Five things I’ve learnt from 34 years of travelling long-haul economy

“I think we’ve gone into a black hole.” The woman next to me has never flown long-haul before. Hair in tufts above her pushed-up eye-mask, mascara in broken fronds on her cheeks, she digs both elbows into her armrests and hovers briefly in midair before settling herself onto her other bum cheek.

“Not long now,” I mouth, blurred by the familiar weirdness, the wading-through-treacle vibe that always comes with sitting in a metal tube for an unceasing chunk of time. The seven-hour flight from Melbourne to Singapore was simple enough. After evening take-off I had put in my earplugs, pulled on my support socks and buckled my seatbelt over my blanket. I’d rested my ear against the headrest’s winged curve, hugged my travel pillow to my chest as if it was my support animal and – further aided by half, just a half, of an over-the-counter sleeping pill – slept enough to feel okay in transit.

Long-haul economy is long-haul economy: the airline you fly with makes little difference.Credit: Getty Images

The three-hour limbo at Changi Airport was manageable, too, what with all the teeny tropical wings fluttering prettily inside the humid Butterfly House, the calorific flourish of whipped cream on my cappuccino and a foot massage in the spa in Terminal 3 fortifying me, supposedly, for the trek ahead.

But it’s the ensuing 13-to-14 hours from Singapore to London, which is the same if you fly via Bangkok or Hong Kong, that’s the killer (Dubai to London is 7 hours, 40 minutes but you’ve still got to conquer that 13-hour leg from Oz). Emirates, Qantas, Thai Airways, Singapore Airlines ... In the 34 years since I first moved to the UK on a whim after falling for a British stand-up comedian (who paid for me to fly creaky old Aeroflot via Moscow then overnighted at Heathrow with a bottle of Jack Daniels after my plane was delayed), returning to Melbourne once, sometimes twice a year, I have flown them all.

I’m a freelance writer. When boarding, I turn right. For a while I tried staying loyal to different airlines until I could no longer afford their fares: Emirates, I’m looking at you. Now I figure that if the carrier’s reputation is decent enough, long-haul economy is long-haul economy. Just get me there in one piece. I’ve to-and-fro-ed so many times that I should probably be immune to jet lag or have a system in place to avoid it. But no matter how much sleep I get, water I glug or salty snacks I avoid, I’m walloped by fatigue regardless of direction. I understand that my soul travels at the walking pace of a camel and is never in hurry to catch up with the rest of me. Still, at least I know what to expect.

Knowledge is power: The patterns

If the movie I’m watching is remotely sad, I’ll end up sobbing like the newly grief-stricken.Credit: Getty Images/iStockphoto

Here it comes. The creeping discombobulation as the hours crawl by: are these my shoes? Is my neighbour wearing my eye mask? Am I speaking words out loud or only moving my mouth? The restroom sinks, now foamy and/or clogged, that previous passengers have stopped wiping as a courtesy. The not-nice smell wafting from hundreds of bodies breathing, burping and farting, no matter how many times the cabin air is changed. The inevitability of the fact that, even if the movie I am watching is the slightest bit sad (Paddington Bear, alone and in a cell!) I’ll end up sobbing like the newly grief-stricken. The side-eye I get from the crew when everyone else is asleep and I’ve padded down the floor-lit aisle, peered around their curtain and asked for another white wine.

Things to avoid on a long-haul flight

Avoid: putting valuables like tablets and passports in seatback pockets.Credit: Getty Images/iStockphoto

For the first few years, until smoking on planes was banned, I avoided sitting near the smoking section with its hardcore, Olympic champion puffers (I gave up smoking decades ago, just after I split with the comedian, but still wheeze at the memory of that thick back-of-plane haze). And while I’ll enjoy a glass of wine with my onboard meal, considering it my reward for sitting so long, so unnaturally, I know that its effects are heightened: three little bottles of sav blanc in a row once gave me a hangover so severe it made time onboard sag like heavy spaghetti. I never put any valuables in seat pockets – most airlines have enough lost tablets and phones to stock a JB Hi-Fi – and have stopped cramming my hand luggage with items I won’t need (who wants to read Improve Your Spanish Grammar when you could be watching Furiosa?). Nor do I rest my feet on top of the seat in front of me because a) it’s rude and b) where I can, I’ll pay for an exit seat so there is no one in front of me anyway.

Things to do on a long-haul flight

Check in early. Drink water from a refillable bottle you will lose in transit. Stretch, walk up and down, stretch again. I’ve done many a sneaky Downward Dog in plane toilet hallways. I keep my phone, wallet and passport in a small cross-body bag I wear always (as time yawns on I tend to touch them periodically, OCD-style, for reassurance). I keep essentials like deodorant, moisturiser, toothbrush and toothpaste in a little drawstring bag I hook over the armrest. Entertainment-wise, I’ll watch a blockbuster and an independent film then listen to an audiobook on my phone to rest my eyes; too much close screen time gets mine feeling like they’re popping from their sockets. I used to bring snacks for the flight to tide me over between meals but stopped since I always just ate them immediately.

To stop over or not to stop over

I used to break up the journey. I’ve sipped a Singapore Sling at Raffles. Trekked The Peak in Hong Kong. Got lost inside the Mall in Dubai. But spending one or two nights in a plush hotel always felt like a long lay over, and the jetlag at the end was still a doozy. These days I keep going. I’m purpose driven; I’m travelling to see my mum, which is especially important now I no longer have my dad (staring out the window and imagining him sitting happily on a cloud, sometimes in the company of my other departed friends, is another valued inflight pastime). Much better to get it over with, like childbirth, or crossing through the world’s longest tunnel. To hold out for the finish line, even if you are then forced to wait, catatonic by the carousel, for your suitcase (to which you’ve attached a bright identifying tag).

The joy of having someone meet you

The joy of being collected from airport arrivals.Credit: Getty Images

There’s something life-affirming about seeing a familiar face at arrivals. My Aussie girlfriends take it in turns, Serena this year, Lisa or Penny that year.

They used to stand at the exit but now meet me at the pick-up zone, ready for the wave of hyper-chatty excitability that always hits me after I land – because I’m here, finally, finally!, after all that bum-numbing sitting – knowing that in a few hours I’ll start to tongue-tie my words and splutter slowly to a halt like a dying Duracell Bunny.

Then a few weeks later I’ll do it all in reverse. The earplugs, the transit, the apparently endless vortex. My partner collected me last time. “Can I help you with your bags, Miss Cornwell?” he yelled over the crowd, after I’d failed to spot him and was putting my shoulder into pushing my trolley.

We were already driving when he asked me how my flight was. But by then, relieved, happy and increasingly lagged, I could barely remember.