Who knows where I am?

Immediately after landing here the pilot announced that the plane had to wait as there was a plastic bag on the tarmac which could do drastic damage if sucked into a jet engine. I didn't appreciate being cooped up for an extra 25 minutes. We were all finally turfed off the plane at body-clock 12.55am (but still 22 March according to date-lines). I didn't appreciate having to wander bemused and aimless through a bit of generic airportland for 20 minutes - too long to hover, too short to explore. Then I didn't appreciate having to queue for 30 minutes for the security scans to board again. Nor did I appreciate having the bottle of water I'd been given on the plane confiscated. 55 minutes after reboarding I wasn't appreciating sitting in a cramped seat on a plane going nowhere as we waited for a missing passenger.

I've no idea how long today has been but I do know I've been bad-tempered for much of the later bit of it. But not this morning. My farewell visit in Melbourne was to the impressive Immigration Museum. It was packed with schoolchildren, 24 per cent of whom, statistically, are themselves immigrants and more of whom have immigrant parents. I watched one 10-year-old, who looked like he might well have come from Iraq, rapt in front of a display about an Iraqi refugee family. The five children had always slept in the same room but when they had to flee because the father of the younger three had taken news photos that were published in the US, the father of the older two did not allow his children to leave - completely understandably - and the mother of all five had to explain to her children about her divorce. I wondered what the child in front of me had lost - apart, presumably, from his home.

At least my journey is by choice and I'm on my way to be reunited with my family.