My Own Bed: the Spring of My Life
A fifteen hour flight and then...
We’re back in the jurisdiction; back near the Greenwich Meridian; Tokyo -8. And is there anything more restful, anything better for the weary traveller, than the prospect and then the achievement of your own bed?
The circumstances have to be right.
First, a taxing but not painfully arduous journey: we had a decent but long flight, entirely in sunlight, that took us up the Baring Strait and over the skullcap of the arctic - the Putin Trajectory you might call it. This was with Swiss Air, so there was plenty of time for Toblerone and secretly excellent wine. Two cabin crew popped out of either side of the bulkhead on the hour every hour.
After a transit through the swish airport at Zurich and a hop to Albion’s Rock, we were through Heathrow sharpish and into a taxi. The driver was exactly what you want - gobby for a bit, classic taxi driver politics but absolutely convivial, and then quiet when he saw we were dozing off. Diamond geezer.
Then you need to have the house as you like it: hushed and in soft- or twilight. Tidy. Space to just drop your bags, get your pyjamas and slippers on, a drink if needs be, or a shower.
And then the moment itself: Nav being Nav had already put on clean sheets. It’s a bloody good bed at the best of times but, after a hemispherical transit, 40,000 turbulent feet in the air, it was the only cloud I was interested in committing myself into: the very lap of Morpheus. Those snores were the best travel diary I’ve ever written.
The last poem of the trip:
In London at least
The trees are still pink and white -
Jet lagged old petals
My own bed. I love it.