I CAN report that my theory about the great airport gate conspiracy is holding up. Since last week I have travelled to Australia, first Adelaide and currently Melbourne.

This has involved four flights thus far, all of which have departed from the furthest gate in the terminal.

Two were long distance and two were shorthaul, so it can’t be related to the size of the aircraft.

In one case, I even missed the flight I was booked on (as my luggage went on a tour of the airport, eventually turning up too late for me to make my connection) and the rebooked flight was – right at the end of the concourse too.

Are all the other gates dummies? Do they park de-commissioned planes at them in order to create the illusion of a busy airport? Perhaps they want us exhausted and compliant before we are jammed into seats designed to provide a lifetime’s work for osteopaths and chiropractors?

Or are they trying to ensure that we pass every commercial outlet possible?

After my first three-mile hike at Heathrow, my sense of impending doom deepened when I espied across the aisle a young couple with a baby.

Twelve-hour flights and babies are not a great combination. However, I have to report that the aforesaid baby ruined my story not my night, by being the most amiable and sunny co-passenger with whom I have ever travelled.

I wish I could say the same about the young woman in front who was never able to get comfy apparently and propelled her seat backwards and forwards throughout the night without a thought for any liquids on my fold-down tray, a selection of which now adorn my travel trousers.

The nice Indian gentleman next to me shared a sympathetic glance when my coffee sloshed violently at me on one of her sudden backward forays and he offered me a very convincing throttling mime with a nod in her direction.

The sympathy of strangers can sometimes be a solace. We bonded even more when the lady in the window seat demanded for the fifth time to be allowed egress to the loo just as we had raised the first forkful of dinner to our mouths.

Regular travellers will know the kerfuffle involved in allowing the window seat occupant out at the best of times.

Six more flights before I’m home. Per ardua ad astra, eh?