Every attempt has been made to remove me from food. I arrived at Heathrow and did all the snake thing – start at the head, worked my way into the belly. (Eventually I will emerge at the tail in San Diego California, a minor dependency of the Republic of Trumpsylvania, barring terrorism, death of me or pilot, copilot and all the crew from the awful airline food, mechanical failure, Russian missiles or ISIS drone attacks.). In other words I entered Terminal 5, stood in the BA queue, did the “pretty please give me a window set” got refused but got an upgrade anyway. Aisle in Plus. Great I thought and went through the next part of the snake, Security, through which I successfully beeped – and then, accepted as a non terrorist and permitted to enter the hallowed area of the Departures, I wandered about wishing for things. Realising I don’t need things. Still wishing for them. Despising myself for wishing for expensive shit designed to make people feel like expensive shits. What the hell, just time for Wagamama.

Where the waiter forgot to bring my Ramen main course. Very apologetic, but I can’t eat apologies.

Mortally wound up, went to WH Smith for a sarnie. The queue being at least thirty people, I gave the sandwich I had chosen to a passing uniformed person (who muttered “I don’t work here”) and stormed off to the Gate. Where, another WH Smith advertising food didn’t have any or if they did it was hidden behind a dirty grey blind.

By this time I had walked, according to the exercise app, 1.9 km. Dashing off an “I hate Heathrow” Facebook post, I headed for the queue of people boarding the aircraft. Where a fat person, seeing me doing my quick Facebook post, inserted himself in front of me. You fat person, I thought. And when I reached the BA Smiler in charge of boarding, laughing I mentioned fat person’s discourtesy and suggested she arrange a spillage of something scorching onto his lap. She smiled and nodded so perhaps she will.

So there I was in my Plus seat.  Yeh, more legroom. Yeh, a drink – in a glass! – was shoved at my face.  I selected water. And a menu was smilingly and proudly put into my hand, which was also attempting to control both glass and my backpack, for which there was insufficient room under the seat.

No veggie option.

Faced with boiled beef and cabbage (really!) or chicken with lots of faux-Asian vegetables.

Smart me – I have some snack bars in my bag. In my bag! In the blasted overhead locker! Not under my seat….only 9h56m to go.

Fortunately my neighbour is amusing intelligent and interesting. He is, however,sniffling sneezing and coughing….A psychologist who lectures at Cambridge….

2.15 San Diego time

BA obviously has a plan to starve me to death. I had no choice other than to accept the chicken and forgive me, my veggie friends, I ate it. In mitigation please remember there was no choice! The words which turned me vegetarian in February in India where I was brainwashed by Jains were “meat eaters leave a trail of blood behind them”. These words cured me, at least as far as meat is concerned. I continued to eat fish and eggs, mostly in rebellion at being put into a position in which my life choices were dictated by others. I have never been easy with that. And now I have eaten chicken, well a very small piece but the flesh and blood of a bit of the bird is now in my stomach where, safe at last from predation, it transforms into my own flesh blood and shit.

This tiny “meal” has left me despising all food. And the ghastly tiny snack box I have just been given contains at least ten tablespoons of sugar. A horrible half cupcake. A terrible Kellogg’s snack bar (“now with even more fruit!” At least a gram!) and a ghastly infinitesimal sample pack of nachos accompanied by a tub of tomato sauce redolent with sugar, labelled “Salsa sauce”. And that’s it! That’s all we are going to get on this 13 hour flight. In my usual thirteen hour day I have TWO meals plus breakfast plus snacks plus coffee plus fruit juice. And a tiny percentage of the sugar I have just ingested. And I am not even slightly fat.

I have watched the new Star Trek and it rocks and fizzles and burns. Precisely the same formula as all the old Roddenberry episodes, but much better. I have also watched a very quirky German film called Ferien (holiday) which is a delight just below the level of the Lobster.

And now I wait for San Diego to creep up on us. My nose is bleeding itself silly – I have taken all my blood thinning meds which, to be honest, I usually skip for just this reason. But the blasted doctor made me feel guilty about that and there’s all this silly stuff about DVT. It never happened in the old days! Bah humbugggg

I realise this piece sounds full of grumbling, complaint, misery and discomfort so please forgive me! Seriously despite it all I am neither miserable or uncomfortable! As always on a flight I feel like a kiddie on an adventure. I absolutely love the experience of  being on a plane; of having a massive mess of movies at my fingertips; of above all staring out of the window for hour after semi- comatose hour, thrilling at the Arctic or the ocean or the puffs of clouds each one of which has never been seen before in the history of the earth…pity I don’t have a window seat, eh….?

3.30 San Diego time

Suspended over Trump territory now. Salt Lake City – Mormon home. I can’t imagine anyone naive enough to believe Joseph Smith’s tale of angels giving him golden books beneath a tree – which he subsequently “lost” would not vote for another deluded demagogue! Must google. Alt 11,582m. ETA 16.41

An hour to kill. The chess programme on the iPad consistently beats me. Too damn tired to win.

Sand Diego International Airport, Lindbergh Fields. Previously the worst international airport in the world. Huge queues for Immigration. Desperately slow. Warning notices threatening emasculation for anyone using a ‘cellphone’. Being treated like a being from planet Terror by an exhausted moody immigration official who had just been told that his target for exclusions was not satisfactory and as a result his wife was leaving him for his supervisor. Waiting ages for the blasted baggage to trickle out of the plane while being given heart kicks for exercise by martial-arts trained baggage handlers. And THENhving the incredible experience of having to line up again to put the baggage through the slowest X-ray machine in the world which ran on snail power, supervised by semi-comatose gargantuan monsters inn soporific conversation with each other…there must have been at least three interviews with different jobsworth officials before, finally one would be given the huge honour and privilege of being allowed on to American soil.

But this time – ! – a huge queue at immigration, granted, but then very politely ushered  to an electronic passport-reading machine. With the kind help of  a charming chappie. After which, yes, an interview and another line but this time the line flowed swiftly and the interviewer was Santa Claus in another life just there to banter and stamp, banter and stamp. Then, baggage ready.. Swift, sweet.

And delight of delights – NO blasted X-ray machine, just a jolly fellow at a desk who welcomed me to the USA and then I was through. Accepted.

Is this post-Trump USA? Or ids this just the Obama legacy? Or, more likely, is this the airport authority realising how hated their brand new airport was and that it had to change?

Now for car hire, family and a country reeling…