Transfer

Apparently good Americans, when they die, go to Paris. Failing to be either good, American or dead, Blandwagons only get as far as Melbourne. And so, for the next week, here I am, catching up with friends, shopping, drinking coffee, going to concerts and art exhibitions, and getting rained on.


The flight over was about as good as one could expect from my budget carrier. The seats were worn, wipe-down vinyl, and packed together so tightly that we didn't so much sit as play human-shaped tetris. Luggage cost extra. Food and drink cost extra. Movies cost extra. I can only assume that some other generous passenger paid for my seatbelt, tray table and oxygen.


Despite all this, I wasn't worried about entertaining myself. I had my netbook with me, and I'd spent half an hour last night cramming .avi files onto my 2GB USB drive. I had the entire third season of 'The IT Crowd', a Wallace and Grommit episode, a few episodes of 'Modern Family' that I hadn't seen, and a dumb Hollywood movie. More than enough to see me through a three and a half hour flight.


Unfortunately, when I pulled out my netbook at some point about 11kms above the Australian Outback, I realised that the USB drive was still sitting where I'd left it on my bedside table.


Following a vigorous but internalised bout of swearing, I amused myself by messing about with my iPod, taking photographs of the wing, and drinking expensive high altitude gin. It seemed to do the trick.