"Oh' my goodness not again." I really thought I had got over my fear of getting to an airport on time. After years of flying on Easy Jet and Ryan Air and making sure that I had someone else take me to the airport I actually thought I could get on a flight with more than 30 seconds to spare.

This morning at my hotel in Kathmandu, I got up around ten; checked my emails; had a meeting with a couple from Holland; chatted to one of the doctor's who is organizing Extreme Everest 2 - the affects of altitude on the body; and I thought about having breakfast.

As if he was on a set of rollers I watched the camp waiter waltz across the restaurant floor, I thought to myself: "Is my flight 12.30 or 1.30?"

As I strolled across the car park zigzagging around the white blue plated UN Toyota Land Cruisers I thought how difficult it must be for that waiter to be gay in Nepal.

I am straight and Scottish and I find it difficult sometimes.

He brought tea to my room this morning. As I opened the door I stood up on my tiptoes and mustered the gruffest Glaswegian voice my throat could muster.

"Hey pal, pit it o-er they're on the table.'

He asked me where I was going and I told him that I was going back to Pokhara.

He gave me a look up and down as if a cat had just thrown up over me. Why would I want to go to Pokhara?

I am not in a position to judge the tolerance of homosexuals here in Nepal; but what I can say is that all the staff of the hotel is one big family. I could see that all the waiters and barmen look out for him. I am certain they would not allow any harm to come of him.

Loyalty. I respect these people even more for that.

I got back to my room and fumbled around in my rucksack trying to find the red folder where I keep my passport and flight ticket.

The flight was at 12.30 and not 13.30 - I had just forty minutes to get to the airport.

I grabbed all my stuff; stumbled down the stairs; and rushed off to the reception being careful not to get caught up in the huge whip aerials on the front of the UN jeeps.

The Nepalese government have decided that all the roads have to be widened, so of course there is a massive TATA tipper truck executing a 14 point turn at the end of the lane. I know it was 14 because I counted them all.

The taxi driver kept on saying "tik cha dai, tik cha." It's okay brother.

I have a history of not making flights on time. I got to Kathmandu airport once not only to find that the flight had gone, but the actual departure desk had disappeared.

Three cigarettes in as many minutes were not going to bring the plane back.

And not only that, at London Heathrow I was looked at quizzically by the lady behind the Qatar desk - first at the ticket, then at me, then back to the ticket again. I had arrived at the airport a day early.

We finally got past the truck and I thought, "Well if I don't make this flight I can always get the next one." However, if my friends in Kathmandu were ever to find out.

I paid the driver before I got out of the taxi and went to get my bag out of the boot (trunk). A group of guys are always hanging around to grab your bags out of the boot. It is one thing that irritates me, if they would only ask me first.

I pulled my bag off of them. As I struggled to get the handle out of the bag the wheels kicking at my ankles I could sense them all laughing at me.

I got through security easily enough - you put your bag through the x-ray machine pick it up yourself and walk in.

No one was at the Yeti Airlines counter - so I needed to find someone with a radio - people with radios normally know what's going on.

I rushed up to the first person I could see wearing a Yeti Airlines uniform. I blabbered that I was on the Pokhara flight. "Which one would that be, sir?" She enquired rather nonchalantly while playing with the aerial of her walkie-talkie. The one that's leaving 10 minutes ago.

She quickly asked for 200 Rupees for the Airport Tax, which she stuffed into one of the idling porters' hands - and shooed him off to the Nabil Bank.

She pressed some buttons; took my hold luggage; and waved at the porter to comeback with the tax receipt, which he quickly did, but not before falling over a huge pile of striped woven plastic bags.

As I grabbed my bag she pushed me through the second security curtain and passed me onto another woman with a green Yeti lanyard who told me to get on the bus that was revving up and just about to go.

The domestic airport planes are arranged in rows of four at the far end of the airport towards the Buddhist stupa of Boudha.

I got out onto the apron and was surprised to find that my bag had got there before me. Then I realised that there was a trailer attached to the back of the bus.

A woman wearing a pair of Ray Bans and dressed in a cool looking black leather jacket with a pair of gold wings on it stuck out her hand and told me to wait.

As I waited I noticed the air stewardess chatting away on her mobile - I was surprised that she could hear anything over the sound of the taxing planes and the roar of the turboprops.

I was going to have to walk the walk of shame. The plane being so small I wouldn't have anywhere to hide: my head bowed, apologizing profusely, as only British people can, I would walk down to the back of the plane, past the other cramped up passengers, a look of disdain on their faces for my lack of consideration.

But no! I was the first passenger out to the plane.

Another bus turned up with all the other passengers.

The day I am not amazed with Nepal will be a very sad one.

I cannot remember flying on a plane in Nepal where a son or daughter is not helping an elderly or infirm relation up the stairs.

An aged bow legged lady in a thread bare red sari was helped by all the ground staff to get up the stairs and at the top the stewardess took her hand and put her down gently into her seat.

She was treated with such dignity.

It put me in my place.