(Conversely, do the corners of your mouth turn down when the Flying Kangaroo's cost-saving policy of employing UK based attendants produces a Mancunian "Ehlloh"?)
Do you feel a little moist at the corners of your eyes when they play "I still call Australia home" on the cabin screen?
Are you glad you wore your pink polo shirt when that very nice looking steward singles you out for the rest of that bottle of Moet?
Does Neil Perry's food make you content because you feel like you've never really left the worst food pavilion in deepest darkest Western Sydney shopping centres?
If so, welcome to the world of the Qantas Tragic.
I am a self confessed QT.
In 1987, in the middle of the UK storm that preceded a major stock market collapse, my Qantas flight was the only plane to leave Heathrow. Not only that, it left on time.
That's when I knew I was in love.
(I was lot poorer, but I was on my way home.)
I have been faithful ever since.
Now if only Qantas could match those pommie BA fares from Perth to London, I'd ask her to marry me.
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