I'd been in transit for 14 hours by the time I boarded my overnight flight from Chicago. I'd talked, breathed, and trained dogs for five consecutive days during a whirlwind US tour.
My throat ached and my tired voice was barely a whisper. I wanted to slump in my seat, pull a blanket over my head and sleep like (dare I say) a dog.
I didn't want food or drink just a quiet little spot of my own where I could doze like a Doberman.
"Excuse me, you're in my seat."
I looked up to see a Joan Rivers look alike waving a Gucci bag in my direction.
"Sorry, I'll move over,"
"Say, are you from Australia?"
"No, England."
"Do you know Heather Mills McCartney?"
"Not personally."
"She's one rich bitch."
I agreed she was and pulled my blanket over my head. Joan prodded me in the chest.
"Hey, when's William gonna be King?"
"I really have no idea."
"Is Charles gonna have a turn first?"
I sank further beneath the blanket.
Over the next three hours Joan grilled me about every famous Brit from Lady Diana to David Beckham culminating with, "Do you know the Queen?"
I explained I didn't wish to be rude but having run around the country training dogs for five straight days I just needed to sleep.
"You train dawgs?"
I nodded wearily.
"Do you know Fabulous Willy?"
"No, never heard of him."
He was a Crufts champion."
It was a long, long night.
The barrage continued as I waited by the carousel in the arrivals hall.
"You ever met a gal named Sheila Wilson?"
I shook my head in despair.
"She lives in England."
"Where?"
"Cardiff."
As she swept through customs Joan was singled out by an officer for an interview. I wondered if he knew what he was in for and whether he knew the Queen?
I was certain Joan would winkle it out of him.
The views and opinions expressed in this column are those of the author and do not necessarily represent those of wilmslow.co.uk.
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