Ten days in the UK stretch before me as I kiss Chris goodbye and Haile loads my two half-full cases into his taxi and we set off through the morning traffic towards the airport. Previous experience tells me that putting it in my hand luggage would be unwise, so Bertokan, Chris’s broken laptop, is safely padded and stowed inside one of the cases. The first thing I shall do when I arrive in England will be to courier it off to a repair service.

Hope springs eternal, so I’ve checked in on line and printed my boarding pass. After I have had all my baggage (and my shoes) x-rayed into the airport, I hand the printed boarding pass to the baggage-drop attendant, who promptly tears it up. She then goes through the whole check-in procedure and prints me a new (identical) boarding pass, and as she weighs my bags she points to them and asks, “any electronics?” My heart sinks. “Yes” I reply, honestly, “a faulty laptop.” “That’s not allowed” she smiles, “no charged batteries.” “It’s not charged” I counter, “it’s broken, won’t charge, and is going to England to be repaired. I was told here a few weeks ago that it has to go in checked bags.” She looks confused. “It’s not charged?” she ponders. “No” I reply. “OK then, I’ll let it go. But it’s your responsibility!” Unsure how Bertokan could be anyone else’s responsibility, I watch as my bags are correctly labelled and I head off through immigration and upstairs to the gate.

A couple of hours later and having been x-rayed again (including my shoes) I’m in my seat on a fairly new, pretty full, and unusually hot Airbus A350. The screen in front of me isn’t working, and neither is the ventilation. A person in the row in front of me, furiously fanning himself with the free Ethiopian Airlines “Selamata!” magazine, complains to a cabin attendant that he is imminently going to faint he’s so hot. Before turning my phone to “flight mode” I message home to say the flight is on time. Bad decision. Take-off time (11:15am) comes and goes. We wait. Then an announcement: the computer needs restarting and it will take 25 minutes (probably a Windows XP machine…) 40 minutes later another announcement: the restart didn’t work. They don’t know how long it will take to fix, so we have to “deplane” to the lounge where lunch will be served. The plane empties. Back past the x-ray machines and body scanners and the lounge is already full of passengers and hand luggage. We wait.

3:30pm and the word goes round we can board. I’m x-rayed again, as are my shoes - third time. The carefully planned and zoned queuing system that had worked so well the first time we boarded this time descends into chaos as 250 or so people desperate to fly to Heathrow try to return to their seats as quickly as possible. Back in my seat ready for take-off, screen working, movie started, ventilation working, there’s a distant bang and suddenly all the power goes off. Then the shouting starts. A couple of loud and quite large west African women start yelling at the cabin staff. What’s wrong with this plane? What if this happens mid-flight? We don’t trust this plane! Get another one! Well I was becoming a little nervous myself. A lot of people start getting off again. I join them and return to the terminal where I can watch the aircraft through the glass side of the building. It’s 4pm so I phone Chris to tell her I’m still in Addis and may be coming home. A tearful cabin attendant announces to the throng of complaining passengers around me that the flight is cancelled. She tells me our baggage will be returned soon – something I doubt, as I can clearly see the plane and there is no attempt to remove bags. Bertokan’s in there. Unsure what to do, I watch and wait.

Half an hour later and somewhat bravely, the pilot comes into the middle of the small crowd but cannot make himself heard over the voluble west African women who are demanding to know if the plane is safe. He eventually manages to explain that a generator on the tarmac next to the aircraft supplies power while it is stationary, and it went wrong. He is absolutely confident the plane is “100% safe”. I manage to ask him what is going to happen now. “If you get back on the plane, I’ll fly you to London” he tells me, smiling.

Accepting his explanation, that’s what I now do. Probably a third of the passengers don’t though, and when we finally take off over 6 hours late I have a couple of empty seats next to me. Stretch out, relax, watch movies, eat airline food, and Bertokan and I are on our way to England.

Happily the plane doesn’t need rebooting mid-flight, the power stays on for 8 hours, and we land at Heathrow at 11pm. I have a hire car booked with Sixt, and I know the office closes at midnight. I scuttle through the UK border control and am at the luggage belt by 11:20pm where I phone Sixt to tell them I’m rather late and am picking up my luggage. The next problem – the baggage belonging to all those people who had refused to re-board the plane in Addis is now in Heathrow and on the belt in front of me. My bags are nowhere to be seen. Well I’ve seen how luggage problems like this are managed in Addis airport – pull it all off and pile it up so more can be loaded on. Passengers and airport staff alike do this, and 40 minutes later my bags appear. Bertokan has made it to England! We set off to the bus station to the waiting Sixt shuttle bus.

Except not. No shuttle bus. It’s 12:08am, I phone Sixt – no answer. Clearly they’ve gone home and I’m stranded. In case they just aren’t answering the phone I ask a taxi driver if he can take me to the Sixt office on the periphery road. “Oh no mate, can’t do that!” he drawls in his East End accent, “they have their own shuttles.” “But the shuttle isn’t working now” I plead. He refuses. “It’s next to Hatton Cross tube station” I tell him. “Oh I can take you there!” he grins. “OK” I reply, “Take me to Hatton Cross tube station, I can go next door to Sixt , but if they’re closed can you then take me to the Avis office?” “Oh no mate can’t do that!” he repeats, “they have shuttles!” I hope you’ll understand that I’m a bit frazzled by now, and so will forgive me the rather impolite language I use to tell him he is making my bad day somewhat worse.

Back to the bus stop and I phone Avis who are open all night. They send a shuttle and at 1:05am I drive out of their compound and head towards the M25 wondering how I will obtain a refund from Sixt. Anyway, the road to my home in Cambridgeshire is ahead, my problems are over, Bertokan and I are home and dry.

Except not. 2:30am and the A505 through Duxford is closed for road works. So near and yet so far. The diversion signs simply say turn round and go back the way you came - how helpful. Several miles back I stop at a petrol station and use Google Maps to help me navigate my way through tiny country lanes and villages to bypass the blockage.

3:05am I arrive at our home in Balsham, Cambridgeshire, 23½ hours after getting up in Addis. I rouse the rather bleary-eyed Bill and Rachel, dump my bags in the hall and collapse into bed. International travel is sometimes not as much fun as it sounds.

Next time I’ll briefly describe what I did for 10 days in the UK (not very interesting), what happened in customs in Addis when I returned (quite interesting), and tell you about some new Ethiopian rules and regulations (extremely interesting).