Thursday 19th May 2016

There is very little room for romance in modern travel, everything is so efficient now, that most of the time, things happen just as they should, with little fuss and few frills.12 hours on a plane heading home wasn't something I was looking forward to, but an age ago it was a trip that would have taken maybe a week by flying boat, or a month by ship. While we flew over China, Russia and eastern Europe, we would have a range of films and music on tap with which to fill those recumbent hours. I would read, I decided.

I was awake at dawn for the second morning in a row, watching as the sun's pre-rising light illuminated the ultra-modern city, and all played out from our 31st story vantage point. It was mindblowing, but also the signal that the sands of time had run out, and it was time to fly back home and to reality.

We had already 90% packed, and as Jools had bought another small case yesterday, we had space in which to put our clothes and purchases. We showered, got dressed and waited for seven when we could go down for breakfast. We also checked that Jen was up to and ready to go. She was.

We went down at ten to, and were let in and so got a headstart. Just give me coffee. Lots of coffee. That was the plan.

At eight, with one final sweep of the room, we left it for the last time and handed in our swipe key, waited for Jen to join us, then go down to the entrance to wait for the diver to appear at twenty past. Waiting with us were a group of new-arrivals, waiting for a shuttle bus to take them to meet their guide for the day. We had seen many such tours during our stay, being lead from sight to sight, and I think being able to lead ourselves was a more satisfying experience, but we could be wrong. Their bus arrived and they clambered on.

Dead on twenty past our driver walks through the door with our name on a sign, we expected nothing less. He helped loading our bags, then took us into the crazy traffic, dwarfed by the blocks and blocks of skyscrapers all around us. Onto the motorway, racing with a monorail to the station, we zip through the city, past some docks to the airport, dropping us off at the correct gate for the JAL check in desks. They have a dedicated desk for the Economy Plus class, so we are checked in within 5 minutes, through security and immigration, with an exit stamp too, and into the departure hall.

Jools and Jen do some last minute shopping, whilst I wait. I also buy something, a bottle of Japanese whisky. Once all together, we go up to the lounge as we have been given passes, to find that it is a restaurant where we can have a second breakfast. I have a plate of hash browns and yet more coffee, all is good. Even better is the fact the gate is two minutes from here.

We get to board, and have better seats on this that the BA flight, extra reading lights and more legroom I think. I have my book, jools has her tablet so she can play Angry Birds. We are set.

Once in the air, I get lost in the music of 1971, thanks to David Hepworth's new book. And the hours fly by. I find time to watch Lincoln, with Daniel Day Lewis eating the screen out. It is a thing of beauty to watch, with the set design and photography wonderful. It is also a story of hope with the passage of the 13th amendment being told.

The film finishes, and we are over Minsk in western Russia, or is it Ukraine? I should know.

Nearly home.

I begin to watch Ironman, but it is too bombastic for me, and once I see how the story is being set up for the final reel, I stop it, sure that Iron man would win out. He must do as there were two sequels.

We were over Holland and descending.

Nearer home.

We circle over London, and I get to see the sights over the edge of the wing, but now just want to get onto the ground.

We land, taxi to terminal 3. And once off have the long trek to immigration. Jen says this is to get our legs working again, that they have our welfare at heart, I doubt that. There are no automatic passport gates, so we have to queue for half an hour to be seen and let through.

Our bags are waiting for us, we grab them and call the taxi driver, agreeing on a meeting point outside the terminal.

He arrives, we load up, and he drives off, into the rush hour traffic which is 5 in the afternoon on the M25. He knows some tricks, and gets us through the queues, into Kent and down to Dover in a couple of hours. We are beyond tired. Jools does nod, but I am awake, not wanting to miss anything as we return to Kent, which is in the middle of Spring blooming.

We drop Jen off, then he takes us to St Maggies, where there are no cats waiting, just the empty house, and our now overgrown garden. We let ourselves in.

We did it, and are home.