At the Gate we sat in the Special Needs area, next to the Premium line, which you can get away with at our age, and made it to our seats. The Purser looked us up on his list so he could greet us by name in that unconvincing way, then disappeared into Business Premier, or whatever First Class is now, modestly, called.

We had no complaint about the seats except that the footrests were uncooperative and didn’t lift up enough. And the seats could have reclined just a little bit further. That not being the case, and the pillows being so generous, our heads tended to loll forward as we drifted off to sleep. And Heather pulled a muscle trying to lift out her tray. Apparently these seats are well known for their intractability.

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I love South East Asian food as much as the next person, but because we were going there for six weeks, my two goals before leaving home had been to empty the fridge and stick to a Kiwi diet whenever possible. I’d even forsworn Bunga Raya’s Roti Canai for a pie.

So I was disappointed to learn that Heather had ordered “Oriental” meals for us. Which Air New Zealand promised would deliver us the tastes of China and/or South East Asia, but without meat. “Oriental” is a word I thought had been consigned to the non-PC trash some time ago, but I was reconciled to it until the cabin crew made things harder by bringing us the regular menu to admire. That looked pretty tasty but it was by now 1.00 in the morning, we were really hungry, and Heather tried to make the best of it by saying that at least we’d be served first.

What actually arrived was called “Asian Vegan”.

I didn’t say a word. I can imagine the caterers thinking, like our friend with the Military Moustache, What is it with these people? What can we possibly feed them?

Heather thought our meals were terrible, but I thought that was harsh. There were some nice fruit and vegetable salads, and I do know steamed rice when I see it — but I’m not even sure what the rest of it was. And it was far from filling.

However I got to read Robert Harris’s Act of Oblivion (full of impending grimness), watch Spielberg’s The Fabelmans (lots of interesting cameos) and sleep a bit before we landed.

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Heather had made the bookings, so it was she who received the onboard survey. How did we rate our experience? On a scale of 1 to 10? How did we rate check-in? Customs and immigration? The airport experience? The cabin crew? The meal? And how did we feel about the fact that our flight had been delayed for half an hour by a no-show passenger whose baggage had to be offloaded?

She addressed the survey with the same passion and good humour that I’ve brought to this. The check-in experience was excellent and the cabin crew were as helpful as they always are. But customs and immigration was just 2/10, the airport was 2, the meal was 2. How they’d handled the delay was fine. It wasn’t the airline’s fault and they’d updated us regularly.

But that delay was the only question where they asked about the whys and wherefores. Why all the 2s? They never asked. Maybe you needed to enter 1s to set off alarm bells.

And when she wanted to go back to review her responses she couldn’t. Our own little IT team would have been asked to do better.

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We love Air New Zealand and defend them against all naysayers. This country is at the ends of the earth, which is a good thing, and we thank God for the internet and affordable air travel — we’ve enjoyed discovering the world through them. We used to be very regular Air NZ customers, although, yes, comparative penny pinchers. We felt valued. We got upgrades. They brought newspapers to our seats even when we were traveling Economy, and people looked at us with new respect. But the number crunchers and algorithm tweakers seem to be higher profile now.

I’m sure it’s a tough business that’s got tougher, and I certainly appreciate the airlines getting us there and back, safe and sound. But beyond that… The pasted on smiles? The good evening Mr and Mrs, ah, Baugh? For some reason I prefer it when the mask slips.

Like the time we were sitting opposite the cabin crew in their take off seats, and one of them took off his shoes, wiggled his smelly toes, looked at me and defied me to disapprove. That’s my man.