The flight from Auckland to Singapore was about 11 hours but the next leg to Paris is two hours longer. That has given me plenty of time with my thoughts. Through a booking mishap, Gill and I are on opposite sides of the cabin. So every now and again we visit each other and have a walk to the back of the plane for a chat. It's quite nice in some ways as it's like being on a date, albeit a short one next to the toilets. It's rather like being back at school only minus the cigarettes. If we were both a lot younger I suspect that nosey bored passengers at the back of the plane might assume we were looking for a sneaky opportunity to join the Mile High Club. Instead of that, the cabin staff are eyeing us warily, probably hoping we won't ask them for assistance using the bathroom. That's the joy of having grey hair. Nobody thinks you're going to do something inappropriate.

 

My first dates with Gill, all those years ago, were magical. The first thing you need to understand is that she was so far out of my league that the idea of her going out on a date with me was preposterous. The fact that she was in the year above me at University would normally have sealed my fate. To this day I still haven't any idea why she agreed to our first date, especially as it was one of the most gauche cringe-worthy invitations you could imagine.

 

I had often seen Gill around the University and fell hopelessly in love from afar within a very short space of time. The challenge was how a lanky, unconfident freshman could possibly offer anything to a socially adept, popular third year beauty. In case you think this is false modesty you'd only have to look at photos of me at that time to realise just how uncool I looked.

 

I optimistically àbelieved that what I lacked in street credibility was more that compensated for by a rapier wit and a searing intelligence. Gill only needed an evening in the compan

y of these wondrous attributes and she would surely fall for me. I hadn't spotted the flaw in this rather sad plan. Namely, that her view of my supposed talents might not match mine. She was, after all studying medieval English. The arrogance of the young male fortunately prevented any rational estimation of my chances.

 

I was too nervous to ask her on a casual date so I waited until shortly before my old school's formal reunion Ball. I thought the sight of me scrubbed up and in a black tie could help sway matters. I watched until she was alone in the college library and pounced. To this day, I have no idea what prompted me to tell her I'd been rejected by the first girl I'd invited and she was, thus, my second choice. Possibly I wanted her to think I had plenty of other options and that she was lucky to be number two in the list. Or perhaps I was hoping for the sympathy vote that would make her feel sorry for me that I had already been rejected once. I think I might even have told her I'd hired the formal suit and was in danger of losing my deposit if she declined.

 

The shocking uncouthness of my approach must have intrigued her. Could anybody seriously be that akward? Happily, the date went well and here we are over forty years later loitering by the toilets at the back of a plane. I must have done something right.

 

Singapore airport was not quite as wonderful as the hype had led me to believe. Terminal three is one of the older terminals and, while it may have a butterfly garden and a Koi pond, you are left slightly bemused as to why they are there in the first place. Every single shop is emblazoned with a major luxury brand name and the goods are priced accordingly. I suppose the butterflies calm the spirit after your credit card gets swiped several thousand dollars for a small trinket from Tiffany. We had fun finding the most egregiously expensive item and settled on a packet of 'special' Darjeeling tea at over $70. In view of the price, the adjective was not entirely necessary. 

 

Gill did saunter casually into Gucci but an assistant deftly circled her like a lioness protecting her cubs, preventing her from pawing the bags. Gill, who is quite the expert in these matters, ascertained in seconds that there was nothing so vulgar as a price tag, thus spoiling the whole point of the exercise.

 

What perplexed me was the fact that these temples to obscene conspicuous consumption were there in the first place. If you're the sort of person who can drop thousands of dollars on a Louis Vuitton hand bag, is a crowded airport, full of worn down transit passengers, really the experience you are looking for? I suspect I've got the whole thing wrong and the shops are there to service the wealthy who pick up a $5000 Mont Blanc pen the same way the rest of us pick up a giant Toblerone chocolate bar as a desperate, last-minute present for Aunt Doris. The shops were devoid of customers and the expensively dressed assistants were standing, rather unbecomingly, at the entrances rather like waiters in Venice trying to entrap unsuspecting tourists.

 

 

 

My earlier journal entry has come back to haunt me. When I arrived at my seat for this long journey across the night, I find a Japanese couple settled into the other two seats in the row. I noticed immediately that the female Japanese person is wearing a surgical mask. It's hard to miss as she is quite petite and the mask is disproportionately large giving her unsettling echoes of Hannibal Lecter. Her large eyes look at me as I try to work out how serious her condition might be. She doesn't look too haunted so I'll have to assume minor microbes rather than rare virus. Anyway, if it was that serious she'd have a plastic bag over her head and breathing apparatus. Leaving nothing to chance I take out my little bag of antiseptic wipes and make a point of cleansing my food tray. I wouldn't want her to think I hadn't taken note of her condition. For good measure, I give my face a hydrating wipe. I should be OK.

 

I think.