My connecting flight from Christchurch to Auckland was slightly late. I was informed by the stewardess while she was giving out the drinks that the cabin had been contacted and I wouldn’t be making my flight to Rotorua.
When I landed I went to the desk and was placed on standby for a flight two hours later. Standby. It has never happened to me before and visions of the tangled mess of phone calls rebooking hotels and taxis flooded my mind.
Luckily me and the other person on standby made it onto the flight. But the pilot was AWOL. Seriously? The pilot finally arrived proclaiming his watch was set to the wrong time and I entered the smallest plane I have ever been on. Twenty seats in total. One each side. I could see the cockpit and I was seated next to the emergency door. I hastily scribbled a note in case I died with no final words.
It was possibly the bumpiest landing I have ever had – like I said I could see the cockpit, thus out of the front window and the horizon was waving like the sea.
I am recovering in my hotel bed watching fuzzy TV and sniffing Rotorua’s sulphuric air. I miss Mr Pigalina.
Pigalina's Palace 