That's four hundred and eighty minutes
Of ear-popping altitude,
Sleeping with knees drawn up
And a pillow on the shoulder beside me,
Entering a time warp, like the Bermuda triangle
Or something to that effect.
Six hours ahead -
It was the crack of dawn and now it's afternoon.
We’re not in
Nor are we in Oz—
And there’s no place like it,
According to Sweeney Todd.
It's not a bus, it's a coach.
It's not an elevator, it's a lift.
This lift doesn't take me to my floor, but this one does -
Very selective, aren't they?
They're so narrow, they're like clown cars -
How many can we fit in here?
And I am "that girl" -
The one with the massive luggage
That takes up the most space.
Thanks a lot, mom.
Dinner is Japanese tonight, chopsticks and all -
Londoners love their Asian food,
Judging from all the restaurants hailing from China, Japan, Thailand -
Don't take out, take away.
That's the phrase they use here -take away.
Off to the theatre, thankfully on foot,
Not at the mercy of London's traffic
With narrow streets and no mercy for pedestrians.
Double-decker buses never looked more lethal.
The show is Blood Brothers, a musical,
And boy, is it loud, echos of powerful voices,
And I am incredulous at the head bobbing beside me,
Though jetlag and sleep deprivation will do that to you.
It's my first taste of London theatre, and I want more.
But tomorrow's another day,
And though the room is small and the shower is claustrophobic,
I welcome bedtime in the hotel over bedtime on the plane.