Once again we're at some absurd height on a 737, and I'm having to turn to my trusty laptop in order to avoid hyperventilating. It's a late flight, and for the first time in my flying career I've just experienced the “dimming of the cabin lights in order to allow people to sleep”. I can't see why anyone could even consider having a nap; surely they should be adopting a wide-eyed expression and gasping every time the aircraft tilts a couple of degrees, like me. I feel like I'm on duty, or something. Eugh.

Despite it being a quarter past midnight local time, we still had the same “all day deli” meal brought round by the hostesses, a predictable combination of a warm cheese sandwich – believe me, the sight of cheese makes me groan after a week in Italy – and a cake, and a yoghurt. What I was actually hoping for at this hour of the day was milk and cookies. Or, if I were feeling more boisterous, the dregs of a pint of lukewarm lager and a greasy doner kebab. Have BA no idea of the late night habits of normal Englishfolk?

And talking of normal Englishfolk, Eve Pollard appears to be on the flight along with her husband. She didn't like the fact that the only newspaper available at the boarding gate was the Sunday Telegraph, and complained to the cabin crew when she got on the flight. If I could remember what on earth Eve Pollard was famous for, I'd go on about this a bit more, but I can't. So, to follow the example of I suppose I should compose a celeb viewing haiku. It'll give me something to do to take my mind off minor turbulence, I suppose… OK:

Look! Eve Pollard's head
4 inches are visible
(She's in business class)

or…

Eve Pollard's on board
to keep us all entertained
(if she weren't asleep)

That'll do. Oh, god, a whole hour and 10 minutes still to go. Jenny has done me the discourtesy of dropping off to sleep, thus failing to place reassuring hands on my forearm and saying “everything's just fine, everything is normal, we're going to be OK.” So I'm having to imagine it, which frankly isn't good enough. For some reason I'm much worse flying back into London than flying out of it. I suppose it's cos I imagine some terrifying merry-go-round of aircraft circling the south east of England, into which we have to casually slot ourselves at 500 mph or so. Right, I have to go and talk to someone now, or I'll go mad. Maybe engage one of the hostesses in some tedious chat about her jetset lifestyle and how it's not all that glamorous, really. You don't say. Bloody terrifying, perhaps.

EDIT: Got home safely. Of course.