24th-25th October: Auckland to York

And away.
Up in the morning playing sliding block puzzles with bags. Books, why did I bring so many, I've only read two in dead tree form, into the hand luggage, diving gear back into the side pocket, half a tonne (OK, 1.5kg) of chocolate into the end pocket, noodles to the bin. Drive about a bit after leaving the motel then to the car's drop off point, which is opposite the cheaper motel I kipped in. A bit earlier that actually needed, but what do you do with 90 minutes in an airport serving suburb?
Stooge about the outer zone of Auckland International for a bit, the into the heart, intending to get a meal in there, only to discover that AI is ill equipped with pubs & restaurants. Guess it's something of primary benefit to transit passengers, and they probably don't get that many. Typically, just after I've bought some nick-naks and a Steak & Cheese pie and Flat White from the coffee shop, I spot a book I'd actually want to buy, that would have previously used up the last of my cash rather nicely. Still, I'll be able to get it from Amazon, though if the pound continues to hemorrhage I'll wait for the 'New & Used' copies to turn up.
The plane to Singapore is a rather more nicely fitted out 777 than on the last leg. More comfy seats and better entertainment facilities. I'd have even been able to write (if not upload) this blog if I'd thought about it better.
Shrek 3 (as you'd expect, though I've no idea who the very butch Princess was), In Bruges (OK, though I didn't like it as much as Croz did), Speed Racer (very strange, a live action film based on a Whacky Race style cartoon we never saw in the UK, that looks exactly like a cartoon. I think probably very clever, and had I any idea what the references were I'd appreciate it better. Or a complete load of rubbish).
The second, longer leg, from Singapore back to Manchester, comes at last after four hours hanging about Changi like one of the living dead. It's subjective five in the morning before we're away and thankfully the plane is half empty. The couple in my row decamp to the empty seats immediately behind, leaving me with a row all to myself. I even get to lie down and sleep properly for some of the way, before arriving at dawn on a dry but cloudy Manchester morning to discover that the line across the Pennines is closed so there's faffing with buses needed. The plump bloke co-ordinating things at Picadilly seems to have two buses and no passengers wanting to go to Hatfield, and dozens of people, myself included, wanting Huddersfield. Eventually an appropriate coach arrives, complete with a driver who's never been there before and has to call for advice from the passengers.