In which Jane and David contemplate how they survived the Long Haul

Eleven points out of ten to Qantas for an exemplary flight. Not only did they organise fabulous weather and very little turbulence, they looked after us fabulously well. The food was actually edible, even enjoyable, and plentiful, and while the seats were uncomfortable, the inflight entertainment was comprehensive enough to help me forget about it. That and the temazepam, and I was quite human by the time we disbarked.

Hong Kong was odd. We were in transit but nevertheless had to go out and come in again – via the intense scrutiny of no fewer than three passport checks and an additional x-ray check, during which people were forced to dump the water they’d been given on the airplane.

The escalators back up to the transit lounge after all this anti terrorist zeal were plastered, literally, at the bottom, on the handrail, and the entire length of the handrail, with signs warning of the dangers of not hanging with a white knuckled grip onto the handrail, and the social value of caring for the children and elderly, who if they unwisely flout the loudspeaker admonition repeated constantly, “Please hold on to the handrail” are apparently in instant and mortal peril.

We drove from Heathrow to Kent. I saw a Yoof with the trainers and basketball shirt. I saw a lady in a tweed skirt riding a bike. I knew I was in England. Greenery was growing on every surface where so much as a speck of dust had settled. Trees seemed to grow on every bit of surface that wasn’t full of building or a motorway. There were wild flowers bursting out of hedgerows and lining the roads. It is so beautiful.

Now, Sproggies: It is summer here! It is steamy and warm and delightful. It is nearly 9pm and the sun is still up – it’s broad daylight! Your darling mama is marvelling that there are no flies, and no mosquitoes. Daddy says there are insects in England but I say “pshaw” to that. Our room is at the top floor of a darling old B&B and our open windows with their gauzy curtains show us the deep green of an immense oak through which the golden sunlight is streaming. It’s heaven, sproggies!

But you’ll laugh when I tell you that we got hopelessly, hopelessly lost on the way here, driving up one way streets the wrong way and blocked streets and streets where cars are simply not supposed to go at all! We finally got here to find a note on the door saying, “Sorry, I’m out!” We rang her up and she said she was coming home from church, that the key was under the doormat and our room was 16 – not 61, mind, even if that’s what the key said, only we couldn’t find sixteen because it was on the third floor and we couldn’t find stairs to take us higher than 2nd. We made our way up the fire escape with Daddy’s rucksack and my 26kg suitcase.

We finally found the proper stairs, you’ll be glad to hear.

Things I didn’t come to the UK for:

• Turning on the radio and listening to John Farnham
• Being served Aussie plonk as a house wine in the fabled Bishop’s Finger. (We sat in the window of the pub and watched the Frog plonk shop over the road and tried to decipher the signs in the window.)