It’s good to get away

When flying, I usually adopt a confused and vulnerable attitude at the airport terminal. This usually puts the ball firmly back in the airlines court. They don't want you clogging things up, so they prefer to stick you towards the front of the plane, which is handy to the toilet and the exit door. It’s a win-win situation for everybody. After all, who wants an aisle seat with some old geezer with a weak bladder bumbling up and down in search of the loo? Being close to the door is also a plus. Boarding a plane is a pretty ordered affair, but when it comes to getting off, it always seems as if a civilised stampede is about to happen. For everyone’s convenience and safety, I'm better off out of the way. And of course, it gets me to the baggage claim early.

On arrival, if you become separated from your companion, don’t panic. It’s not like being stranded in the supermarket. Airports have lots of people wandering around looking for someone to help, so try to look bemused and isolated. Do remember to practise this at home, it’s important. The routine serves two major purposes; it enables staff to parade you through the concourse on a sort of "see, I found one!" victory lap. Secondly, and more importantly, your helper has powers akin to Moses, regardless of gender or official trappings, they part the waters of procedure without breaking step. For you, procedure does not exist. You and your baggage don't need to stand in line. You breeze past immigration, passport control and airport security with endless lines of ordinary travellers gazing on enviously.

Past that, relatives whisk you outside and prop you up against the car in the ‘no waiting’ area whilst they go back for the baggage. The parking attendant, whose basic instinct is to slap tickets on anything with wheels, becomes your friend and guardian until the baggage is loaded and watches you safely drive away... ticketless.

Generally speaking, buses and I don't really click. This is more my fault than theirs. The problem is mainly that they know the system and I don't. For them, destination means some bloody great garage out in the sticks and bus stops are just minor irritants on the way. For me, destination isn't quite so prescribed and easily arrived at. Put simply, the 'operator' (what happened to drivers?) knows his route and timetable. Sure, the timetable is posted for all to see, but you need a microscope to read it. At the risk of incurring the wrath of the public transport authority, I feel that buses should be treated with caution or avoided altogether as far as the elderly and poor sighted people are concerned.

Travel, I have decided, is not for me. Fighting fellow motorists for 12 yards of forward progress, battling winged insects for food, or trying to convince airport security that owning a keyring Swiss Army Knife doesn't make you a terrorist are barriers for those unable to embrace the joys of the 'status quo'. Personally, I like 'it' far too much to go to the trouble of getting away from it at all.

Born in the UK, our “white caner” columnist, Trevor Plumbly, a retired arts and antiques dealer and former owner of Plumbly’s Auction House in Dunedin, was diagnosed with retinitis pigmentosa 15 years ago. In 2008, when sight loss put a stop to the antiques dealing, Trevor and his wife Pam relocated to Auckland to be closer to family.