No worries?

Australia, albeit the tiny percentage I saw of it, despite covering many miles and seeing a huge variety of marvellous things, is wonderful, absolutely and overwhelmingly wonderful. I almost got through my trip without complaining about anything at all, but alas, British Airways and Lloyds TSB scuppered that unique achievement before it could be realised. So I shall share my complaints with you (again - complaints, like jokes told by your gran, always have to be told more than once), and Let Them Go, in that therapeutic, counselly, write everything down and burn what you have written sort of way. Or maybe I'll let them go after I write some fierce yet compelling letters of complaint, possibly in green ink, always an ominous colour indicating that the writer is expressing extreme outrage or is an unravelled fanatic.

British Airways: Firstly, they kept my luggage from me. For a long time. Then there was no number to call and speak to/shout at a real person about what might be happening. And the calls to me were invariably made to the number we weren't at. Then someone did think to ring me direct, told me some awful fibs, or were simply trying to be kind, and promised that my luggage would be delivered to me wherever I was when it did arrive. Then it wasn't, by miles. 653 miles, to be precise. And the plane from London had been freezing cold, the food was vile, and the seats didn't fit someone who is 5' 1" and who didn't enjoy having her head pushed downwards for 12 hours at a stretch. Headpush, not headrest. Graham down the road, who works for BA, advises me to write an angry letter. No problem. It's forming in my mind already, in green letters, with stab holes in the paper.

Lloyds TSB: The trusty debit card, fully primed with far too much spending money filched from my dwindling assets (sorry, son and heir), didn't work in many of the places where you might need money, like banks and shoe shops. I have successfully used this card in antiquated, desolately-decorated banks in India and in dusty little side street cash machines in Turkey, but somehow, it didn't work at all, ever, in cashpoints in three major cities in Australia, or, for that matter, over the counter in some of the banks, even with my passport and a motley collection of other forms of proof of identity. And then sometimes, just to keep me alert, it did work - with a surcharge - in a bank or a shop (thank you, National Trust membership card and Sainsbury's Bank card (expired) with my £11 that has sat in there for years because I can't remember my pin number), enabling me to pay back the small fortune I was borrowing from Tricia, which I know was her life savings too. The nice chap in the bank this morning tells me it should have worked everywhere, which is just what I had believed in the first place. Wrong, Mr Lloydstsb! Somehow I can't bring myself to blame Australia....its banks looked so modern, so un-Turkish....

Of course, it's also quite possible that something British was to blame for the awful cold, wet, windy weather in Sydney, and the surly slow service from the bored teenager in the coffee place in the Telstra Tower. Everything else was undoubtedly Australian, and therefore wonderful. Or wonderful and therefore Australian. That's my entirely rational, balanced and unbiased opinion, anyway. Now let's get the complaint-writing paper, the sharp nibs and the green ink out....

Vote for Bare Knuckle Fighting

A visit to Old Parliament House today, and a guided tour. Australian politics seems to have been a rumbustious high-risk affair, with some Prime Ministers remaining in power for no more than 5 minutes or so. Lunch with a friend of Tricia's, who passed on handy tips for our forthcoming trip on the Great Ocean Road, then, with the sky clouding over and a lively wind, on to the highly aromatic Botanic Gardens situated on Black Mountain. How many kinds of eucalyptus are there? Answers on a postcard please.* We had to watch out for the highly venomous Eastern Brown snake, but had to make do with brightly coloured parrots, much jollier, but not so exciting. Some unseen bird has a loud sheep-like cry: "Ma! MA!" but you could tell that Ma wasn't listening. My camera battery died; the charger is in my unreturned luggage. The luggage that I waved goodbye to on March 27th. The luggage that British Airways has kidnapped but can't be bothered to issue a ransom note for.

Home again to find, infuriatingly, only the first few words of a message on the answering machine from the airport luggage service (Menzies Aviation, if you want to start a campaign on my behalf); no clues as to whether it was failing to convey good news or bad about my case. Despite my having made sure my mobile number was to be used, there has been no attempt on their part to use it, preferring to ring the empty house. I can only assume, despairingly, that they will continue with this great avoidance technique during our 8 days' absence from tomorrow. And as there is only a recorded message to ring in order to shout abuse in purple-faced rage, I have resorted to ringing British Airways' main Sydney number, and guess what? It is perpetually engaged. Tricia thinks they have the phone off the hook, and I would suggest that maybe that is their safest course of action. Whingeing Pom? Not half.

* Between 600 and 700. That's heaps! And koalas only eat 4 different varieties. That's pernicketiness!

Brrrrr! and Grrrrr!

I am having a day at home, as Tricia has to go to work today, in order to have enough leave left for the rest of my stay. So while she is slaving in a Government office dealing with the mostly-disaffected general public, I am idling about, doing a bit of gardening, dead heading the roses, and feeling virtuous about recycling water. It is bright and sunny, but windy and cold. So windy and cold, in fact, that I keep forgetting that I'm not in England, until a very big spider scuttles away from me or an even bigger and unfamiliar bird flaps screeching overhead. Soon, I shall cook dinner for us both. Braised chicken with creme fraiche and tarragon - except that creme fraiche doesn't seem to be known here in Canberra, so it will be soured cream instead.

The cheerful chap from Menzies Aviation at Sydney Airport whose unenviable job it is to ring disgruntled passengers to tell them their luggage has still not been found rang me today, on Tricia's landline, for just that purpose.

Me: "I will be away from Thursday. Can you use my mobile number from then?"
Him: "Oh, you'll have your luggage by Thursday!"
Me: (note of joy in voice): "Really?"
Him: "No, I haven't a clue; I was just trying to be nice."
Me: "Well, can you use my mobile number from Thursday to keep me informed?"
Him: "I'm using it now."
Me: "No, you're not. I can tell this because I'm speaking to you on a landline handset..."
Him: checks the number, clearly not believing me.

I can astound myself sometimes with my own patience and ability to refrain from very loud swearing.

All going according to plan

I'm not sure whose plan, though. Travel-wise, it's been a mixed success so far. I checked in, saying goodbye to my small case filled with presents and new hot weather clothes. A very late shuttle from Heathrow delayed my flight from Newcastle. Clue 1 regarding the launch of Terminal 5.... The pilot hinted at teething problems. But the transfer by bus from T5 to 4 went like clockwork; there was no real hint of the chaos taking place in the brand new multi-million pound shed as with mistaken confidence we tootled through tunnels, moving from shiny-shiny new T5 with its helpers standing every 25 yards waiting to be called upon, to somewhat scruffier old T4. There I had a longish wait, filled by walking miles past all the shopping opportunities, eating a huge salad-and fruit-based dinner, and texting confident messages to everyone who might remember me only as a neurotic and bumbling twit who couldn't make it safely to the corner shop. I was now Intrepid Traveller, capable, experienced, and in the right place at the right time; I was calm, collected and prepared for anything.

Time to board the big flying tin tube.The youngish Australian man next to me barely spoke, jumped and twitched a great deal, created knee-deep litter about us both, and wolfed his revolting airline food and drink at lightning speed. Second time round, fascinated, I paid more attention to his technique - hoovering, basically. I was still picking my way gingerly through the gloopy main course trying to identify various items, and lo! he had finished his, as well as his salad, bread roll, dessert and both our chocolate biscuits, and had gone back to jumping about, throwing litter and knocking his drinks over us.

We had lots of leg room, facing a wall panel, which was great - for Mr Messy in particular - but this plane could have doubled as refrigerated transport for perishable foodstuffs. After half an hour I began to worry about hypothermia, despite cardigan, fleece, thick socks, and later BA's tea-towel-thin blanket and tiny flabby pillow. The hours dragged by; freezing to death is a slow process, and you can feel your brain shutting down cell by cell. Not slow enough to become used to the too-high headrest which pushed my head down at a painful angle which it has since maintained. I can now walk convincingly like a chicken, head poked forward; all I need to add are the sound effects.

After what seemed like 24 hours, with a short stop in Bangkok to thaw out while the plane was refuelled, cleaned, and restocked with potential litter, we arrived in Sydney. By this time, we knew that T5 was in trouble, and that luggage seemed to be involved, but didn't know the full extent of that trouble - 15,000 items in all. The carousel went round in its tantalising fashion, the non-T5 passengers collected their cases, and the small group of us unlucky ones went off to report that our luggage was, well, probably still in the bowels of the state-of-the-art terminal in London. We were given $100 each and told not to ring up for at least 48 hours to give the airline time to find our precious bags. 36 hours later, I have received two messages to tell me that they have not been successful yet. Prioritise me, I want to scream. I have new slippers in that case!

So far I have splashed out on 2 t-shirts and a nightie, spending an astonishing $9.99 of my BA compensation payment. That's under a fiver. I am going to be very sick of these trousers by the time I get my case back/give in and buy a complete holiday wardrobe, but I bet I could do it all within the 100 bucks.

More next time on what has gone wonderfully (heart-stoppingly wonderfully, in actual fact) well.....

Gone!

Well, not exactly, more still going really, but definitely on my way. In a horribly lengthy period of time (UK time Friday night, Oz time Saturday morning, my body clock time about a week from now) I will, I hope, touch down safely in Sydney, to be greeted by smiley people: friend Tricia, friend's daughter Chelsea, and later her three delightful little girls, who I'm really looking forward to meeting for the first time. What they will make of me is another matter; a week of terror, lots of displacement activity, plus about 36 hours' travel from my house to theirs may not prove conducive to a reassuring first impression.

So, that's it for now; I'll be back online when I can, if I'm spared...(well, you know, spiders, snakes, crocodiles)....and back home on April 22nd. Thank you to all who are cats-dog-and-house-sitting; sorry about the cat hair.

You know how much I love you all.

The Intrepid Traveller, aka The Whingeing Pom - you decide what fits best.

xxxx