Back in Sydney

The flights back to Sydney were a whole lot better - half empty planes meant that a few times I had a whole centre row where I could stretch out and also, thanks to some pills, catch a little shut eye. Initially leaving London though, with the Air France crash in the back of my mind, I was really unnerved to see a few passengers running down the aisle before we departed, and the pilot subsequently announcing that a few passengers had changed their mind about the flight and that there would be a delay while their baggage was unloaded and a security check was done. I tried to push thoughts of Final Destination from my mind. I would have had the long flight from Dubai back to Sydney with a row all to myself were it not for some interruptions. Not long after taking off a posh, middle aged British lady stopped a flight attendant near my row to say "I'm seated beside an EXTREMELY large man, may I sit somewhere else?". That somewhere else was in my row. I still managed to nap a little bit, scrunched up in some sort of fetal position while still managing to keep my belt fastened. When I woke up though, another passenger tried to grab my attention. This guy turned out to be a 56 year old ganja smoking, professional niteclub dancer in Ibiza, living in Holland but originally Indonesian, with muscles that could only be achieved by a hell of a lot more time in the gym than I devote - who proceeded to give me his life story, including lots of photos of him with his arms around girls young enough to be his daughters. He got off in Bangkok though, on his way to a tour of SE Asia. The rest of us flew on, thankfully uneventfully, to Sydney 10 hours later.