Perth bound

We rise at nine. Not much packing to do and by 9:30 we're in a taxi.

Once we've checked in our bags and gone airside we get on with important business. Going to the duty free. Where we get two litres of Famous Grouse.

With time left before our flight, Andrew suggests "Why don't we go to that bar for a drink?"

"Fine. Let me just check my bank account first."

Andrew gets a pint of Heineken. Which is 12 euros. I just have a coke. Which is 2 euros. Crazy pricing.

“What’s happened to you, Dad, just having a soft drink?”

“Singapore prices, that’s what. I’d like to have some money left for Australia.”

We wander over to our gate about 15 minutes before boarding. It's very busy. Lots of Australian families. Lots with small kids. Have they been on holiday in Singapore? Seems an odd place to take small children.

“It’s like that Sherlock Holmes story.”

“What do you mean, Dad?”

“The Red Headed League.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“All the people with red hair.”

“You’re weird.”

“Thank you.”

“Stop saying that at inappropriate times.”

As soon as we're airborne, the bloke in front of Andrew tries to recline his seat. Andrew tells him that he's crushing his legs. The bloke then gets into discussions with the cabin crew. I consider changing seats. But the plane is completely full. 

The crew tries to persuade Andrew to stick his legs out into the aisle. Which he, quite reasonably, refuses to do. The bloke is obviously pissed off. Eventually, the crew give him a Scoot towel to placate him a bit. I can see that he’s still fuming. The selfish twat. This is a five-hour daytime flight.

He could have changed seats with his wife, who’s in front of me. But then he would have to pay attention to his two kids, sitting to her left. Whom he’s been trying really hard to ignore. Total and utter arsehole. I feel sorry for his wife and kids. They look embarrassed by his behaviour.

Scoot being a budget carrier, you have to pay for food and drinks. Out of curiosity, I look at the prices. Fuck me, the miniatures of whisky are just 10 Singapore dollars. That's cheaper than on the land. I get two. Andrew gets a Sapporo.

We're lucky to get served. Just after we've got our drinks, we hit turbulence and the service is suspended. Never to resume.

A dad sat behind Andrew is trying to explain smoking to his 4-year-old son.

"Cigarettes have this nasty stuff in them called nicotine. Once you have it, you want more and more of. Like you with chips."

What a contrast with reclining arsehole dad.

It's electronic gates again for immigration. For some reason it doesn’t like my passport and I have to go to an immigration officer. No problem for Andrew, mind.

On the drive from the airport, I remark to Andrew:

“No sign of any pubs. This isn’t the Australia I remember.”

“I’m surprised you can remember anything from that far back.”

“Very funny.” 

Once checked into our hotel, we head to a 7 Eleven. Where we get sarnies, crips and drinks. I need some food. All I've eaten today is a banana. Andrew has only had two beers.

It’s raining. The sort of persistent drizzle you get in Amsterdam. Not the weather Andrew expected.

“I expected a desert.” He sounds quite disappointed.

Despite only being 18:45, the streets are almost deserted. 

“Where the fuck is everyone?” I ask.

“Maybe it’s the rain?”

“It’s not that heavy.”

“Or because it’s Sunday?”

“Possibly. I forgot what day it was. And where are the pubs? I haven’t seen one yet.”

“True. They must have hidden when they heard you were coming.”

“Very funny, smartarse.”

Back in our room, we notice that there are no glasses. No mugs. No drinking vessels of any description.

“Do you want to nip over the road to get some paper cups?”

“Can’t you come as well?’

“Your poor, old knackered Dad?”

“Yes.”

“You heartless bastard.”

It’s quite a weird shop, with a seemingly random assortment of goods. But they do have paper cups. Thankfully. I don’t fancy drinking the Famous Grouse straight from the bottle. Then mixing in some cola in my gob.

We’re watching a travel programme on Aussie TV.

“I’ve been on that.”

“What?”

“That near vertical railway. It’s in Katoomba.”

“When?”

“30-odd years ago.”

“You’re so old, Dad.”

“Thanks for reminding me.”

“It’s not a great sign that you forget how old you are.”

“Fuck off.” Master of dazzling repartee, me. 

We do some more intense empathising to while away the remainder of the evening. Sipping whisky.