[2003] LOSS & PORPHYRY the novels  

0042 – Part 25 - US Jetlag

I had succeeded in crossing the Atlantic, despite the problems encountered by TWA, but the delay that had resulted now promised a further problem. I was now due to land at Heathrow at around midday, rather than my previous scheduled time of nine o'clock, and I was expected at a crucial meeting with officials from the DHSS, the UK's department of health, at two o'clock in central London. On my original schedule there would have been time to go home and have a bath, and generally repair the ravages of my travelling through the night. Now I had to make do with the cramped conditions of the plane's lavatory, having waited in line with the several hundred other passengers whose needs were just as urgent as my own. It was at times like this that the 'joys' of business travel were most keenly felt.

As I patiently waited in the queue which seemed to stretch along the whole length of the plane's passenger cabin, I mused on the idealised view of such travel that my envious colleagues held. They associated travel to foreign countries with their holidays. To them the air travel was part of the fun, in anticipation of the pleasure to come on the outward leg, and planning what slide shows they could inflict on their neighbours on the return leg. As I left on one of my own trips they would comment on how lucky I was, 'having fun' when they had to stay and work. Yet the reality was totally different to their fantasies. What had happened on this trip was fairly typical. There was the flight out, usually in cramped conditions; with only work, precariously writing on the miniscule table that lurched around as the occupant of the seat in from shifted his position, to occupy me though the long hours and remove the tedium. At the other end I would catch a taxi, which would drive along an anonymous motorway - with only the occasional route signs giving any indication whether it was an autobahn, an autoroute, an autostrada or a freeway and hinting at what country it might be in. This would eventually deposit me in front of the typically characterless cube of an office block which was now the lair of any self-respecting multinational, no matter whether its geographical location was Amsterdam or Zurich. Once inside, I would be ushered to a conference room, which would probably not even have a window to distract me or remind me what country I was in. If I was 'lucky enough' to stay the night, that too would be spent in an international hotel; quite comfortable, but identical to a thousand others scattered around the world. The only experience of the local 'culture' I was ever likely to experience was dinner, which was invariably at a five star restaurant. The food was usually superb, for the restaurant would have been carefully chosen by the local staff. But even then I would pay for my over-indulgence, in both food and in particular wine, the following day. The conversation, with my all male colleagues would be of international business, a continuation in effect of the days work in the airless conference room. The restaurant, too, might just have well been in Soho. The return journey, a carbon copy of the featureless journey out, was invariably filled by writing reports on what had taken place. To me, as opposed to my colleagues, travel was a necessary part of my job; to be tolerated, but rarely to be enjoyed.

I reached the head of the queue, and had a brief few minutes to wash and shave; all too conscious of the queue still outside the door, whose members would be speculating, as I had, just what could take anyone so long. As a result, my toilet was rushed, and on my face the stubble was barely reduced. I felt dirty and tired, oh so tired, and yet I was expected to produce miracles from the meeting I was about to attend.

Somehow or other I managed to arrive at the DHSS building in Russell Square in time, though with but just a couple of minutes to spare. I entered the conference room, far less plush  than those I was used to; but that was a reminder of the austere culture I faced, and was just as efficient for its function. I was faced with the two most important civil servants my contacts with the ministry had produced, each backed by his most capable adviser. For two hours I was grilled about technical details I previously would have never believed existed. It turned out that my trip to the US had not, after all, been wasted. It had been a windfall, where the technical details I had learnt in those few hours with the US experts now came tumbling out, as the basis for my replies. I found, somewhat to my surprise, that I could cope with the questions, despite my debilitated state. The adrenalin coursed through my veins, as it did for an actor as he strode onto his stage. Over the years, I revelled in each of my own 'performances', and the adrenalin never let me down; no matter how tired I had been before the curtain went up.

I still ended the meeting with a long list of questions which I couldn't answer, and which my new-found contacts in the US would have to deal with. But I had survived. The DHSS officials had been satisfied; indeed, they seemed impressed. I was impressed myself. I wouldn't have believed I could cope with such a third degree.

Once home, half a day later than expected, I collapsed; to sleep for nearly twenty four hours. I then developed flu-like symptoms, that kept me well below my peak efficiency for several days. It was the routine price I had to pay for the jet-lag, from which I was inordinately prone to suffer.

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