20th July, Part I

I am jarred awake by the phone which, when answered, plays what might well be a copyright-avoiding squawk of Vaughan William's the Lark Ascending, followed promptly by an automated bellowing voice - "THIS IS YOUR WAKE UP CALL".

Thanks.

Indeed it is. And thus my journey begins. I shower, shave, have a cup of coffee, and check-out. The taxi to Terminal 2 cots £13, so I'm going to have put the hotel's supposed savings (over taking a taxi from Islington to Heathrow on a Sunday morning) mainly into the "saved me from stress" category. I arrive to airport bedlam. Terminal 2 is a hideous, grotty little terminal, and check-in is on a floor with a ceiling so low, one can't help but wonder if the original architect forgot to install check-in and, realising his mistake, popped in a mezannine level as an afterthought.

I'm flying Austrian Airlines. Austrian, it would seem, are not fans of self-service check-in or online check-in. Or fast bag drops. Or anything but squeezing a full A321 of people through traditional check-in desks. The whole thing is a mess - as many passengers are interlining families transferring to longhaul, the snaking queue is full of suitcases. And backpacks. And DVD players. And bags of shopping. And the check-in staff are slow. And the baggage belts break down. I arrive at the airport at 4.40 am; I check in at 5.30am.

Security, too, is chaotic - frequented by that particular strain of traveller that elects to ignore the BAA staff, leaflets, notices, videos, audio warnings, and takes an age to remove their shoes and jacket, only to start an argument with the agent over having their liquids seized. By the time I clear security, it's 6.05am. Coincidentally, my flight also departs at 6.05am. I sprint through T2 to the gate, only to find that the urgent airport-wide "last call" PAs were more of a "Shouldn't we have some passengers by now?" calls. We board and, following a short delay where I'm able to note from my vantage point that several bags are being stealthily offloaded, potentially because we have too many, we depart for Vienna.

A delightful breakfast of rubbery, hard powdered egg and two hours of being subjected to awful candid camera type "gag TV" on the monitors (just do a BA and leave the map on, please!), we arrive in Vienna. A kind information woman in the terminal explains that, while I could wait in the tiny transfer area for a bus to my next plane, I'm Irish, so I'm best off just clearing passport control and officially entering Austria. So I do.

Inside, Vienna airport is quite 80s, quite hideous and definitely suffering from a chronic lack of toilets. After queueing for the facilities, I queue for exit passport control to leave Vienna. 5 minutes after I entered. And queue again for security at the gate (Schiphol airport does this too, and I really dislike it, as it prevents anyone from bringing bottled water on the plane. Granted, security is a concern, but hydration should be too!). I queue again for someone to scrutinise my visa. And again for someone to take my boarding card. And again to board the plane. And - hang on, I know that plane - grinning children and a whopping great big McDonald's logo? That's right. We're back on to the same plane after going round in circles. And I'm back in the same seat with the same dodgy recline. And the same sweet wrappers that some inconsiderate traveller on the last flight shoved in the seat pocket ...

I read David Sedaris' When You Are Engulfed In Flames, while half-watching a film with Juliette Binoche and Steve Carrell. I enjoy a rather tasty lunch of herb-infused chicken with ravioli and courgettes, washed down with a few glasses of wine. At which point I rather happily note that the rest of economy class seem to be scarfing down some rather foul and congealed-looking meatballs. Hurrah for me - sitting down the back has paid off, as they've run out of economy meals and passed a business-class lunch my way!

Migration cards are completed, and we land in Moscow. To say there was an immigration queue just wouldn't suffice: it is an absolute scrum. After 90 minutes, I have elbowed my way to the front, and after some standard glowering by an immigration officer, have my migration card and passport stamped, and enter Russia proper. Baggage reclaim is a circus, too: due to the length of time taken to clear immigration, our flight's bags have been dumped around the carousel, so there's a true scrummage as everyone searches for their cases.