New Year's Eve, Heathrow Airport: Not a soul in sight, save for the occasional assault from drunken revellers passing through Terminal Four. I'm cold and miserable and wondering what on earth possessed me to book a flight leaving London at four in the morning on New Year's Day.

My flight is not much better. I am saddled - or crammed, rather - into a seat next to the most humongous woman in the history of mankind. Her bulk oozes out from under our shared armrest and invades, then conquers about a third of my small economy-class territory. Two stops and 16 hours later, I find myself in Dar Es Salaam, rapidly removing my extra layers of clothing.

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