From The Novella coming out on Kindle at the end of July.

Leave It To OZ

By

Dave James

Chapter One: A Flight Of Fancy

Heading down to Gatwick Airport one sunny Tuesday afternoon in the middle of May was definitely not on my busy agenda six months before, come to think of it three months before, but my wish to see the “Land of plenty” kept pushing me until I decided the call needed to be answered. In that 3 short months I had planned out and scheduled my foray over to Sydney Australia (Manly to be precise) and set my course for the adventure of a lifetime. But first (and if you are me this is a BIG first) I had to fly over there via Dubai and then on to Kingsford Smith International. That may be a fun filled time for the majority of the population but for me with my intense dislike of heights it was a huge call, add that to my mechanical knowledge about anything from hydraulics to gas cookers and you see why every noise creak or groan was an imminent disaster about to happen.

Despite this minor issue, I sat in Departures drinking my coffee on the second tier of Gatwick’s many restaurants feeling up for the adventure. It was just bravado, but I was intent on going and if that was the case I had to fly. I waited the three long hours to board and duly walked the “gangplank” to the plane, it was far bigger than any plane I had been on before, to those of you who rely on such information to make your life complete it was a Boeing 777 and it had two wings, that was very comforting for me I can assure you. I sat in my seat opposite a young Indian woman who was part of a family of four, I must have looked very threatening because within seconds of them realising she would be sat next to me they dumped their young lad in that seat, he must have been all of seven years old, I could almost hear their thought’s and I chuckled to myself, if I was unsafe for her to sit by why would the kid be any better off?  Anyway, we went through the drill of lifebelts and seat belts at which point I closed my eyes as I didn’t want to be reminded of crashing into the sea or falling out of the sky but thankfully we were soon taxiing down the runway and within seconds all the throttles let loose and we were airborne.

Now if you like flying, at this point you will be looking out of the window, organising your lunch and selecting your favourite movie. If, like me you are not so keen, the air hostess will be slowly peeling your fingers out of the seat cushion and pushing you back from the “brace for impact” position whilst slapping you across the face for shouting “We are all gonna die!” This done she smiled at me and asked me if I needed a drink. There is telepathic for you. All of a sudden this flying thing started to look a little more acceptable, I asked for a Scotch and smiled at her, I didn’t get this treatment last time I flew to Holland or France, a couple of stiff Whiskey’s and I will face a dog fight in a Spitfire let alone a seven hour flight on a Boeing. My excitement as you regular flyer's will know was very short lived as she came trotting down the aisle with a miniature bottle of dyed tap water matured and bottled in Kazakhstan. Whatever it was, it resembled Whiskey but that’s where the similarities ended. My bottom lip firmly in my lap I drank it anyway and another five before she said “No more sir”. The fact I could sink half a bottle of Teacher’s Scotch in a normal night’s drinking and still sing every word to “Sweet Chariot” while auditioning for Dancing On Ice should give you a clue that I was not even close to pissed, but the bar was now closed to Mr. James so I had to divert my attention elsewhere from the grumbling engines and flexing wings. That answer came very swiftly in the form of the on board entertainment, not the TV on the seat in front of me but my fellow passengers or more directly the one’s sitting by me. No the Indian female sat in the next but one seat hadn’t decided to do a belly dance, in fact she was sat with her head against the TV screen on the seat in front of her looking like she was praying, she may well have been but it was a little unnerving as to why and if she was did I ought to start? I got my answer when she was still there six and a half hours later, you guessed it she didn’t like flying either!

So, sat there I grabbed my headphones and looked at my TV selection. The seven year old next to me was busy watching some Indian cartoon and was chuckling and giggling away but also fidgeting. I hate fidgets, it’s a real pet hate of mine, topped with that he kept knocking my arm off the arm rest, I know it was his armrest but show some respect who is the adult here?  I duly scrolled through all the movies until I spied the perfect specimen, so I clicked play and sat back smugly waiting in anticipation. I was not disappointed, I chose “Pirates of The Caribbean at World’s End” simply because I knew damned well the little kid next to me would not be able to resist having a quick peek across at my screen. This of course was the case and before the first hour of the film was up he had joined his mother praying at the monitor in front of him he was so shit scared. I have to admit I sat back in my seat a little smug afterwards happy that the fidgeting had stopped, so I decided to take a nap.  Have you ever tried to nap on a plane? No seriously?  Well I couldn’t, it was impossible in between the bumps in the invisible air we were flying through and the seat belt warning “bong” coming on to warn us of immediate disaster and the smell of burnt sausage and scrambled egg getting delivered on a trolley that made more rattles than Fisher Price during the last tax year it was a non-starter. So with sleep out of the question I once again turned to my screen in front of me and selected a few episodes of “The Mentalist” it reminded of home as it was all repeats but at least it helped the time slip by and before I knew what was happening we were about to land in Dubai, the sheer terror on the Indian Woman’s face opposite me as we descended was unforgettable, only matched by that of her seven year old boy who would be having nightmares for weeks thanks to Captain Jack Sparrow and a vindictive Englishman.

If you have been used to farmers with wellington boots and holes in their jacket pockets wearing caps that don’t fit and bemoaning how poor they are then Dubai International will come as quite a culture shock. From the full height waterfall stretching some sixty feet in the air to the gold embossed hand rails on the escalators through to the ornamental pool full of Koi Carp and surrounding vegetation the place was a wonder to behold never mind venturing into the City itself. It was a most beautiful place and very well organised with shuttle trains between gates and young people walking around with “Can I help you” on their T shirts all of them more than able to guide you through this metropolis of an Airport. The shops stretched for half a mile and included every big name you could think of, even the clocks in the walkways were made by Rolex; It was like the Willy Wonka’s of bling.  I did however have to turn my mind to the next flight, I did try to imagine just what fourteen hours on an Airplane would be like given my history but being happy to have got the first seven hours over with was somewhat of a triumph itself so I headed for a coffee shop to celebrate my success at not having fallen from forty thousand feet to my death, yes honestly!.  Sitting at a Costa coffee I was asked if I wanted to plug my laptop in and did I know there was free airport Wi-Fi, all the things you would not expect from the same establishment in the UK. I sat down and let my long suffering Facebook buddies know that I was safe and sound on the ground in Dubai, oh and don’t forget Twitter. By the time I had done the rounds and let everyone know I was still breathing I was ready to go and line up for the next bout of flying.  I dragged my feet across to check in and looked out on to the runway; there stood the biggest aircraft currently flying passengers (Airbus 380) in the world, it looked huge and I was quite heartened by that fact as that meant less turbulence, surely?.

An hour later and we were airborne, the flight was half empty and I had no-one sat in any of the rows either side of me, so I keeled over and went to sleep, well I tried to go to sleep, I dozed and that was about it, it was 14 hours of hell and I hated it, but the means justified the end in my eyes, I think I may be more suited as a Mariner than a Pilot.  Thirteen hours and fifty minutes later we lined up for a landing in Kingsford Smith International Airport, we circled over the Harbour bridge and dropped on to the runway at five minutes past five in the morning and yes you guessed it, it was raining for England, only in Sydney.  Kingsford Smith is a lovely airport, very easy to get through and bright and clean, I skipped through customs and grabbed my case and a bottle of Whiskey from Duty Free (real whiskey), then headed for the Taxi rank. Out of the shelter of the Airport it was pouring with rain so I skipped over to a Taxi driver and said, “Hi there I am from the UK I want this motel please” the Indian Taxi driver looked at my address and pointed to a road bridge half a mile away, “Oh fuck that mate it’s only just over that road bridge it’s not worth me taking you”. I have to admit that was not the response I was looking for after twenty two hours of flying spread over two days, but I guessed the guy knew what he was talking about and I started my trek. Eventually I ended up at the back of a huge building now well and truly soaked to the skin, I asked a chap if he knew where the Motel was and he looked at the address, “Crikey mate it’s the other side of that foot bridge about a mile away, you will have to go under the walkway and then across the bridge, it’s about five hundred meters away from you on the right” I thanked him and walked on, the footbridge he had mentioned was actually part of a large highway and was full of traffic traveling at speed and with rain and traffic at speed comes spray, lots of it and I was now looking like a drowned rat. I reached the Motel and booked in, crashed on the bed and heard nothing for four hours.

I woke up and grabbed a small glass and reached for my Whiskey. That “wee dram” went down a treat, I was still in time for breakfast at the Motel as it was only Nine so I plodded down and headed for some food, the breakfast was luke warm bacon followed by luke warm beans followed by, yes you get the picture, I did think of taking it back to my room and doing CPR on it but I was just tired and hungry so I ate it and prayed for a quick death. Fortunately my Shropshire stomach is made of wrought iron so it digested the worst the Motel could throw at me with just the odd growl now and then, bless it.  More sleep was the order of the day so I napped until around three that day then donned my 02 England Rugby shirt and headed out to taunt the natives. I soon found out that the Motel was near the airport and the airport was near to, well not a lot, so I walked a few suburbs and streets and headed back to the relative safety of the Motel at which point I fell asleep only this time for the same length as my plane flight.

The next day I awoke feeling amazingly good, I even attempted a second breakfast on the premise that the first one was a fluke. I was correct, the first one was a fluke as this one was colder, in fact I called the waiter over and asked him to put it in the fridge for an hour to warm it up a little, somehow I don’t think the Asian guy quite got my Anglo Saxon sense of humour as he just smiled and said “OK” all the time. I gathered my case and bags after breakfast and headed for Manly, my outright destination, I skipped the Taxi idea as I didn’t want another soaking and headed for the train station next to the Airport. Fortunately the trains were bright, clean and on time and I was soon on the quayside in Sydney Harbour, complete with the Harbour Bridge and Opera House, as you can imagine the iPhone was out taking pictures faster than a whippet on linoleum and I was soon sending wonderful sights of Sydney at its best to my long suffering Facebook friends.
 With the excitement over I grabbed a Ferry ticket for seven dollars and took my seat on the “World Famous Manly Ferry”. Slipping past the Opera House I took more pictures and scoffed at the announcement about “lifebelts” under our seats, “It’s only a damned ferry” I thought. About fifteen minutes in to the Ferry ride I wondered just where we were going as to all intents and purposes we were heading out to sea and what was worse it looked bloody rough. I started to get a little worried at this point as we hit the swell at the entrance of the harbour and it was rolling the Ferry from side to side like a rag doll in a cement mixer, I looked out of one window to see the sea and no sky and the other window to see just sky, this was not the usual kind of Ferry ride I had experienced. Eventually we turned to the left and followed the swell into Manly Wharf which just gave you a feeling of your stomach hitting your pelvis after bouncing off your ribs. Feeling a little sea sick by now I wobbled off with my suitcase and laptop, my face looking greener than the boat I had just alighted from. A quick walk to the Taxi rank and I was outside my small hotel that I would be staying in to write my epic novel that will eventually earn me enough to retire on (ahem).

Booked in and ready for a look round I trotted on to the front of Manly beach, I popped into a coffee shop and sat down, this tall blonde lad came over and asked “Can I help you Sir?” “Yes please could I have a medium Latte?” “Coming right up Sir, by the way is that an England shirt under your jacket?” “Well yes it is I am keeping the faith for a few days” “Oh that’s great I am from Sheffield” he replied. With that we swapped life histories and I discovered he moved here twelve months ago with his family and he loves it, it was one of many such meetings with ex-pats that would come my way during my stay, we English seem to have adopted Manly as a second city and it’s not hard to see why.
 The next few days were set for writing and I stayed in for anything up to eight to ten hours a day putting fingers to keyboard. I shopped for food at Coles at the suggestion of the locals as it bought Australian goods to sell to Australians, somewhat of a cop out as it is owned by an Englishman and a Scotchman, but who was I to upset my new hosts?. I trotted off to the LiquorSave store and grabbed a bottle of wine and a bottle of Whiskey, (yes another one), I went up to the counter and the assistant said “Fifty seven dollars please” I dutifully grabbed my cash and just happened to look at the till, it clearly said fifty six dollars ninety eight cents, So, I handed her sixty dollars across and said “that says Fifty Six dollars and ninety eight cents on the till”. She smiled and opened the till up and placed some coins in my hand. I walked out and thought no more of it until I reiterated this to a local a while later who subsequently roared with laughter. Somewhat puzzled I inquired as to why she thought that was so funny? “No one bothers with the cents here sweetheart, we just round it up or down to the nearest five cents and she gave you the five cents to shut you up!”  She walked off still laughing and shaking her head, it seems it was another lesson learned.