Well I'm home, and what's more I've weighed myself. I couldn't possibly reveal the results for fear of frightening small children, but let's just say that Holland & Barrett should stop stocking those miracle 'weight gain' powders and start selling American ice cream.

Our journey home was mostly uneventful. I had to resort to an extra item of hand luggage after I failed to fit my cuddly manatee in my case, but apart from that it went smoothly. It was sad leaving Big Sis at the airport, but I didn't let it get to me quite as much as the lady in front of us, who was sobbing uncontrollably at the departure of her loved ones. I've seen less tears at a funeral. Although to be fair, the elderly woman she was saying goodbye to did look like she might not last the journey, so maybe it was understandable. Personally my mood picked up the moment we were through security and I found they sold hot cinnamon rolls at McDonalds.

On the plane we were seated next to a young British guy with dreadlocks, who welcomed us to the aircraft by immediately asking to be moved. The stewardess refused his request, so he made the best of a bad situation. And then asked again twenty minutes later. But after that we bonded. There was real love in his eyes every time I asked him to move so I could go to the toilet.

I managed to squeeze in three films during the flight - The Grudge (fairly rubbish), Cellular (even worse) and Vera Drake (very good). Backstreet abortionists beat kidnappers and murderers any day. I also enjoyed the real life events on board, particularly the moment I heard a thud, looked up, and realised the man across the aisle had dropped his baby on the floor. The woman sitting behind looked quite traumatised, but the happy father took it all in his stride and scooped up his daughter with the look of a man who'd done it a thousand times before. Frankly he was lucky she wasn't trodden on by the big fat bloke from premium economy who insisted on walking through our section every twenty minutes en route to the toilet. And I thought I had a weak bladder.

Once at Gatwick we boarded the little bus to take us to the terminal. Someone who had presumeably witnessed the earlier child-tossing event kindly offered Mr Butterfingers and his daughter a seat, but naturally he refused. If you're going to drop your baby, you might as well do it from a height.

Once through customs (do you have to declare manatees?) we were met by our respective meeters - my Mum for me, and Lisa's friend H for her (not the one out of Steps). Both had kindly agreed to give us lifts home, but only one was armed with Easter eggs. I eventually arrived home at 10am, tired, drained, and considerably fatter.

Having spent over three weeks with Lisa, 24 hours apart now seems a bit much. But the good thing about having a fellow jet-lag sufferer on the south coast is that you can chat on the phone at 4am, and write blog posts as the sun comes up. Talking of which, Lisa has already forced her mother to sit down and read the entire account of the past two weeks on my blog. As if that poor woman hasn't suffered enough.