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The vagaries of international air travel.

I had my three brainless magazines, fake pashmina, comfy hoodie, rose water facial spritz, Kiehl's lip balm, mineral water, granny-looking DVT-prevention stockings and emergency exit seat all ready. And then my flight got delayed for an hour. And then it was delayed indefinitely. And then it was cancelled.

I was forced to lug the equivalent of 125% of my body weight in suitcases from the conveyor belt, shove them out to the arrival hall, roll them out of the terminal, haul them onto the mini bus, wrestle them into the tiny lobby of the Holiday Inn, push them along in a queue, manoeuvre them between constantly closing lift doors and down a threadbare carpeted corridor into a depressingly anonymous hotel room.

Then I collapsed in bed.

Like a hapless refugee, I ventured out to scavenge for lunch and dinner with the pathetic meal vouchers which could get you nothing edible. Leather strips masqueraded as beef and tomato-covered sponges pretended to be lasagne. They wouldn't even give me water, just soda. I wasn't allowed to use the phone in the room unless I put down a deposit and I couldn't charge my mobile phone because the staff claimed that the hotel had no adaptor.

By 10pm, I couldn't take it anymore. The thought of having to stay put in the hotel until Wednesday morning made me feel a mounting sense of desperation, impending panic attack, cabin fever and brain meltdown -- all at the same time. I hopped onto a cab and paid the exorbitant US$60 to go back to Manhattan.

A tedious 15 hours after leaving a teary Ginnie, I'm back where I started.

Tomorrow will be my last day in New York, hopefully for real this time. Any suggestions on how I should fritter it away?