"DID NOT DEPART", read the stamp on my arrival card as I handed it to the customs officer and stepped out into the cool Sydney night. This was not Spain. It was not even London. I had spent ten hours in transit with nothing to show for it but a free meal.

British Airways failed to get our flight off the ground today due to "maintenance requirements", which I can only assume means that someone broke the plane. After hours of waiting in the departure lounge to learn our fate, we patiently accepted the proferred meal vouchers, and then listened to the announcement: British Airways staff had been desperately attempting to find us accomodation for the night, but all the hotels were full up due to the NRL Grand Final. A crowd gathered, the shouting began.

On the bright side, I had the company of fellow stoic travellers Molly and Andy to dispel the boredom. Charming to the last, they befriended the lingering security guards by showing them photos of Simon Willison, then hopped online via the wireless hotspot to learn the truth of the situation: there were hotel rooms available, they just cost some $300. Rather than wait out the angry mob, they quietly booked their own accomodation online.

Meanwhile, the private Web Directions after-party was still going on, and when people there learned of our predicament I had plenty of offers of spare beds, so I made my way back through immigration and customs with with Molly and Andy.

Of course, many of the other people on the flight had no such resources, so we found the baggage carousel that had been assigned to us stacked high with unclaimed luggage, blocking the emergence of our own meager posessions. Clinging to the tattered remains of our good natured enthusiasm, we set about plucking bags from the carousel and neatly arranging them on the floor nearby.

No sooner had we begun to recruit other weary passengers to our task than a British Airways baggage agent appeared as if from nowhere to demand, "Are those your bags?" "No," we replied in the most positive of tones. It was the same tone in which Superman would say "Happy to be of service, ma'm." before streaking off into the sky to right another wrong.

"What you're doing is illegal," she replied sourly, and pointed with her walkie-talkie to the impressive arrangement of luggage. "You'll have to put all of those back." The last of our sunny demeanour exhausted, we set down the bags we were holding and walked away.

To add insult to injury, British Airways managed to briefly lose one of my bags, which I had checked in at the gate. I had to stand around for fifteen minutes while someone tracked it down, carried it down to the baggage collection hall, walked straight past me and added it to the mounds of luggage still circling on the carousel.

"DID NOT DEPART", read the stamp on my arrival card as I handed it to the customs officer and stepped out into the cool Sydney night. "WOULD NOT DEPART", I mused, would have better described British Airways' attitude to me as a customer that night, as if I were some unwelcome guest that just wouldn't take the hint.