The Singapore to Sydney leg of the long-haul flight home was to depart on September 11th of all days, and you didn't have to be a doctor of psychology to be able to say that a few other passengers on the flight were a bit 'jumpy.' Now, a flight home can't just be, 'a flight home', for me. Some of you might remember when I first arrived in Dublin in the wee hours of January 14th earlier on this year...my bags didn't show-up on the baggage carousel, and when i enquired about its whereabouts, I was told that it got diverted in Paris and was actually on its way to Moscow of all places! Well this time, I was lucky enough to get a seat between a couple with their 8 month-old baby, and a grumpy French bloke who couldn't sit still. I was actually more worried that I'd be jetlagged once I got home than being on the same plane as a terrorist. Security that day was probably tighter than any other day of the year anyway.
On arriving at Sydney's International terminal I made my way to the customs desks and handed over my passport and arrival slip to the burly man behind the counter. "It says here you're a Freelance Photograp..." he said, stopping mid-sentence as he looked up at me. I was wearing dark jeans, a loud friggin hawaiian shirt and had my Italian Panama hat on. I must have looked like one of those dodgy characters out of the Carmen Sandiego Collection or something because he smiled, shook his head, and let me through! When I got to the baggage carousel I was actually suprised that my bags made it all the way with me. I was half expecting it not to turn up again.
Pass the dozen-or-so sniffer dogs, pass the x-rays, through quarantine inspections, and I was home...
