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This is not about me getting lost again. That only happens on trains. Mostly. I’m now on Virgin Australia Flight 24, being squirted through the sky like a watermelon seed. (I presume you get the reference–you had watermelon seed spitting contests as a kid–right?). Anyway, I’m flying home.

I have no idea what “home” means at the moment. I’ve had no updates on the renovation progress since I got photos of many studs, (the wood kind) arranged in the shape of a house. I’m not expecting to be living in it any time soon. But that’s okay–I have places to stay.

Because I chose to take the train to Seattle, and fly out from there, I wound up having a five hour layover in LAX. Not the best planning, but at least I got an extra seven hours on the train! (We were delayed…  Now that’s a story for another post!). Anyway, while sitting in the lounge at LAX, whiling away the five hours, I got to listen to a man having a blazing row with his wife on his smart phone. It was nasty, and long. There appeared to be another woman, whom the wife had contacted, much to the annoyance of the husband… Who needs TV?

Then I got to listen to another fellow Skype his wife and children. All very warm and fuzzy domestic chitchat as the kids banged and screeched in the background. It, too, was a very long call, shared with all us grateful people relaxing in the lounge. We were enthralled.

Is this a feature of technology? This utter lack of awareness of place — the apparent sense that just because you seem to be in the same room with someone you think you are… Or is it simply a further evolution of bad manners?

I’ve already blotted my copybook BIGTIME on the plane. I managed to spill a glass of water on the gentleman seated next to me. It was the middle of the night and he, like everyone else, was sleeping peacefully, until I doused him with a glass of water. He had to get up and change into one of the “sleep suits” Virgin provides, and the not-so-happy cabin attendant had to re-make his bed. Not one of my finer moments. Now I’m afraid to ask for coffee…

You know how the cabin crew always reminds us to “be careful when opening the overhead lockers…”? Well, I managed to add another blot to my list when I went to get my passport from my bag in said overhead locker. You guessed it. The bag suddenly exploded out of the locker when I gave it a wee tug — straight into the lap of the fellow across the aisle. At least it didn’t land on his head…


Well, I’m back home in Wilmot. Sort of. Nearby, in Erriba. And I arrived in one piece. Nevermind about the black eye (I bumped my head on the floor just 30 feet from Customs in Melbourne Airport.), I’m okay. Damn! I nearly made it home without a fall.    But the good news is I didn’t break a nail.           MM