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Coming Home

After a little bit of organising, BA managed to sort a flight home. Everything was booked up because of the rugby so it was a bit of a ball ache, no pun intended. I began my four legged journey home on Friday morning nearly a week after my first hospital visit, Coolengata-Sydney-Singapore-Heathrow-Manchester, a grand total of 38 hours all by myself in airplanes and lounges. Oh joy. You do get to meet some characters though. On the Sydney-Singapore-Heathrow bit I was sat next to a lady who had a son my age and didnít stop asking me questions and generally being really supportive (Good practice for when I met my mum).  I was a wanker to one of the trolley dollies. He said in a camp sarcastic voice ďArenít you flying home a bit early, England are still in the competitionĒ to which I responded ďIíve been diagnosed with cancerĒ. Bit of a conversation stopper but he kept making sure that I had everything I wanted. He could have got me a 1st class upgrade, which would have been nice, but unfortunately I had to settle with peanuts.

Meeting the parents: okay so there I am completely knackered after a day and a half in the air and I thought the worst was over. How little did I know! I found out my mother hadnít slept since I phoned her about a week ago. Dad was putting on a brave face trying to deal with it by taking over and organising, un-organising and re-organising everything. The only person who was actually any help for the first couple of days was my brother. After his motorbike crash (long story) I guess he realised I didnít need sympathy and a simple chin-up was the best course of action.  NEXT

 

 

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