I wake up and its dark, air flows over me from the air conditioning vent in the ceiling above my bed and I wonder how much longer before my alarm goes off. I close my eyes and straight away my phone starts beeping. Its 4:45am.

The shower is cold at first, then various kinds of warm that don't quite wake me up as much as I would like. Before I know it I'm dressed and sitting in the car en route to the airport. When I get there I check in, pass through security then sit and watch people go by. Couples embrace, colleagues shake hands, others just sit and watch me in turn. Yesterday I went to the book store, hoping for Philip K. Dick I settled on Bret Easton Ellis - Less Than Zero. I read a few pages and sip lemon iced tea before I decide its too early for books, so I go back to watching people.

First call for boarding and I'm in line, the man tears off my boarding pass stub and I walk down some steps and onto the tarmac. The air is warm and its still dark apart from the artificial, yellowish illumination from the floodlights. The plane is a Fokker 50 turboprop, big enough to not make you too scared to board but small enough that you never get high enough above the weather to avoid turbulence. I've been on these maybe half a dozen times and its enough to make me wish for a Boeing 717.

It was seven days ago that I was on the same kind of plane, same flight number. About half way through the flight the pilot's voice crackled over the PA system and told us we were flying around a storm. Just before the aircraft begun its descent there was a loud bang and flash outside the window as the plane got struck by lightning. There were a few nervous giggles around the cabin and the pilot got us down without incident it wasn't until later that I learned one of the engines had to be replaced and I wonder how close we came to a fiery demise.

My seat is on the aisle near the front of the plane and the guy sitting next to me has a big gut. The guy in front's head shakes and I figure it must be something like Cerebral Palsy, or Parkinson's Disease but he doesn't seem so old. I guess if Michael J. Fox has got it then this guy could too. He reaches up for the reading light above and his hand trembles so bad that I feel uncomfortable and look away. I wouldn't trade places with him for the world.

Two flight attendants, both female, one brunette and one that I guess would pass for a blonde in a pinch, she has nice eyes but wears too much makeup, I think. I'm sure I've seen the brunette someplace before and I guess its possible she was on another flight, but then again she just has one of those faces.

What passes for a hot breakfast on these flights consists of congealed scrambled egg, a dozen baked beans, half a tomato and a chipolata. I eat it all because I'm hungry and its not as bad as it sounds. I fumble and drop my unopened sachet of sugar in my coffee but manage to fish it out before it soaks through.

I read another thirty or so pages of my book before getting sleepy so I put it in the chair in front of me and close my eyes. The seat is uncomfortable and I try not to fall asleep, afraid that I'll snap fast awake as my head slides onto the shoulder of the guy next to me. Either that or I'll start snoring. So I sit in my chair, not quite asleep but definitely not awake and trying hard to stay up straight. At this point I wish I had the window seat.

The landing is bumpy and I wonder if the pilot has been drinking. If he has, I wish he'd saved some for me. By now its 8:55am and bright and hot as I step off the plane and thank god I brought my sunglasses. Newman has a small airport, more an oversized shed than anything. I pick up the keys to my rental car - a white commodore. The fine folk at budget car rental really lack imagination.

Its only when I've picked up my baggage that I realise I left my book in the plane. Damn, thats twenty-two bucks I'll never see again. I think about the journey its about to take, the trip back to Perth, its potential new owner. I can't imagine your average guy from the mines enjoying the sordid themes Bret Easton Ellis is renowned for (well, maybe they'll dig the drugs) but hey, at least it wasn't a copy of American Psycho. I hope the flight attendant finds it first.