Oman, that was one hell of a place.

A family affair

It’s great to know that one can always rely on the family. You can sleep serenely, safe in the knowledge that they care, that they’ll keep an eye out for you and that they’ll react at the first hint of danger.

There I was at the end of October in the back of a Toyota 4WD with my wife and a (female) friend on a trip from Muscat into the interior of Oman to visit a few sites of interest - you know the sort of thing - old forts, date palm plantations, mosques, gift shops. All perfect antidotes to the Disney World that is now Dubai, the next stop on our trip to the Gulf.

We were a little squashed in (mainly due to me, I hasten to add, not my two rear-seat companions) but it was a sacrifice we were all happy to make as our (male) friend had severe back problems and was more comfortable sitting up front with our driver/ guide.

My iPhone was in my trouser pocket and we kept hearing a rather muffled automated voice mumbling something.

Turns out the Voice Control on the phone had been activated unintentionally due to the pressure (!?) of bodies pressed together and had randomly called a few numbers from my contacts.

There was no method in the phone’s madness – mobiles, home numbers, work numbers, UK and other glamourous places in Europe. It didn’t discriminate at all.

It must have been quite a shock for the people I “called”, answering a phone and hearing nothing but some trouser-muffled sounds.

So, three lessons learnt:

 Turn off voice dialling (if you can find that function in the dark depths of your iPhone) next time to save a repeat of running up £49.50 in mobile calls you didn’t want, or need, to make.

Don’t include international dialling codes in your contacts book.

Keep your phone in a place of looser proportions.

And I suppose there was a fourth lesson as well. Don’t expect family members who received strange, muffled calls from their aged relative, who they knew to be in the Middle East, to check you are OK.

The risks of being captured and held hostage in that part of the Gulf were, admittedly, remote but it’s always good to know your nearest and dearest care about you.

A text would have been nice. Something along the lines of: “Received a weird call from you. Is all OK?”

Not just a Facebook comment “Ah, that’s what it was” when I publicly apologised for the phantom calls.

It’s lucky I don’t get out much.

The great British public

Every now and then something happens that restores your faith in the Great British public.

An example occurred one Sunday a few years back at the departure gate at Stansted Airport as I was flying out to Faro on business.

I guess he was only doing his job but for some reason the Ryanair employee on patrol that morning homed in on my hand baggage as he checked my priority boarding pass and passport.

"That's looks a bit big, mate," he said, adding, "See if it fits in there," as he pointed towards the I-can't-believe-it's-not-the-right-size contraption at the gate desk.

No problem, I thought - this was the bag purchased (at some expense) many years ago for my then six or eight flights a year to the Algarve. I made sure it met Ryanair's measurements as I felt I ought to meet the lowest common denominator.

And it had never let me down. Until that Sunday. Would the bloody thing fit? I think you know the answer.

A BBC Watchdog investigation immediately sprang to mind - the one where they checked out the I-can't-believe-it's-not-the-right-size contraptions at Luton Airport and found them to be smaller than the airlines' accepted guidelines.

Anyway, I digress. I huffed and I puffed, with no joy.

"That'll have to go in the hold," I was informed – at a cost of £40.

I was confused. Not a totally alien feeling, I must admit, but why wouldn’t the bag fit when it usually did?

Then it came to me – in a flash. The magazines I'd bought for my business partner were pretty bulky. Maybe if I took them out.......Eureka! Minus the magazines, the bag fitted perfectly into the I-can't-believe-it's-not-the-right-size contraption.

This was marked by a round of applause from my fellow passengers and a lap of honour from me. I threw the magazines into the bin - £10’s worth against £40 for a bag in the hold; no contest.

"I'll take one of those for you," said a man in the queue.

"I'll take one as well," said someone else.

So, a bit of bin diving and some quick distribution and things were sorted.

Once the seat belt lights went off somewhere over east Essex, my fellow passengers filed up to me, returning said magazines.

A couple of days later a story appeared in the Daily Telegraph:

Airport staff offered scheme to help catch Ryanair passengers with excess baggage

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/finance/newsbysector/transport/8890300/Airport-staff-offered-scheme-to-help-catch-Ryanair-passengers-with-excess-baggage.html

I realise that this referred to John Lennon Airport in Liverpool - but can my experience have been mere coincidence?

Answers on a postcard, please. You see, I don’t get out much.

Opinionated - moi?

I was quite happy ambling along through my autumn years, delighted to be playing Angry Birds Go! and Tiger Woods Golf on the old iPad every day, shopping and cleaning every week and doing a fair amount of voluntary work as and when needed.
Oh, yes - and teaching the Silver Surfers of my part of sunny Suffolk how to use their laptops, tablets and smart phones.
Plus playing a bit of golf (or going for a long walk through the trees, in my case) and watching the footie on the TV.
Then I had the good fortune (?) of having a chat with my former colleague and business partner Shelia Rawknees - I have changed her name to protect her identity.
She said: "You should do a blog, Mike" - apparently I write reasonably well and can often get all the words down and out in the right order. Time will tell.
I mentioned my conversation with Sheila to my brother-in-law and he, as usual, gave it to me straight.
"You REALLY don't get out much," he said, "but you do tend to have an opinion on most things - and appear quite happy to share them whether they are welcome or not."
Well, that was the proverbial boot up the sitting part of my anatomy that I needed.
I don't have a clue what I will write about. But hopefully I will be able to select some interesting topics. Although I should point out that they'll be of interest to ME.
If you find them interesting as well, that's a Brucie bonus.
But please, please remember - I don't get out much.