And so to the Big Apple

Bless!

Mmmmm.

The flight from London was possibly the hardest and not just because I was sitting next to Finn this time! All sorts of exciting things happened: one of us was selected for a special security check at the departure gate - my son, Finn , the obvious security risk that he is, had his Wiggles flight bag dismembered, his shoes drug checked and his person patted down. This was on top of the usual metal detecting archway and x-ray machine shenanigans. We were hustled off to one side as we went through the boarding card check at the gate. Quite amusing if it wasn't so scary. Then, onto the plane where we encountered a double booked seat. A piercing-encrusted, dread-locked, very charming young man had been given one of our seats. He moved, graciously, to a new seat provided by the only helpful member of the flight crew on board. British Airways need to get their act together if you ask me. Even the old dears on Qantas are more obliging than your average BA trolley dolly.

New York, New York, the city with the highest number of armed security personnel I have ever seen, anywhere. (And we're not even through customs yet). And true to the popular stereotype, I had been wished a nice day three times before reaching true US soil. Meg, whose timing proved to be perfect, lost the plot as we joined the three mile long queue at passport control. A lovely lady, who was not wearing a gun or a British Airways uniform, lifted the rope and waved us through to the next available 16 stone, muscle bound, armed, scary-as-all-hell customs officer. He did not so much as crack the tiniest of smiles as he checked and re-checked our visas, fingerprints and iris scans. Yup, it's all totally true. No jokes allowed. Gulp. But then, with a final flourish of his official stamp, he handed back our passports, permitted himself a tiny smile-ette and said, "Have a nice day". Four! Bingo!