I started my first day with Canadian company Wattpad wearing an "I Love Canada" T-shirt. Not a particularly auspicious start perhaps, but at the time my other T-shirts were somewhere in Amsterdam, along with my toiletries, sanity, some presents for my new colleagues, and several hours of airport boredom and chaos. My first trip to Canada had been interesting, but a good lesson in karma if nothing else.

Thankfully within five minutes of walking through the door the manager had taken pity on me and had provided me with a company t-shirt and a much needed cup of coffee. And so I found myself seventeen floors up in North York, Toronto, looking out on a fascinating grid of bustling streets which I'd explored a little bit the day before.

And snow. 

It was early November, minus eight degrees Celsius, and Brian* was suffering a bit from jet lag and an abrupt change in climate from the somewhat soggier England.

* - Before I get too far into things, I think that at this point I perhaps need to explain Brian. Brian came into existence during a conversation with a friend online, a dyslexic spelling error made in reference to my somewhat neurodiverse way of doing things and thinking around corners, so Brian is a not too complex anagram of Brain. Sometimes he is my friend, sometimes a somewhat complex dancing partner with unusual dietary requirements, broad taste in music and a penchant for fantasy and science fiction. He will make many appearances in this, and will be present all through the editing process which is a painful experience at best. He also likes footnotes, which is something he picked up from Terry Pratchett**. Back in your box Brian, there's a good lad.

** - Sir Terry Pratchett is a comic fantasy author who happens to be a favourite of mine. He sadly passed away a few years ago, but his writing kept me company for about thirty years and still inspires me, and is also responsible for my Wattpad username, TheOrangutan.

Right, rewind forty-eight hours, give or take the 5 hour time difference, and the whole travel debacle had started in Devon, England, the pointy bit at the south-western tip of the UK (see map above). 

It was November 2012 and I'd managed to land a part-time job with Wattpad, and so had been invited out to the Wattpad offices in Toronto, Canada. I'd never been to Canada before, so I was somewhat excited. I'd even had to get a new passport as my old one had lapsed, and it was only the second time I'd ever been on a long haul flight (the previous time had been the US in 1995 with a friend - but that's another story for another day and indeed another chapter in this written piece of oddity). The company had arranged my flights, so all I had to do was get to the airport. I had of course completely forgotten about the journey on the other side of the pond (thank you Brian), but we'll get to that about six hours from now.

A nice man in a nondescript taxi took me the five miles to the local airport (handy) and I joined the other fifty or so people who were taking what looked like a bus with wings on the trip to Amsterdam. Yes, I was flying east before I got to go west, this is what happens when you live in the rural southwest of England.

Fog. A useful start. If nothing else it stopped me seeing all the abandoned hulks of previously broken down aircraft that seemed to litter the edges of Exeter airport, but it meant that we were twenty minutes or so late leaving. Not too bad, twenty minutes is ok.

An hour or so later we landed slightly sideways on the tarmac of one of the many runways at Amsterdam and carrying my shoulder bag (or man bag as my kids call it), I muddled my way through the airport to my gate for the flight to Toronto.

"Passport please sir. Ah***..."

***- Now "Ah..." when you're traveling is a little like taking your car to the garage and hearing that sharp intake of breath from the mechanic. Or hearing "Hmm..." from the dentist when he's got you in a horribly vulnerable position on a reclining chair. It means "damn, I've got to explain something potentially expensive, painful, or delaying to a middle-aged bald guy who's looking a little tense."

"Ah?"

"I'm sorry sir, but you won't be able to board the flight today."

"Er... ok. Why not?"

"Because your luggage hasn't arrived yet."

"Eh?"

"Your flight from Exeter was slightly delayed as I'm sure you're aware, so they've not managed to get your luggage to this flight. So, although you've made it here, we can't let you on board without your luggage."

"Oh."

"But don't worry sir, we'll sort something out. Could you take a seat over there please, and I'll come and talk to you once we've boarded everyone else."

Airport seats are not really designed to be comfortable. I sat there for about thirty minutes until a lot of people who were a great deal happier than I was got onto their plane. And then I watched it taxi away without me or my luggage. I was the only one who didn't get on apart from someone whose name I can't remember, a name they called and called until giving up and shutting the door.****

**** - who are these people at airports? Do they actually exist? Every flight I think I've ever been on to Canada there has always been one, and it's never a humorous name either like you see on films either.

"This is the final boarding call for Mr Smith, Mr Smith, Mr Smith, your final call for Air Canada flight 42 to Toronto"... etc etc.

I'm pretty sure the stewards just want to say "Mr Smith, stop reading porn in the toilets and please get your arse to Gate 42 right now." but they are of course always scrupulously polite in my experience.

"Ah Mr Wilson. Let's get you sorted out, shall we?"

'Sorted out' turned out to be me getting directions to a completely different part of the airport, talking to a polite but slightly tired and harassed looking man of equal baldness, and sitting still for three hours reading a story on my Kindle. I had at least come prepared and had stories on my kindle, music on my little music player, headphones, and a phone which managed to connect to the airport wifi.

Eventually, three hours later than planned I got on a flight to Montreal. Yes, Montreal. Which is also in Canada apparently, just the wrong bit and has a penchant for using the French language. But that's ok, because they'd then booked me on a connecting flight to Toronto from Montreal. What could go wrong?

Quite a lot it would seem.

I rather enjoy flying, and indeed traveling of any sort. I've been blessed with a cast-iron stomach, so even on some really bumpy flights where people have been making extreme and noisy use of their sick bags, I'm usually reading a book, watching a film or staring out of the window at nature trying to destroy the stupid humans who think they can fly.

The KLM flight from Amsterdam to Montreal was a massive plane. I have no idea what it was, but it had lots and lots of people on it and most of them seemed to have horrible wind. It stank, it was noisy, but I was happily oblivious as I had a small screen entirely for me and Brian and a set of noise-cancelling headphones. When I'd flown to the US back in 1995 with a good friend of mine there was only one screen about half a mile away that you could listen to via a very tinny single earpiece. I think on that twelve-hour flight they showed two films, both of which were shite, and both of which you couldn't see unless something exploded. But this time I had an entire lexicon of films, searchable by genre! Brian was in heaven and despite the sea of noxious, farting humanity around me***** I enjoyed my first flight to Canada immensely.

***** - why do flights always seem to serve food that induces wind on long flights? Cabbage, spring greens, swede/turnip. Changes in altitude a few hours after a meal containing certain foods is just painful both for the person who's eaten it, and for everyone around them shortly afterwards. Stick to the cheesy pasta folks...

Film after scifi/fantasy film scrolled past my eyes over the course of about seven hours, Brian was parked and tucked up nicely on another planet, nice stewards kept bringing me little bottles of wine, and I arrived in Montreal beaming with excitement and mildly tipsy.

My luggage didn't.

The airport carousel can be a sad and lonely place even when it's signposted in two languages. There's a lovely hustle and bustle as cases arrive on the belt, popping up out of the central hatch with hundreds of people watching in anticipation, occasional shouts of "there's ours, quick, grab it!" and children hitching illicit rides on airport trolleys as they're wheeled off to meet up with relations. But, as the bags are claimed, and you realise that after an hour you're the only sad fool still watching hopefully as the same cling film clad bag that isn't yours, a lost toothbrush, and the handle of a broken suitcase have cycled past you for the fiftieth circuit, well you know you're stuffed and need to talk to yet another polite airline type person.

And so, yet another Customer Service desk.

"Bonjour monsieur. Votre passport s'il vous plait. Merci... Ah."

The 'Ah' this time had a rather nice Quebecoise accent to it and thankfully my school boy French managed to permeate through Brian despite the length of the day, but it was still laden with the same "dude, vous etes screwed" undertone.

"Je suis désolé Madame, mais je ne parle pas beaucoup français." Not bad Brian, don't know where the hell you pulled that one from, but glad you're still with me old son.

"That's ok sir, I speak English. I assume that you have been waiting for your bag?"

"Yes."

"Yes. That's because it's still in Amsterdam."

"Oh. They said they were going to put it on the plane to Montreal with me."

"Well they seem to have not managed to do that sir, I'm sorry."

"That's ok, it's not your fault. Um... what do I do now?"

"Well," she glanced at her watch. "You've just missed your connecting flight to Toronto. But don't worry, there's another one leaving in an hour, we'll get you on that one."

"Oh, ok, thank you Ma'am."

"You're welcome sir. I do like a nice English accent******, and your French isn't bad either. You sit yourself down over there and I'll come and find you in a moment when I've sorted things out."

****** - I'm not sure if I look English or not, but people always seem a little surprised when I open my mouth in Canada for some reason. My gran always told me I had a face for radio (that's probably not a compliment, and I suspect means 'nondescript'), but the English accent seems to carry a bit of extra currency in some countries somehow. The BBC, and particularly costume dramas, probably have a lot to answer for there, but if having an English accent occasionally gets me a window seat or a smile, then I will use it.

So, I found myself parked up again in an area that was probably called the 'sorting seat' by the staff and trying to focus Brian on a story. Flying on Saturday night on an internal flight in Canada is busy. By this point I was somewhat tired, probably a little sweaty, and definitely in need of a pint of something beery. But I was at least heading in the right direction.

A short time later, the nice lady in Montreal had indeed sorted things out and found me a seat on a plane full of businessy looking people who all seemed to be towing the small wheeled cases that were just small enough for cabin luggage so they didn't have to check them in. Lots and lots of smartly dressed people and some slightly travel-worn Brit still clutching his man bag and assuming he was going in the right direction.

My only instruction from the nice lady in Montreal once she'd given me a new boarding pass and told me which gate to go to had been "go to the lost luggage desk at Toronto, tell the person there what's happened and where you're staying and they will make sure your case gets to you. Make sure you ask that person for an emergency travel pack too, that'll have some toiletries and a spare shirt in." I like helpful people, and she reminded me very much of one of my aunts, but thankfully Brian resisted the urge to try and give her a hug of thanks.

And so just over an hour later I finally found myself in a very short queue at the "something has gone wrong desk" at Toronto Airport. I was in the right city at last, only six hours late, but still without my big bag of stuff, and I also suddenly realised that I had no idea how to get into the city. Oops, well done Brian. First things first though, the bag.

"Passport please sir."

I distinctly remember thinking, "if this guy says 'Ah' at this point, I may have to punch him". But thankfully Brian was denied revenge on all persons saying 'Ah' as he told me to fill in a form instead.

I like reading, always have done, but forms tend to fill me with a dyslexic dread and Brian seems to balk at official wording. Thankfully this one was relatively simple and just required the address of the place I was staying so they could forward on my missing luggage. But, despite my travel-weary state, as I was reading my form I became aware that the gentleman next to me who was talking to a colleague of the chap I was talking to was getting more and more anxious. His tone was unhappy, his voice was raising and he seemed to be working himself into quite a lather.

"Ok sir, please calm yourself, don't worry, we'll get everything sorted out."

This served only to escalate the tension and my fellow traveller's hands began to wave erratically as he punctuated his words and windmill impression with claims of poor service, unhelpful staff and a few less than complimentary notes about the efficiency of Air Canada.

I couldn't help myself and turned to look at him, as I was beginning to wonder if I was coming into range of his erratically flailing limbs. And, as I did he stopped shouting, went rigid for a second, and then collapsed to the highly polished tiles of the airport in a heap.

Tiredness is a funny thing. By this point it was about two in the morning UK time and I was functioning mostly on autopilot, so I just reacted. As one of the gents behind the lost luggage desk hit the panic alarm, Brian, and my first aid training, kicked in.

Check airway. Ok, clear.

Check breathing. Ok, still breathing.

Check circulation. Seems ok.

Arrange body, roll into recovery position.

I stood up and faced the gentleman behind the desk who was now standing up and looking down at the guy on the floor, his face white with shock.

"Sorry, where were we?" Excellent Brian, well done. Top question.

I can't help feeling a little sorry for the fella at the desk. "Are you for real?" he asked, but before I could reply he added, "er... is he ok?"

"Yes, I think so. He's just passed out. I think he just got a bit over-excited. I'm sure he'll be up in moment."

And he proved me right too as before either myself or the nice man behind the desk could say anything else, he opened his eyes, pulled himself to his feet, shouted 'Bastard!' at the other guy behind the desk and ran off.

"What the actual fuh?". My nice luggage chap cleared his throat. "Er... I'm sorry sir, could you give me just a second?"

"Of course."

After a brief discussion between the two men, the other man walked off and disappeared through two "Staff Only" doors and I was left with my friendly Lost Luggage man.

"Here you go, I've signed your form."

"Um, thank you. Yes. Right." He shook his head, gathered himself, and then got back to business. A few minutes later he'd furnished me with an emergency travel bag containing some toiletries, a 100% nylon t-shirt, and some washing powder. He also assured me that my case would arrive by Monday evening at the latest.

And then in a flurry of movement the cavalry arrived.

The cavalry in Toronto Airport consisted of three identically uniformed, slightly nervous looking men carrying a first aid kit and looking confused.

"Someone said you had an unconscious guy here?" one of them ventured.

My friendly luggage specialist grimaced. "Can you hold one just one more moment please sir?"

Brian sighed but thankfully didn't manage to control my mouth as it uttered a polite affirmative.

"Where the hell have you lot been?"

Well it wasn't quite dinner and a show, but hey, I had nowhere else to be at that point, so I leant against the counter and watched events unfold.

"I hit the emergency alarm five minutes ago, if it hadn't been for this British guy he'd probably be dead! Call yourselves an emergency response team?"

The dressing down went on for a few minutes more, but as the luggage specialist eventually ran out of steam and took a breath, one of the emergency squad asked the obvious question. "So where's the casualty?"

"He got up and ran off."

"Well, where is he now?"

As if on cue, there was a distant shout of "bastards!" and the small form of a man, arms pumping, and still running, appeared some two hundred metres away on the other side of the long avenue of windows that ran down the Arrivals lounge.

"Fetch," said my now smiling Luggage Specialist, pointing a finger and three men carrying first aid equipment set off in hot pursuit.

"Ok sir. Is there anything else I can help you with?"

"Well, I need to get into town. I've not been here before so I'm not quite sure how to do that."

"Well sir, you can take an Airport Taxi, or outside the main doors there a Bus Station."*******

*******this has changed since my first trip. Now there's a rather delightful train service, called the Union- Pearson Express, or UP, which is far more efficient, very comfortable, air-conditioned and has wifi. And it means I can stare out of the window and don't have to talk to the taxi driver and try and be polite.

"Thank you for your help."

"Enjoy your stay in Toronto sir."

At that point, I was beginning to doubt that I would but, despite everything, I was at least in the right place. Shouldering my man bag, I wandered off in the direction indicated and realised that in Canada at least, it wasn't quite tomorrow yet.

"Shit!" said Brian. "How much?" I must admit I wasn't expecting a $60 cab ride, but then I'd not realised quite how far away the airport was from the city centre. Okay, plan B. Let's have a look at the buses.

It started snowing on me as I walked outside. We get snow maybe two days a year where we live and usually it hits the ground, gives up and turns to water, much to the continued disappointment of my children. But this was fine, ice sharp snow that hit the ground and stayed because the ground was already blooming cold. I'd not got that many layers on, but a bald man always carries a hat, so I did at least have that. I stood there for a little while gently shivering and trying to work out what the hell I was doing, until I gave up and did what I normally do in situations like this, I turned to the person standing beside me and asked for help.

I like people. But I'm not really very good at them sometimes. This time I struck lucky and came across an unfailingly nice man who'd just finished his shift at one of the airport hotels and was on his way home. I seem to remember vaguely that his name was Winston, but Brian may not have that 100% right. He happened to be going mostly the same way as I needed to go though and so very kindly helped me navigate the Toronto Transit Commission (known as the TTC). He noted what bus we needed, then steered me onto the subway at the right connection point. At Bloor station we both got off, I said 'thank you' and shook his hand and then he headed south to his wife (presumably to tell her he'd met some bloody odd Brit on the way) and I headed north to North York, a chain hotel, and a warm bed.

Day 1 in Canada - Seven hours late, with no luggage, no sleep, and very little of Brian still functioning. But I was at least in a bed, in a hotel, in Toronto.