Duty-free browsing set up my long-haul walk of shame

WHEN I can’t get to sleep, which is regrettably most nights lately, as a variation on counting sheep, I count the number of times I have flown across the Atlantic.

Not that I’m a jetsetter, for despite my penchant for Caribbean holidays, most of my trips have been for work purposes, namely before I retired as a performer and director with Bath’s Natural Theatre Company. Jet-setting by proxy you might call it.

As well as several visits to the United States, I’ve got performances under my belt in Canada, Costa Rica, Colombia, Brazil, Ecuador and even a one-night stand in the Virgin Islands.

Not that one sees much through the tiny holes in the company’s perennial favourite, the nose-flattening flowerpot masks.

But even ensconced in these uncomfortable headpieces, one does get a flavour of the streets, and one certainly gets to meet the locals. Although, in some countries the immediate public reaction is to run away!

So, my last return transatlantic flight, which I must admit was at the end of a British Airways one-off bargain break in the West Indies, was my 71st crossing.

How come it’s an odd number? No, I didn’t travel out on the Queen Elizabeth.

When my team was performing at the Houston Festival, some of us flew on across the Pacific to join a second team in Tokyo and returned via Abu Dabi.

This I count as my one and only circumnavigation of the globe!

A radio programme was recently asking listeners to send in funny or embarrassing long-haul moments.

My most vivid memory was embarrassing at the time, but funny in retrospect.

Distracted by duty-free shopping at Gatwick, I became aware of my name being repeated on the public address.

Suddenly I was that last person for whom the plane, in this case the Brisbane plane, was waiting. Of course, the departure gate was about as far as you can get from the shops.

I literally bounced down the ramp and then had to run the gauntlet of rows of grumpy looking passengers, anxious for take-off and their first Bloody Mary.

As soon as I sat down, I really needed a wee.

Of course, you can’t use the lavatories during taxi and take-off, after which there would be the embarrassment of walking the aisle of shame a second time.

I waited as long as I could bear, and, thinking, ‘oh well, they’ll have forgotten me now’, I boldly stood up.

In doing so, my head bashed into a tray of complementary drinks in the hands of a passing cabin attendant.

Everyone within ten feet, including both the stewardess and me, were covered in fresh orange juice!

The staff were pretty mean with their moist tissues. We got one each.

So, it wasn’t until the brief stopover in Delhi that one could go to a fully-fledged toilet facility and attempt to wash off the gunge.

And even then, you had to tip the toilet attendant generously to obtain a few extra sheets of bog paper, while he eyed these sticky foreigners with a mixture of puzzlement and distain.

Suddenly I was that last person for whom the plane ... was waiting