over-chilled bread roll, cake and tasteless pieces of fruit brought back memories of hideous food served by a large British airline. Lunch, which was served over Turkmenistan, had to be better. It was….but only just.

Despite the vast quantities of food and drink served throughout the flight, Mrs M was complaining that she was hungry, a result of her low-to-no carbohydrate regime. With less than an hour to arrival, she was begging ‘proper’ food from the galley and was rewarded with lumps of meat with dipping sauce, roast vegetables and a stewed apple with walnuts. Not leftovers from economy class I’m guessing.

A few hours later, the plane circled around for a while as if trying to find Heathrow and then plopped onto the runway before taxiing around the airport in search of a place to park. We whizzed through the automatic passport scanning system and collected our bags, walked past an unnecessarily jolly Father Christmas in duty free and stepped into the mayhem of Terminal 3.

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