Up, Up and Away! Or, Feeling Hot, Hot, Hot...

Our Floridian jolly was upon us. As the dismal, depressing dark nights started to bite here in Blighty, what better way to raise one's spirits than a trip to sunnier climes and - perhaps - to pay a vist to Messrs. M. Mouse and D. Duck? And, as holidays go, it had been a long time coming...

Imagine the scene: it’s April 2008; Ross and Brand are the darlings of Radio 2; girls are casting off their awful ‘UGG’ boots in favour of flip-flops in anticipation of another balmy British summer; a nice man called Mr. Obama seems to be embarking down a particularly ambitious political path and Usher – featuring Young Jeezy – is riding high in the UK hit parade (apparently).

And, despite a slight slowing of the UK economy (surely just a ‘blip’?), the dear old pound is still looking like mighty good value against the dollar. So, with a fine stash of flying club miles in the coffers after our recent Oz and Caribbean sojourns, what better way to take advantage of the near 2 for 1 exchange rate than to take a trip to the good ol’ US of A? Florida, to be precise, the Sunshine State, Land of the Mouse, and home to more bad shirts and perma-tans than you can shake a cocktail at. We bag 5 lovely Upper Class tickets to fly with Virgin Atlantic to Miami.

Fast forward to November: ‘UGG’ boots are – to the dismay of the country’s podiatrists – back in vogue, Ross and Brand are the anathemas they always deserved to be, the State Of The Nation is gloomier than an ‘Eastenders’ omnibus and Young Jeezy has become a victim of negative equity and is now struggling to keep up with the maintenance payments to his 'bitches' (though I hear that Usher is comfortably riding the downturn out thanks to investing heavily in ‘bling’ and 'hoes').

The credit-crunch has transformed into a full-blown recession and sterling has cast off a quarter of its value in little more than a month, subsequently increasing our forthcoming Stateside hotel bills by 25% (and with Mrs V’s taste in hotels, they weren’t all that cheap to start with).

But do we let this get us down? Do we lay down our arms in the face of recession? Turn heel and run at the sight of this credit-crunch? Well of course we don’t! We're British, for crying out loud, not French! In fact, the worrying slide of the pound actually spurred me to re-check the rates for a couple of our hotels, leading to a rather unexpected saving of some $800. A lesson learnt for future trips there folks, especially if you've reserved a hotel room quite a few months in advance - rates can go down as well as up, as they say...

This was to be a three-generational-trip with the Senior Vs (my parents) joining myself, Mrs V and Tizer. One of the disadvantages of travelling as a relatively large group on a trip like this is the logistics involved in shifting five bodies and all of their corresponding luggage to where they need to be, when they need to be there, a task which has improved very little since the replacement of the unruly hang-glider by the compact-and-bijou-push-chair. In fact, there was one significant occasion during this trip where the inclusion of the unruly hang-glider in our plans would have saved the smallest member of our party from suffering a nasty fall and a bust lip - more grizzly details to follow in due course.

As ever, we had quite a way to go before we could even think about boarding our flight to Miami - we had to get from our village in the wilds of West Yorkshire to Manchester, fly down to Heathrow then transport ourselves from Terminal 5 to the Hilton at Terminal 4 where we were staying for the night. By my reckoning this would involve a people-carrier (with child-seat and trailer), an aeroplane and a bus, all before we’d even left the country. The joys of travelling light, I vaguely recall, are far from exaggerated. It also goes some way to illustrate what us Northern types are willing to put ourselves through to fly with dear with Virgin. Still, beats living in the South and drinking flat beer...

We arrived at Manchester after a trek over the M62 which left Mrs V a little green around the gills to say the least, thanks to our chauffer’s inimitable driving style which involved getting so close to the HGV in front of us that you could literally taste the diesel exhaust fumes. Matters weren't helped by his almost incessant ramblings about his days in the merchant navy, which left us feeling like we were being driven over the Pennines by Uncle Albert out of 'Only Fools And Horses'. My mum and I were in the back and missed a lot of it, but my dad - who'd been sat in the front - was, I believe, rendered partially catatonic by the experience and didn't fully recover until we'd checked in for our BA flight, cleared security and had had a pint of lager thrust at him by his doting son.

It was at this point, as we sipped our overpriced Carlsberg and indulged in a ham and cheese sarnie, that Potential Holiday Calamity No. 1 occurred (the more keen-minded of you will no doubt have spotted that the numbering of said Calamity means there are more to come - and you'd be quite right). Casual as you like, Mrs V asks:

"Do Hertz in the US still expect you to show them the paper part of your driving license?"

Oh bugger - thinks I - I don't like where this is going. "Pretty sure that you do", I reply, the fixed smile on my face belying the fact that my knuckles are whitening around my pint glass. "Do we have a problem?".

For those who might not have rented a car before, the funky little photo cards that most of us now carry around have a paper counterfoil that shows any endorsements on it. Car rental companies generally - and rightly so - like to have a look-see at this before they entrust you with one of their vehicles, just in case you're George Michael or Lord Ahmed, for instance. Mrs V, it transpired, had left ours in the safe at home, and neither my mother nor father had theirs with them, as they weren't expecting to drive.

So, in the customary cool, calm and collected fashion that my family will no doubt tell you is a keynote of my character, I informed my good lady wife in no uncertain terms that we were 'effed'. Absolutely 'effing' 'effed', to be precise. It was too late to go back home and still expect to catch our flight and there was no way on god's clean earth that Hertz were going to let us pick up our car in three days time in Miami Beach without the paper counterfoil, all of which was going to make it pretty darned difficult to get to Orlando and a certain theme park that Tizer was rather looking forward to visiting.

I was, quite rightly, berated by both mother and wife for my reaction. Further words were exchanged and Mrs V retired to a quiet corner to compose her thoughts and stick pins in the doll effigy of me that she carries around with her for occasions such as these, before returning with a plan so cunning in its conception that I was surprised I hadn't thought of it myself: She was going to phone her sister - who had a key to our house - who would retrieve the paper licenses from our safe and pass them to her father. He, in turn, would arrange to meet with one of my more trustworthy employees who would organise for the documents to be despatched via UPS to our hotel in Miami Beach.

Each member of the team was briefed with their duties and made aware of the consequences of failure, then issued with fake identities and suicide pills. We boarded our flight to Heathrow safe in the knowledge that we'd done all that we could.

Our journey to the Hilton at Heathrow's Terminal 4 was blessedly uneventful, and after checking-in to our tiny, overheated and overpriced rooms we settled down to a pretty decent curry in one of the hotel restaurants. Then Mrs V's phone beeped; we exchanged fitful glance across the nan bread. It was from her dad:

"Rendez-vous a success. The package has been delivered". So far so good then.

We hit the sack after dinner, wanting an early start to get the best of the Virgin Atlantic Clubhouse the following morning. Our flight time had been changed a month or so ago from 09:20 to 12:30, which we were all pleased as punch about, as it meant we had time for a leisurely breakfast and a glass or two of something fortifying which is, after all, what the Clubhouse is all about. With thoughts of mojitos, Tanqueray Ten and Tonics (the gin of Kings) and the awaiting sun of Miami Beach flitting playfully through my mind, I drifted gently to sleep...

...and was awoken some two hours later to mayhem or, shall we say, Potential Holiday Calamity No. 2: Tizer was ill. Red hot, fry-an-egg-on-her-forehead, screaming abdabs, vomit-in-the-bed ill. She hadn't joined us for dinner, so it wasn't the curry, but she was running a temperature of over 103 and was clearly one very unhappy bunny. We spent a fitful night of cooled flannels, doses of Calpol and mopping up of sick, obviously very worried and concerned for poor little Tizer, but also constantly aware of what this could mean for our flight later that day.

Thankfully, the barrage of drugs we were administering started to bring Tizer's temperature down and, consequently, she started to feel a little better. We all managed a couple more hours of kip before – feeling exceptionally groggy – we showered, dressed, and headed for T3, hoping that we’d seen the worse of her fever.

We'd booked a large chauffeur-driven car with the Hilton’s concierge the night before, and this picked us up promptly enough, dropping us outside Terminal3 just before 9 o' clock. Online check-in had been going through one of its 'off days' (i.e. it was buggered again) so we were a bit concerned that we may have lost our requested seats and/or been split up. Luckily, our seats were more-or-less as we wanted them, opposite each other in the front section a characteristically swish Airbus 340-600.

Onwards to the delightful environs of the Upper Class Wing, where we were swept through the Private Security Channel - compact-and-bijou-push-chair and all - in truly effortless fashion. Then along the Winding Road Of Consumerism, a path lined with perfumes, designer labels and duty free which the expectant traveller must now walk - tempted by the siren-like call of orange-faced women offering samples of eau de bloody awful - before finally approaching the hallowed portals of the Clubhouse.

Mrs V was actually waylaid on the Winding Road Of Consumerism, but only so that we could stock up on what we imagined were going to be some much needed pain-killers for Tizer, who was already starting to falter a bit. Once Mrs V caught up with us, we decided to head straight for a spot of breakfast, and were given a table in one of the booths (which always seem to be marked as 'Reserved', but never really are). Tizer toyed with a bowl of rice-krispies, whilst the rest of us indulged in the (almost) full monty fry-up. Very nice it was too, although would it kill them to stick a spoonful or two of baked beans on the plate? Hmm?

We soon discovered that the flight was delayed by around half an hour - which considering our surroundings was hardly heart-breaking - and I ordered us all a glass of champagne (all except for father, that is, who views drinking before noon as the first step on the road to Sodom and Gomorrah).

Mrs V took Tizer over to the children's area for some light relief which, it transpired, was to be in very sparse supply. Of the half dozen or so toys supplied in the little cubicle set aside for kids in the Clubhouse, every single one of them was broken. Or not working. Or had important pieces/limbs missing. Tizer - like most children - is generally pretty easy to occupy for hours on end with even the most basic of toys, but you really can't get away with fobbing kids off with non-operative crap. They just stare at it for a while, frown, then give it back to you, looking sad, saying, "It's broken", before wandering off to put yoghurt in your DVD player. C'mon Virgin, get some toys that work in there, or I'll send Tizer round to Branson's with a carton of Ribena and a quarter of marshmallows to play with his Bang & Olufsen!

Tizer hangs out in the Virgin Atlantic Clubhouse

Another glass of champers whiled away the time before our flight was called, then we sauntered up the usual succession of moving walkways to our awaiting plane - Mystic Maiden. We had a couple of minutes wait before boarding, as the crew weren't quite settled (I guess they were caught out by the slight delay), then we were straight on-board and into our allotted suites.

More champagne and a cheery welcome from the crew were liberally doled out, and I quickly retrieved my essential flying kit from my bag: iPod, Bose QC2 noise-cancelling headphones, book. Tizer was definitely feeling on the ropey side, but was doing her best to put a brave face on it. The crew were great with her, getting her settled in and making her feel at home, with a pillow to prop her up and help fill out her seat belt. Mum and dad were equally well looked after and, as the sun had now passed the proverbial yard-arm, father had even treated himself to a Buck's Fizz, the rogue.

Then, as we were heading runwaywards and the crew had taken to their seats, Tizer decided it was the ideal time to vacate hers. With Mrs V in the suite next to her and me opposite, we did our best – without leaving our own seats – to coax her back. My usual tool for this is to throw well aimed M&Ms at Tizer’s seat to lead her toward the safe confines of her seatbelt, but with all the worry over the state of her health, I’d forgotten to pick a bag of them up; a schoolboy error, I know, but even I have my off days. Not to worry, the Flight Service Manager (FSM) quickly spied what was happening, leapt from her seat and firmly (but kindly) deposited Tizer back in hers with the promise of treats to come if she’d just stay put for the next 10 minutes. Which she did – the girl knows a bribe when she hears it and curiosity alone kept her bum in her suite until the seatbelt sign was turned off.

She still wasn’t very well though, bless ‘er, and she was starting to feel a little warm to the touch again, which was a worry. V:Port - Virgin's marvellous on-demand in-flight entertainment system (IFE) was booted up, and we thought it would be ideal for her to put her feet up with a cool drink and watch a cartoon or three. But it was not to be, as suites 2-6A appeared to have a uniform row of blank screens. Being in the D row, I was quite prepared to give up my suite for Tizer, as V:Port was working fine for me; in fact, I'd already trounced those foolish enough to take me on at 'Trivia Challenge' (one of the interactive games that V:Port offers). The crew, however, assured us that they could quite easily fix such a localised problem and disappeared off to press buttons, turn widgets, wave magic wands or whatever it is they do to try and fix their increasingly unreliable IFE.

But it wasn’t all bad news: my drinks order had been taken earlier by a polite and a keen young flight attendent (FA) who had assured me that, yes, a bottle of Tanqueray 10 was on board and - praise be to the lord, allah and vishnu - they saw very little reason why there wouldn’t have been a sufficient supply of limes loaded to sate my need for a 'wedge'. As this is so seldom the case on Virgin flights - and on the sage advice of a fellow V-Flyer earlier that week - I had purloined a lime of my very own from the bar in the Clubhouse, just in case. However, it was to prove surplus to requirements as Keen Young FA brought forth the perfect T10&TWLW (that’s Tanqueray 10 and tonic with lime wedge, by the way). Delicious, so it was, so much so that when Keen Young FA offered me another one, I eagerly accepted.

Lunch orders were taken (still no V:Port opposite us at this point, by the way, though I thought I could now hear some mystic incantations being mumbled beyond the curtain where the IFE gubbins resides) but we were sorely disappointed to see that a couple of the meal options had been taken off the menu. I’d been rather looking forward to Tandoori chicken as a starter, and I also knew that Tizer had her heart set on the sausages and mash. In fact, she’d been practicing ordering since we’d first had sight of the menu online, and she wanted to tell the FA what she wanted for lunch herself; so, we’d had a very carefully enunciated – if somewhat repetitious: “Soup – And – Sausages. PLEASE!” for the past two weeks, more-or-less every time the subject of food was brought up.

It wasn’t to be however, though Tizer was far from being on top of her game by this point. Nevertheless, we were all delighted when Keen Young FA suddenly appeared with a plate of steaming bangers and mash, purloined from PE, especially for our ailing daughter. She barely ate it, which made us feel awful, but she really wasn’t up to solids by this time. Still, a lovely effort on the part of the crew which was much appreciated.

The pleasant male FA who’d been trying to work his magic with V:Port finally came over to us to admit that, despite a call to the engineers back on the ground, a liberal dash of holy water and a sharp kick, he wasn’t going to get the IFE back up and running – or at least not without risking screwing things up for the rest of the plane – and we didn’t really want that on our consciences. He offered Mrs V, Tizer, and the very nice couple in 2 and 3A, DVD players and 10,000 Flying Club miles each in compensation, which was more than acceptable.

I, meanwhile, had tired of displaying my omnipotent prowess of Trivia Challenge (despite a spirited contest with ‘JUDY’ in 38A - which she subsequently lost) and had settled instead for a film: ‘Horton Hears A Who’, an excellent cartoon version of a Dr Seuss classic in which Horton – an elephant – hears a voice emanating from a speck of dust, which turns out to be the home world of millions of ‘Whos’, who Horton has to save. Fantastic film which whilst reinforcing my love of all thinks Suess, did beg the question – just what was the good Dr. smoking when he wrote these books?

Lunch arrived; the soup surpassed my expectations by not merely being warm and gloopy (something I’ve come to expect from Upper Class soup) but also decidedly ‘foisty’, which is what, I guess, one should be prepared for when eating cream of parsnip. Still, they’ve yet to devise a soup which I can’t stomach (the same applies to ice cream – cauliflower flavour anyone? I tried it once in Amsterdam and it was delicious). A cheesy-stuffed chicken breast followed, which was pleasant enough. Cheese and port, however, to be put on permanent hold as Tizer was now running a temperature of 104 and refusing to take any medicine.

She was literally hot to the touch, looking a little like a beetroot and giving us – and, by now, the crew - real reason for concern. She’s a sod when it comes to running a temperature – we’ve been in similar positions with her a number of times (though never before at 38,000 feet) and it seems that even the mildest of bugs sends her internal thermostat on the fritz. Alternate doses of Calpol and Ibuprofen are the order of the day, and they work a treat – as long as she takes the offered medicine and doesn’t spit it out. But we were struggling now, and Pleasant Male FA had now joined us in trying to coerce Tizer to take a spoonful of a her medication. Things were getting serious enough at this point that he and the FSM were discussing whether they could find a nurse or doctor on board to administer an IV analgesic...

Then the FSM – the same who’d offered the earlier treat – had a better idea, and returned with a couple of cuddly toys from the on board Retail Therapy collection. A monkey, or Captain Teddy (a cute teddy bear bedecked resplendently in an airline pilot's uniform) – either one would be Tizer’s if she’d be a good girl and take her medicine. With barely a seconds hesitation, Captain Teddy was chosen and drugs were administered. We laid our hands on some Heroes forms, which we've yet to complete, but if either of the crew in question are ever reading this and recognise themselves – a million thanks to you both. You’re worth your weight in gold and you do VS proud.

The medication had the desired effect on Tizer and we able to make her bed up and let her get some much-needed shut-eye. Pleasant Male FSM approached me soon after to ask if we had a camera to hand. Of course we do, we're tourists, we told him, but why did he want our camera? Well, as we're all aware, flight deck visits are pretty much a thing of the past thanks to current security measures, but it turns out that passengers travelling in airline uniform - Captain Teddy, for instance - could be afforded the privilege of a quick tour. And so, some 10 minutes later, Pleasant Male FSM returned from the flight deck with a camera full of photos of Captain Teddy's trip up front. Very good they were too, and really put a smile on Tizer's face later in the holiday.

After all the stress, I felt a visit to the bar was in order, and dragged my dad along for a snifter or two (be under no illusions, despite his earlier reticence, my father enjoys a drink as much - if not more - than the next man once he warms up). The pleasant couple from 2 and 3A were also at the bar and turned out to be fellow Northerners and, it transpired, fellow Flying Club miles whores to boot. We put a healthy dent in a nice bottle of Viogner Sauvignon and swapped stories of miles earned and reward seats gained over the years.

The arrival of the tea service is probably the only thing that saved me from getting into an unfortunate 'sesh' (never a good idea at 38,000 feet) and we returned to our suites to a pretty nice spread of sarnies and a cream scone, complemented by a surprisingly good of cup of tea. Nice and strong with just a touch of milk - Builder's Tea, as we call it back home. The sarnies were very good (though I swapped the egg with Mrs V for her chicken). Dad wasn't impressed though; as a life long loather of a things fish - bar the stuff they batter and deep fry down our local chippy - he was rather shocked to find that the 'ham and mayo' sandwich he tucked greedily into was in fact smoked salmon and cream cheese. So appalled was he that he entirely lost his appetite for his scone, poor old bugger.

Tizer was starting to stir by this time, and we managed another dose of medicine whilst she was still drowsy enough not to be able to resist. We asked the FSM to ask the Captain if she could sit with Mrs V during landing using a lap-belt, so as not to upset her more than was necessary. The Captain, incidentally, had been good enough to come out and check on a Eliza during the flight. We told her that he was the pilot but she misheard us and is now convinced that planes are flown by pirates. Anyway, he was kind enough to allow the use of the lap-belt, and our steady descent into MIA was all the more restful for it.

Once we'd landed we were quickly onto a stand, and Tizer was swiftly transferred to the compact-and-bijou-push-chair where she promptly fell back to sleep. Thanking all of the crew wholeheartedly for their simply stunning service and help throughout the flight, we took a deep breath and headed for immigration. Now, after hearing various rumours about the sheer hell-on-earth that Miami Airport immigration can be, we were really dreading the prospect of a two or three hour wait - or, worse still - to find ourselves being handled in a similar fashion to dear Dragon Lady recently, especially with an ill child in tow. But guess what? It couldn't have been easier; possibly the best entry into a US airport we've had (and I'm comparing New York, LA and Chicago here). I think we were just lucky, and a sleeping child in a push-chair seemed to open lengths of Tensa tape that weren't being made accessible to everyone. We were through in less than half and hour, I reckon.

Then, of course, we weren't accounting for the appearance of Potential Holiday Calamity No. 3 - where the hell was our pre-booked limo?! Various terse 'phone calls and much pacing of the outside of arrivals later and the driver finally showed up, blaming a lack of parking spaces, believe it or not. But hanging around arrivals in 80 degree heat with a sickly kid for over an hour isn't the biggest bag of laughs, I can tell you.

He led us out to the road, where we were to wait while he collected the car, which is always a bonus if you ask me 'cause it gives me the chance to have a quick ciggie (I know! Awful habit, but I barely smoke anymore, honest). It was sticky, humid and busy and - despite the fact Tizer wasn't exactly having a ball - I rather enjoyed the chance to soak up a bit of the atmosphere. It was about 7 in the evening, so dark already, but still very warm; there was a definite smell of the tropics to the fume-laden air; people in loud shirts were bustling to-and-fro beneath avenues of tall palm trees, and the whole scene gave a real 'sense of place'. No Crockett or Tubbs look-a-likes to be seen, however, which was, I have to say, a little disappointing.

The driver pulled up at the kerb within 5 minutes or so, loaded up the frankly vast SUV with our mountain of luggage, then we were quickly on our way to Loews Hotel in Miami Beach. All the to-ing and fro-ing had woken Tizer by this time, so we checked in as quickly as we could and got straight up to our suite, where she lay on the bathroom floor a promptly threw up. Truly, has there ever been a better start to a holiday?

We managed to get some more Calpol down her - despite the procession of porters and maids who decided this was a great time to descend upon our room - and she slowly started to cool down. We're in a beachfront junior suite which (with the benefit of a tiny bit of hindsight) is very nice indeed. It has a separate living room area with a pull-out sofa bed, which we quickly settled Tizer into; she was shattered - absolutely whacked out, poor thing - and fell swiftly to sleep. It was about 9 in the evening local time, so 2am as far as our bodies were concerned and, quite understandably, we weren't far behind her.

Well, at least the flight's out of the way. Now, surely, things have to start looking up - don't they?

(A lot of the above post is an edited version of my trip report posted on V-Flyer - those nerdy enough to want it in its entirety - with all the lovely airport codes and related chuntering from my fellow V-Flyer types -can view it here )

'Happy' New Year

To paraphrase the laconic brilliance of a certain donkey called Eeyore: Happy New Year. If that's what is. Which I doubt.

Yes - we're back in dear old Blighty, in all it's cold, grey, damp and dowdy splendour. The trip back from Australia? Well, let's start by saying this: it's a bloody long way. Mind you, at least we were comfortable for the majority of the flight, which is more than can be said for those poor blighters in economy. Christ, 24 hours in one of those seats is enough to make you come limping off the plane like a Victorian orphan with rickets.

So how is it, I hear you ask, flying half-way around the world in a day? Well, not too bad really. A bit tiring. The following is a tidied-up version if a post I made on that noteworthy website, V-Flyer (if you're really sad, you can see it with all the ratings and related replies here). And it goes a little something like this...

A month of almost unbroken sunshine is something truly special, especially in December and particularly if you’re British. It wasn’t so much that it was hard to believe that our four weeks of honeymoonin’ were coming to end; it was just soul-wrenchingly depressing to contemplate the fact that not only were we going home, but we were returning to cold, grey, wet and miserable England at the bleakest of bleak mid-winters.

But what a month we’d had! Hong Kong and the incomparable Four Seasons; the sights and sounds of Sydney; sailing from Port Douglas over the Coral Sea in an authentic Chinese junk; eating stunning Italian food, drinking outstanding local wines and batting kamikaze flies from our faces in Melbourne.

For now though, we were sat in the late morning sun at a street-side café in the beautiful little town of Avalon. As we’d had to vacate the Beach Retreat at 11 (ish), we decided to partake in a spot of lazy brunch before heading for the airport. Freshly squeezed orange juice, coffee brewed from beans roasted on the premises, organic back bacon and the creamiest of free-range scrambled eggs. Boy, was I looking forward to getting home and tucking into a McMuffin? (Answer: No. Not one little bit).

After brunch we dawdled up and down the main drag in Avalon looking for, and failing to find, an elusive last minute gift. When you’re hoping to stumble on that one curious knick-knack, object d’art, or coffee-table-talking-piece to encapsulate your travelling experience, you quickly realise that a boomerang, a ‘genuine’ bush ranger’s hat or a cuddly cross-eyed koala toy just ain’t going to cut it.

Giftless, and with pretty low spirits at the prospect of leaving Avalon, Sydney and the Southern Hemisphere in general, we loaded ourselves into our hire car, set Nora Neverlost for Sydney Airport (yeah, that’s right, we named our Satnav) and started to make our way south down the coast. Around each bend we caught glimpses of yet another golden sandy beach, and every glimpse was like a dagger to my heart. I checked the weather back home on my ‘phone – 4 degrees and sleet. I glanced out of the window; sunny; warm; not a cloud in the perfectly azure-blue sky. Everyone was wearing shorts and flip-flops. Everyone looked happy. Damn them.

As we approached the city the beaches fell away and we suddenly found ourselves under Sydney. Nora had sent us through the Harbour tunnel, rather than over the bridge as she had the previous week, and now we found ourselves driving in and out of various other tunnels which, I guess, run under the central business district. One thing Nora really should have twigged to, however, is her absolute reliance on satellites and the rather simple reality that tunnels and satellite communications aren’t the best of friends. So, whilst travelling along a four-lane highway with multiple intersections and large trucks at either side of us the best she could offer was, “At your next opportunity, turn around”, over and over again. Yeah, we'd love to lady, but we do have a plane to catch.

Our love affair with Nora over, we hit the 'off' switch on the Satnav and, by following a mystic route laid out for us - possibly by an Aborigine shaman - involving a system of little pictures of aeroplanes on the road signs, soon found ourselves at the airport. We dumped the car with those nice people from Hertz - although not before doing our best to clear the detritus of crisps, muffin crumbs and god knows what else from in and around Tizer’s car-seat – and very quickly found ourselves at a pleasantly queue-free Upper Class check-in. Trust me, it's the only way to fly when you've got a two-and-a-half year old and the best part of 12,000 miles ahead of you.

We’d checked in online check-in the night before and secured our preferred seats, and the very cheery agent confirmed that all was well and we just needed to check our luggage and Tizer's push-chair. Her reaction to the sight of her push-chair being packed up and man-handled onto the conveyer elicited a high pitched “Nooooo – miiiiiiiine!”, with small toddler fingers at full stretch grasping for a wheel, a strap, anything. The check-in agent quickly pointed out that they had courtesy push-chairs and one was swiftly brought over for us. Tizer, placated, placed Betty – her stained, battle-scarred doll and constant companion, with one permanently shut eye and an interesting aroma about her – into the push-chair and wheeled her merrily off in the direction of security.

A similar experience faced us once we got to a very quiet security area, when one of the staff tried to take Tizer’s recently acquired packet of crisps from her, insisting they had to go through the X-Ray. This was rectified when another kindly and much more grandfatherly member of staff intervened and let her walk through with her crisps, craftily swiping them off her then handing them straight back before she even knew they were gone as she went through the metal detector. Hell, she even offered him one after that, though he wisely declined, noting perhaps that most of them had by this time clearly been sucked clean of salt and returned - still damp - to the packet.

We made our way to the Air New Zealand lounge that's available to Virgin's Upper Class passengers and which, for all we saw of it, was very nice. I literally had just enough time to make myself a G & T before the flight was called. We hadn’t even realised we’d been cutting it that fine, to be fair, so necking my drink we went straight back down to the gate to meet our lovely, shiny Airbus 340-600.

Maybe we’d flown too much in the previous four weeks. Maybe it was the fact that our holiday was all but at an end. Maybe it was the prospect of one hell of a long flight ahead of us, but as we eased our way via priority boarding down the tunnel toward the open door of the plane, Mrs V and I actually looked at each other, wrinkled our noses and said, “Eugh; plane smell”. I know – sacrilege.

Perhaps we were just feeling a tad jaded with all the travel, but the familiar smell of plane air-conditioning, aviation fuel and hundreds of gently warming economy meals was a stark reminder that we had 24 hours of this, followed by another flight to Manchester and a trip on the M62 before this particular journey could be deemed as ‘over’.

So, a deep breath and Tizer – who clearly isn’t burdened by the same world weary woes as a pair of thirty-something travellers – charged headlong onto the plane with us following obediently behind her.

Tizer once was wedged into her seat belt with the help of a couple of pillows and we began a particularly long taxi out to the runway. This really didn’t suit our darling daughter, who seemed to have made the decision that if we weren’t actually in the air, there was no way on god’s clean earth she was going to keep her seat belt on.

She quickly discovered that, for all the pillows to prop her up and special covers to stop her unfastening her seat-belt, the easiest way to get out of it was to simply stand up. There was no screaming, crying, or throwing of tantrums, you understand; she was just a bit bored and wanted to have a look around the cabin. She even smiled and waved at one or two of her fellow passengers which, whilst not exactly in line with current CAA regulations on the use of seat belts, was certainly very neighbourly of her.

Regrettably, this continued shortly after take off, and it was only a spot of quick thinking on my part and the resultant appearance of a large bag of M&Ms that remedied the situation. The downside was that, strapped as I was into the seat opposite, I couldn’t actually reach her, so had to resort to throwing the M&Ms at her. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t expecting her to catch them in her mouth (although that would have been cool, wouldn’t it?), but thankfully every third or fourth chocolate morsel I threw her way did land on her seat, which allowed us to coax her into sitting down and getting her back into the seat belt again.

Once the seat belt sign was finally turned off, Tizer wasted no time in retrieving the sweets that had failed to make it to her seat, despite her mother’s best efforts to stop her from eating them off the floor. I don’t know; the cabin may be ‘Upper Class’, the child – sometimes – is most definitely not.

I ordered my usual Tanqueray No. 10 and tonic with wedge of lime and ice, and was bitterly disappointed to get a Bombay Sapphire, a wafer-thin sliver of lemon and single shard of ice. On further investigation it turned out there was no Tanqueray on board, but when I went up to the bar to sort things for myself there was a profusion of lime and enough ice to sink the Titanic. For reference, the lime is the green coloured fruit, whilst the lemon is yellow. Are these the same crew who are expected to use a defibrillator on me should I collapse from a heart-attack? It worries me…

Mrs V ordered and received the same drink but – you’ll be unsurprised to hear – made considerably less fuss than I did. For dinner, I ordered some kind of duck salad followed by salmon; Mrs V went for the salmon too, but chose the soup option for her starter. I think I managed to find an episode of the Simpsons that I’d only seen seven times or so whilst waiting for dinner to appear and, to show there were no hard feelings, I gallantly accepted another sub-standard G & T.

The food was good, with the salmon coming out tops for once (past attempts by Virgin have ended up tasting rather like fish-flavoured cotton wool). The duck was fine, a bit too cold in a straight-out-of-the-fridge kind of way, which may have been the reason for its lacking much flavour. Mrs V also marked the salmon very highly and declared the soup as most palatable. I finished off with a lovely plate of cheese and some brown sticky stuff that later turned out to be quince jelly and was rather good.

Wine wise we both went white for a change and I think we plumped for a Sauvignon Blanc. Whatever it was, it was very good. I watched Shrek 3 throughout, which really ought to be the last of the franchise if anyone involved wants to retain a few shreds of artistic integrity. And bear in mind, I was watching this after a glass of champagne, three G & Ts and half a bottle of wine, so by all rights I should have been laughing my chuffing bits off. I know, Jonathan Woss is safe in his ‘Film’ role.

Tizer and I had our customary wander down the back of the plane to check out the unfortunate wretches in economy. Poor souls. If you transported cattle like that for 24 hours you’d have the animal rights people on your back. Returning with daughter dear I beckoned Mrs V to join me at the bar (oh yes, they have bars at 35,000 feet you know) and we indulged in another glass of that nice white before falling into conversation with an Aussie chap who I recall being called Craig, but my wife swears his name was Greg, so, in the interests of fairness and to avoid an argument, we now call him Graig.

I didn’t want to sleep on this leg and since Shrek was so bad and the bottle of wine in front of me – the contents of which were swiftly disappearing – was so good, I decided to stick around with Graig for a while. And, when a delightful young member of the crew was good enough to offer us another bottle – well – who were we to argue with her? She was also kind enough to nip into Economy and nick a few bags of pretzels, bless ‘er, with which Graig was terribly impressed.

After what felt like half an hour or so, Mrs V reappeared to inform me that Tizer was sound asleep and, more disturbingly, to ask me if I was aware that I’d been drinking at the bar for over two hours. Really? Well, that would certainly explain the profusion of empty bottles, as well as the inflated sense of well-being and self-importance. Had, I enquired, she met my good friend Graig?

She stomped back to her seat muttering dark mutterings under her breath, but even I was becoming aware of how much I was sinking. It was alright for Graig, he was only going as far as Hong Kong – I had another 12 hour flight ahead of me, and it was highly unlikely that I was going to be able to keep this pace of drinking up for that long unless someone was going to provide me with a liver transplant somewhere over Iran.

We finished the bottle, of course, it would have been rude not to, but caution, as they say, being the better part of valour, I bid Graig the kind of farewell one usually reserves for old school-chums or rich relatives, and wound my weary way back to my seat and a bit of mind-numbing telly.

I must have been at the bar a hell of a long time, 'cause my episode of King Of Queens was rudely interrupted by an announcement that we'd soon be landing in Hong Kong. Tizer was good enough to wake up at this time, but didn't seem to have the fight in her - or perhaps the appetite for M&Ms - to act up over the seatbelt again and we had a quiet descent and landing at Hong Kong Airport.

Feeling the effects of my 'sesh' with Graig, I dutifully followed my wife and child off the plane and up to a lady who kindly stuck a sticker on my shirt (this, I later discovered, was to identify me as a transfer passenger). We then, rather confusingly, had to go through security screening before being allowed to carry on to the Clubhouse. I was pretty much on automatic pilot by this time and was more than happy to keep my head down and follow the crowd.

We made our way to the Virgin Clubhouse (another perk of flying Upper Class) and resisted the temptation to hang our jackets in the cloakroom, this being the spot where they spent their 3 day holiday whilst we were in Sydney. We found a seat near the TV and Mrs V managed to snag a shower for her and Tizer, but I, to my shame, needed to nip down to duty free for some cigs. To be fair, I really shouldn't have been allowed to wander around a large foreign airport alone as I really was feeling rather peculiar, but throwing caution to the wind I risked life and limb on a far from stable escalator, located and bought said cancer sticks then - and this is the really stupid bit - thought it might be a nice idea to go and smoke one of them.

There's a 'smoking room' at Hong Kong Airport (more of a hut than a room) which is the sort of place they should send people who have tried nicotine gum, patches, tablets and injections to stop smoking, but still find themselves on 80 Lambert & Butler a day. Five minutes in there should put you off smoking for life. And yet, in my somewhat tired and emotional state, this is where I ventured. To my credit, I did manage three of four drags on my cigarette before the smoking hut started to revolve, first clockwise then - sickeningly - counter-clockwise, with a bit of a wobble on it.

As none of my fellow smokers seemed to have noticed this, I realised that in my slightly sozzled state - and not having had a cig for the best part of a day - that it must be me. I quickly exited the hut with as much dignity as I could muster, then realised that trying to walk back to the Clubhouse through a revolving, topsy-turvy airport would either get me arrested, booted off the next leg of the flight, or both. So I leant casually against a wall a pretended to text a dear friend (possibly Graig?) until the airport slowed to a bearable shimmy, then slowly, delicately, made my way back to the Clubhouse.

Which was just as well, because people were starting to file out to board our Heathrow bound plane when I got there, and my rather relieved looking lady wife turned me around and guided me back to our gate.

Settling back into our freshly cleaned suites I quickly realised that this leg was going to be a lot quieter, so spying some empty suites I quickly snaffled three or four bottles of water. If past experience was anything to go by, I was going to need them, and my mouth was already starting to feel like it had recently been exhumed from Oliver Reed's grave.

It doesn't happen very often when I fly, but I actually fell asleep before take-off, and I didn't wake up until the seat-belt sign went off. I changed into my PJs, intent on getting a decent sleep. Tizer was already in the land of nod and I wouldn't be far behind her. Mrs V was dragged away for a manicure with the inflight beauty therapist (yes, they have those as well) and I suddenly realised that the smell of dinner from the galley was starting to make me peckish.

Having really enjoyed the cheese earlier, I thought this would make an ideal late supper, so explaining to a crew member that I wanted to get off to sleep soon, she rushed me out a plate of delicious cheese before doing the main meals round. OK, and a glass of port - I was eating cheese and biscuits, people, you have to have port!

I put the cheese away rather sharply, and catching the eye of the FA again, she was good enough to bring some more and this time fetched me an entire basket of biscuits. And one last glass of port, but I promise, that was it!

Having eaten enough cheese to ensure me dreams of opiate-induced clarity, I settled down to sleep in my lovely bed (yes, that's right, we have beds in Upper Class too). I woke after about three hours due to the cabin temperature doing an impression of the surface of Venus. I downed one of the bottles of water from my secret stash, through my duvet off and slowly managed to get off to sleep again.

I woke up about three hours or so out of Heathrow and, with Mrs V and Tizer still asleep, went to the bar and treated myself to a breakfast of orange juice and after dinner chocolates. I know, I'm a pleb. I had time to change into some clean(ish) clothes and make myself beautiful again away from the rush, as most of the cabin were still away with the fairies, then I settled down to play a few games on Mac.

The breakfast round proper came around, and I managed a danish and a coffee, not being the biggest fan of bacon, eggs et al at such an early hour. Then the cabin was being cleared and we were slowly beginning our descent toward Heathrow.

After bouncing through dark clouds for most of our approach we finally broke free and the smudged and dirty lights of a cold and foreboding London could be seen from the window. God, it was depressing, and we were still probably a good couple of thousand feet above it.

Landing was uneventful, getting the doors open took an eternity and waiting at the gate for the push-chair seemed to take as long as the flight itself. The gentleman delivering the push chairs and prams seemed to be suffering from TB or - at the very least - consumption, which I dearly hoped he would be good enough keep to himself. Oh, and not only was the lift out of order, but the escalator was turned off too so we all hand to carry Tizer, her pram and all our hand luggage up two flights of stairs. Welcome back to Britain...

We managed a very quick sausage sandwich in Virgin's 'Revivals' lounge where the staff, as ever, were absolutely delightful. Aware that things were getting tight for our BA flight up to Manchester and that we still had to negotiate getting to the other side of Heathrow, we scadoodled as fast as we could toward Terminal 1.

Things were going well until we got to the lifts that go up to departures, where we had to wait for 15 minutes whilst an East European family completely commandeered them to transport their 8 children and luggage, which comprised of various dirty cardboard boxes tied up with string. Finally we made it to BA check-in, where three check-in staff had a ten minute conversation on the best way to handle the push-chair. Then, once they'd agreed that it could go via Outsize Baggage - and this is my favourite bit - they were good enough to tell us that we'd missed our flight by five minutes.

There was no fight left in me, and we were very fortunate in that they got us the last three seats on the next flight at no extra charge. Back at Manchester our "Welcome Home!' experience was completed by Virgin sending a Volvo estate instead of the people carrier with child seat we'd been promised, but we were past caring by this time and managed, with the help of a truly pleasant and apologetic driver, to squeeze ourselves in.

And there endeth the 'trip report'. Once we were home we reunited Tizer with her grandparents who were waiting for us at our house. She was excessively pleased to see them, bless her. I guess a month is a long time when you're only two.

After a cup of tea and a natter with the parents we hit the sack and slept the sleep of the dead for 4 or 5 hours. The thing about jet-lag is that you can't allow yourself to get too much sleep in the day else you'll never get back onto local time. We also needed to be as refreshed as possible as this was, lest we forget, New Year's Eve. To be fair, as far as our body clocks were concerned it was the early hours of New Year's Day, but we weren't going to let that spoil us having a few drinks with family and friends.

It was tiring, but we managed to get our sorry arses to the pub, sink a few pints, tell a few holiday stories and see the New Year in. We were home and back in bed for about half midnight, I think, then we slept for 12 hours straight. I'm still tired now, to be honest, and I think it will take a few more nights to start feeling normal again.

Oh, I almost forgot. I'm cold. Chilled to the bone cold; colder than I've ever been in my life. I can't see how I'll ever be warm again. Unless we went on holiday somewhere nice and hot. Australia, perhaps? Now, there's an idea...

Sydney: No Jackets Required?

Hello again. We're in Sydney at the Intercontinental, and it's really rather nice

It was cold (well, cool) when we arrived yesterday morning and then it slashed in down sideways last night, which wasn't really what we were expecting from the-land-down-under. Matters weren't helped by the fact that - like the fools we are - we managed to leave our jackets in the Hong Kong Clubhouse (i.e. at the airport). We didn't realise until about 2 minutes before they closed the plane doors, which was galling. Apparently they're going to do their best to get them flown over and delivered to our hotel soon (preferably before we leave for Cairns), so watch this space...

Our depature from the Four Seasons in Hong Kong was as luxurious as our arrival, as we once again booked their outstanding limo service. It was damn hard to leave as well; what a fantastic hotel. Best we've ever stayed in (and we have been fortunate enough over the years to stay in some pretty swanky hotels). We managed a late breakfast, a wander around the adjacent shopping mall for gifts and a couple of glasses of Veuve Cliquot in the executive lounge before gliding away from the hotel, aiport bound, in a beautifully airconditioned 'luxury MPV', as I believe the Yanks call 'em.

Once we arrived at the airport we were greeted straight from the car by Kenzo and Hiro, who introduced themselves as representitives of the Four Seasons who were charged with ensuring our swift progress through check-in and security. Despite the wonderful service we'd received on arrival, we weren't expecting it again on our way out, so this was rather a pleasant surprise. And, make no mistake, Kenzo and Hiro were cool. In matching black suits they delivered the impecable yet effortless service we'd started to get quite used to in Hong Kong. They loaded our luggage onto trolleys, guided us to check-in and took our tickets and passports to give to the agent. They then put all the luggage onto the conveyor for us before escorting us to security where, regrettably, we had to part company, which was a crying shame 'cause I rather wanted to take them home with me.

We enjoyed the tranquility of the Virgin Clubhouse, a sarnie and a couple of glasses of mojito and champers afore boarding our flight (the pic above is testament to Tizer's inability to handle her mojitos) . As I mentioned earlier, it was around this time that we realised our jackets were still hung in the Clubhouse, which put me in one of the vilest moods (something which didn't go unnoticed by Mrs V) for the first hour or so of the flight. A G & T and a pleasant dinner soon calmed me somewhat, but I'm still cursing my own stupidity. Anyway, for the nerdier among you, those good people at V-Flyer have been kind enough to let me post a trip report of the flight, so feel free to take a look.

We arrived at Sydney airport relatively refreshed (thank god for Virgin Upper Class Suites...) and the only real hicough (yes, that is how you spell it) was being picked up by customs after their sniffer dog got a little over-excited by one of our cases. They emptied the whole case and all but took out the lining, bless them, but didn't find anything. Not that there was anything to find. Honest guv.

Our pre-booked limo was waiting for us and efficiently got us to the Intercontinental, though I felt at nearly 180 Aussie Dollars we were royally ripped off. The hotel is very nice, and the benefit of Club access on the top floor is great. There's a balcony on two sides of the lounge with stunning views of Sydney Harbour, the bridge and the opera house. Great staff and some lovely wines too, in particular a cracking local Shiraz from the Bimbadgen winery. Spicey and fruity and - as the great James May once famously put it - winey.

Today, we did the only decent thing a self-respecting tourist can be expected to do and, after a very nice breakfast in the Club Lounge, headed for the opera house. It's such an architectural icon that it's almost like seeing an old friend as it looms into view from behind the row of restaurants and gift shops lining the side of Circular Quay. It's truly a wonderful looking thing, unlike any building you've ever clapped your eyes on, and it certainly got my camera shutter clicking. Tizer loved it, mainly because it has so many steps on a number of different levels leading up to it. Even the most laid back and relaxed of toddler-rearers would be as nervous as a small nun at a penguin shoot watching their little ones make a break for it and start scaling their way inexorably upwards towards the tall white sails of the opera house.

After what would have been about a reel and a half of film in the days before digital cameras, I guessed I'd probably caught the dear old opera house from enough angles, so we headed for the Royal Botanical Gardens, all of a two minute walk away. This was when the sun came out for the first time and - quite rightly - Mrs V basted herself and Tizer in sunscreen. Me? Well, there was still a cool breeze, and a bit of fluffy cloud left, and I don't tend to burn too easily, so I left it for the time being. What I forgot to consider was the distinct lack of ozone layer that they have around these parts and although I finally slapped on some factor 30 an hour or so later, my forehead (expansive as it is) is glowing a bright crimson as I type. Lesson learnt. If you don't want to look like a typical tourist and/or avoid skin cancer, stick the sun cream on you Herbert.

We're all going to the zoo tomorrow (zoo tomorrow, zoo tomorrow) and we may very well stay all day.

Who's the leader of the club that's made for you and me..?

Our second full day in Hong Kong and, despite our oversized and most salubrious surroundings (I'm not saying the suite is big, but Tizer and I managed a half decent polo match in there earlier today; I won), neither Mrs V nor I managed more than 4 hours sleep. We can only presume that the jet-lag has mangled our body clocks more than we thought. It's all well and good that in this modern age of ours we're able to whisk ourselves a third of the way around the globe in just 12 hours, but it's rather disconcerting that it takes our brains a good three days to catch up. It's just not natural. Maybe they should bring Concorde back. Or would that only make things worse?

Today was officially marked as a 'Tizer Day' – the poor mite has put up with quite a lot in the last few days and probably doesn't get quite the same buzz out of flying Upper Class or partaking of the Four Seasons' seemingly unlimited levels of service and hospitality, so it only seemed fair to give her a break. And – well, hell – if said break meant that us 'grown-ups' had to suffer a day with her at Hong Kong Disney, then that's just the kind of sacrifice that we – as parents – sometimes have to make.

We set off typically late – why is it when you can't sleep all night, the one time you do fall into the deepest of slumbers is 20 minutes before you're due to get up? After breakfasting like kings in the executive lounge, and with the vague trepidation that can only be felt by a Northerner who manages to limit to once a year his use of the hot, dirty, overpriced and entirely unreliable transist system that is the London Underground, we descended into the bowels of the Hong Kong MTR – the Metropolitan Transit Railway. My god, it's clean. You could eat your dinner of the floor of one of their sparklingly clean and punctual trains (if you were predisposed to do so. I was still full from breakfast).

We were swiftly and efficiently delivered to the gates of the Land of the Mouse and, it had to be said, we were all feeling just a little giddy. I say we. Tizer was, thus far, rather nonplussed by the whole experience. Once through those glittering gates, however, and she really started to pick up. As soon as we set foot upon 'Main Street USA' – a quaint depiction of a homely, stylised, Americana-esque town which, without doubt, never existed outside the minds of Disney Corp executives– she was presented with the man (or should I say rodent?) of the hour; Mr. M. Mouse him very self. Boy was she excited, so much so that we felt compelled to join the over-long queue of parents, all with children in similar states of delirium for the chance of a ‘photo opportunity’ with an underpaid and no doubt over-hot Hong Kong bloke in a sweaty mouse suit.

All went well until we got to the head of the queue; it was our turn, and Tizer went charging toward Mickey’s open arms. Then she hesitated. It seems the closer she got, the greater the realization dawned on her that this was no ordinary mouse. This was one big bugger of a mouse. In fact, for a child who doesn’t quite top three feet, this was a gargantuan mouse. This was no mouse – this was a monster. She slowed; she stopped; she turned heel sharpish and ran like hell back to her mother, screaming, “Mummy! Mouse, no!”. As you can see from the pic above, we still managed to get our photo, but Tizer was far from happy and insisted she be kept a safe distance from mutant the cheese-muncher.

We hit the ‘attractions’ after that, and managed the carousel, the spinning tea-cups (just a little nausea inducing), a ride down the ‘river’ complete with pretend animals that reared out of the water at you, and a visit to Tarzan’s treehouse. He wasn’t home, but we had a good nose round all the same.

The climax of the day was the firework display over the fairytale castle (Cinderella’s? Sleeping Beauty’s? Maybe they ‘castle share’; mind you, I bet Cinderella does all the cleaning and Sleeping Beauty never gets out of bed, lazy cow). Stunning fireworks, although Tizer managed to sleep through the whole display, which was a shame. Oh, and best of all – it snowed! In Hong Kong! In 70 degree heat! OK, so it was just soap-suds blown out of the rooftops along Main Street, but it was still particularly Christmassy, even for a jaded old fool like me. Snow gently falling, Hong Kong kids going bloomin’ cock-a-hoop for the stuff, carols playing and a huge great Christmas tree twinkling away at the bottom of the street. Bloody marvelous.

Even the trip back to Hong Kong was a pleasure. Seeing so many people leave Disney en-masse after the fireworks, we were fearing the worse when we got back to the train station, but one has to keep reminding oneself that this is Hong Kong, not the UK. Folk filed in an orderly fashion towards the station; the transit authorities, wise to the fact that this is a busy time, put on extra staff and trains to cope, and everything went smoother than Micheal Buble gargling with chocolate syrup whilst wearing silk pyjamas.

My good lady wife and I dined in our suite after putting our comatose daughter to bed, whilst enjoying views across Victoria Harbour. It was almost like being on honeymoon…

Kowloon and Mongkok tomorrow (reputedly one of the most densely populated places on earth), so that should be fun.