I guess I formed the advance party of the Brit invasion. My daughter had already arrived at LAX following a gruelling flight from Cairns via Auckland and took in excess of two hours to clear immigration. The very patient CK was on chauffeur from the outset and she was soon safely ensconced at Fort Jumkie. So leaving work I drove directly to my Heathrow hotel for my flight departing the next morning. Well not exactly directly - The Holiday Inn Heathrow is off Junction 4 of the M4 which is a strange intersection. You can see it, you come off and drive towards it but you hurtle past like a slingshot reminiscent of the Voyager probe - so tantalisingly close - but flung out into the outer reaches of the London Orbital. I knew this because it has happened before, and cursing my deficient memory corrected my course and prepared to try again. What you have to do is head in the opposite direction to the hotel upon exiting the motorway, the road then veers around underneath it and deposits you on a trajectory straight towards the hotel entrance. Checking in and satisfied by what passed for a thinly veiled but convivial atmosphere, I decided to reserve my flight seat online, but the internet was about as efficient as a late nineties dial up connection in downtown Khartoum. I asked for my credit back and instead they sat me behind the concierge desk to use the staff computer, which was great. For some reason - in spite of my attire, no one actually realised that I didn't work there, so in addition to giving newly arrived Japanese tourists directions to Madam Tussauds, erstwhile American Royal aficionados information on how best to reach Buckingham Palace by tube, and referring a complaint about the lack of towels in someones room I did manage to book my seat on the plane. Elementary error number one! I elected to, after years of David Blaine like endurance during a multitude of long haul flights, reserve at the rear of the aircraft in a spot I have previously reconnoitered whilst stretching my legs the last time I flew on a Jumbo. Although I greatly reduced the risk of DVT this nonetheless was to prove a pain in the arse upon arrival - I will shortly divulge as to why. Anyway spoke to Wills by phone who confirmed he was following me four days later.
Last year I waxed lyrical about the flight over, and the landscapes unfolding below; this year a photo of Iceland will suffice.
Look Pov....no ice: -
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Very straightforward flight - into LAX right on schedule, but this is LAX and it's a ....... to get through - particularly when you've been sat at the rear of a Boeing 747 and find yourself absolute dead last in the vast resultant queue to clear immigration. Coupled with the other passengers that had disgorged from my aircraft, there was also the entire human cargo of an Air New Zealand 777 which had simultaneously been herded sheep like into the same pen. We progressed about as convincingly as Toni Elias's 2011 season, and having watched the customs and immigration information video for the hundreth time it was only then I spotted in the section about Global clearance/entry much to my amusement an American girl who I'd dated in Oxford the previous month and I recalled was actually in Santa Monica at that very moment. She had been through a very harrowing divorce and took all manner of bizarre modelling jobs to make ends meet. I previously spotted her in one of the Sunday Supplements and I .... you not on a cereal packet! I also amused myself during this time watching my bag repeatedly come around the carousel until that too ground to a resounding halt! As usual I digress....after what seemed like a period of geological time I had advanced with glacial like slowness to the forefront of the queue and I was summoned to the booth and handed over my passport. Elementary error number 2, no matter how disgruntled you are - never cheek a US Immigration official. Firstly they are unlikely to understand English sarcasm, and secondly they have very pertinent powers which can prove to be quite a significant obstacle when you are attempting to enter their country should they take umbrage to your misplaced attempts at irreverent humour. "Can you get your hair out of yer eyes sir" he barked. "Well I had a military crew cut by the time I joined the queue - besides I think you'll find that passport's probably out of date by now" I mischievously quipped. "It doesn't say comedian on here sir...You can turn around and we'll send you straight home if you want.....any other material you wanna try out on me?" "Errrrrm...no sir, thank you sir" Exit Arrabb struggling to digest the sizeable slice of humble pie he'd just been served.