HAVING this week completed an aerial circumnavigation of the globe that started a fortnight ago when I flew to New Zealand via Los Angeles, I have for the first time experienced the deep joy of the very long plane journey.

In the wake of all the recent publicity about the dangers of deep-vein thrombosis, I armed myself with my half aspirins, a bottle of water and running shoes.

The reality is, of course, somewhat different from the picture conjured up by those who advise exercise. The flight attendants are constantly preserving their veins by pushing carts laden with that strangest of phenomena airline food.

In a situation where the seats are so constructed as to make you feel like giants, it seems perverse to devise a food regime that would leave your average goblin feeling peckish.

Yet they take off with literally gallons of every single alcoholic drink you could name, when we all know that water is better for us.

Walking around the plane for any significant part of the 24-hours aloft is done only at the expense of the tolerance of the stewards delivering goblin rations, alcohol and duty free diamond encrusted Boeings (does anyone really buy those things?).

They have to allow the clot-busting passengers to squeeze past them in aisles that are barely wide enough to allow the unhindered passage of an anorexic supermodel.

On the way out, we had to de-plane (thank you America for that wonderful addition to our language!) for an hour-and-a-half in a transit lounge in LA which made the average outpatients' waiting room in an NHS hospital look luxurious to the point of decadence. We were given a food voucher redeemable at the only food outlet.

Unless you had US dollars with you, this meant that if you wanted food and drink, you could only buy a Coke and a hot dog. Every other combination was tantalisingly out of reach. Buying a tea or coffee meant that anything solid, other than a bag of crisps, was too much.

I suppose this was designed to make the pixie food in the plastic tray look exciting on our return to 30,000 feet.

I try to avoid getting into conversation, not just because I am anti-social but because the configuration of the seats means at the end of a long journey I would need half a dozen beefy osteopaths to get my neck to function properly again.

On the first outward leg I had to bury myself in Harry Potter (which I thoroughly enjoyed, it has to be said) to avoid my ample German neighbour, who had several attempts at telling me all about her nine children and her newfound love of Jesus neither of which subjects make a plane journey pass more quickly, alas.

On the next leg I had two young Germans who spent the twelve hours entwined and gave me a little more room at least, if restricting my available field of vision.

On the way back the whole 24 hours was spent avoiding bodily contact with a strapping, six foot three Aussie who did not share my physical reticence, so I gradually conceded arm rest and foot space in order to avoid the relentless encroachment of his manly frame.

And just to add salt to the wounds, they make you walk through Club and First Class to get off.