In the past five years I’ve travelled overseas about two or three times annually. So you would assume that when someone says to me “Once you get to Singapore, pick up your boarding pass from the gate,” I should know that really mean “Go to the transfer desk to get your pass before boarding.”

But no. Alas, no.

So 30 minutes before the plane to Sydney takes off I arrive at the plane. They ask me where my boarding pass is. I give them a dumb look, which I do believe I’m becoming quite famous for, and they tell me to go to Transfer Desk C. The heavily pregnant woman at C then tells me she can’t let me on the plane. She tells me I might have to be on stand-by for a couple of days. My dumb look turns to that look that young white women get when they’ve just lost their virginity and now a guy in a hockey mask is out to get them.

Her maternity kicks in, as I can see in her kind eyes. She makes a call, and then tells me she’s booked me on a direct flight to Melbourne – departing in 13 hours.

I wish I could be relieved. But all I can think about is my son’s exciting morning as he prepares for his first day of school, around about the same time as I’ll be in a customs queue some 200km away.

Damn.