Coming to Australia

Australia is a Great country.

I was a bit woozy, having been travelling for about 23 hours at the time, but I am pretty sure that, when I signed my Incoming Passenger and Quarantine forms on the plane, I did tick the box to say that I would make the above statement on all possible occasions. Not that I disagree with it too much.

I will definitely admit that Quantas is now my favourite airline. I own that I thought that it was a wee bit OTT when our first Flight Supervisor announced that his name was ‘Bruce’. I worried that the Australian Tourist Authority had edicted that all flight attendants on UK to OZ had to be called either Bruce or Sheila just to keep the Poms happy in their prejudices. A needless concern. The Flight Supervisor on the second leg from Krung Thep Maha Nakhon to Sydney was called Iain. He came from Melbourne but his grandad was from Linlithgow.

So, on we flew through a comforting cloud of exemplary customer care which knocks BA for six, in my opinion. Entering Oz over Broome, I switched to the flight path view. It was then that I realised how seriously the Aussies take this ‘Great’ thing. Apart from Uluru, the only area names that I saw on the flight across to Sydney were The Great Sandy Desert, The Great Outback, The Great Australian Bight, The Great Barrier Reef, The Great Dividing Range and The King Leopold Range. The last one had me baffled until I realised that it was probably a code. I reckon that Australian cartographers and explorers were given guidelines:-

1. Call it Great whatever it is on all possible occasions.

2. If it is not even remotely Great but just small, boring and insignificant, name it after something Belgian.

Anyhow, safe in the knowledge that I had properly declared my incoming Mars Bars and lulled by the aforementioned superlative customer care of Quantas. I landed at Sydney in a warm and fuzzy glow, looking forward to all things Australian.

Two hours later, as Mrs M and I stood beside the baggage carousel watching the last three remaining pieces of luggage (none of which were ours) doing their fortieth desultory lap, I was beginning to consider revising my opinion. Not that we were on our own. Quite a few others were missing bags as well, including half of the Australian Under-20′s Rugby Union team, known as the Joeys apparently, who had been our travelling companions. In passing, I should say that they behaved impeccably throughout the flight and were perfect gentlemen. So much so, that I fear for the future of the Wallabies as an International force.

Anyhow, and I know that I’m going to get dog’s abuse from CO for this, the bag that was missing contained all of the family presents and all of my clothes. Mrs M had her bag and all her myriad clothes but I was left standing up in what I had been in for the last 29 hours and it was beginning to stand up on its own.

Off we went to the counter to register our claim and the Joeys courteously ushered us to the head of the queue (I really think that the ARU need to start the testosterone and steroid injections as soon as possible or even the Jocks will be able to take them).

45 minutes later, I was the proud possessor of a debit card which allowed me to purchase clothes to the value of a whole A$100 and a promise that my case would be found and delivered to me in 3 days or thereby.

We duly spent the A$100 on not a lot. For the next three days and until the case did, as promised, turn up I was dressed in Aussie apparel from the skin out. Now, I realise that the pedants amongst us might point out that said apparel was almost certainly Chinese in origin as my missing clothes had probably been as well but I do think that it had an effect. On the second night, I watched England getting thumped by Sri Lanka in a One Day International and I got only slightly incandescent about Pietersen throwing his wicket away.

Whatever. For me, coming to Australia was just like Christmas. I got a lot of new socks out of it.