Ever wondered what a 1st class, pointy end of the plane flight is really like?

Before you get all 'isn't she a smarty pants', I have an admission. I recently flew first class. To London.
Never fear, I bought the business class ticket but through some kind of divine Easter weekend intervention, the Etihad upgrade rabbit whooshed me right up the front on the two legs; the first to Abu Dhabi and the next to London.
Ok, with disclosure made, here's what happened.
A limo picked me up from home (that's a 'Pearl' business class initiative) and once I easily checked in, went to the lounge (it's a code share with Air New Zealand in Sydney) 'Sebastian' introduced himself to me as I nestled into my precious and oh-so-roomy pod.
it was complete with own doors and a 'buddy" seat opposite me, so any activities (no, not the mile-high one this time around) but much more important things like face-mask application, much reading, movie watching, oh, and maybe some nail filing.
OK, and here starts the really good part.
Apart from the magical upgrade fairy, once seated the Veuve Clicquot is served, followed by Bollinger Grande Annee, that is, of course if you wish to continue the champagne story throughout the flight. Um, as I did . .
The movie selection is fine, but it could have done with a few more newer releases. I opted for 2 that I had seen - Fair Game and the other I can't even remember.
The flight left at 9.50pm, with an option of an express dinner service: a sensational light beef and mango salad and other bigger, heartier things like steak and chicken if you had wanted, I opted to eat and cry to my favorite iPod songs (as I always do on a long flight).
Then I let a cheeky Normison get the better of me.

Oh, one one of the attendants 'made' my bed, above. In a flat rate of 4 minutes. Bless her. Before I snuggled into to my pod for a good 7 hours. And boy, what a darn comfortable sleep.
Once nearing Abu Dhabi, brekkie (above) was served before I was directed to the seriously sensational Six Senses Spa in the Etihad lounge where they had a series of 15-minute treatments.
And whether a neck, back and or shoulder massage, a facial or a foot massage, it's 15 minutes well utilised. I went the shoulder massage route, as couldn't be fussed with oils and all the stuff that comes with a facial. And anyway, I had to arrive in London ready to do some tv, so no greasy mane allowed.
Oh, and they were serving Louis Roederer Rose in the lounge (with a complete restaurant set-up where you could have whatever you liked from the sleek looking kitchen.) But, having just had breakfest on my first leg, I wasn't in the mood for more food, so went the 'poo instead. No mum, I am not an alcoholic.

On the second leg, and much to my absolute gleeeeeeeeeeee, (from Abu Dubai to London) I was given the prize seat of 1A. Another pod of pure paradise. In the lounge there were printed copies of that day's world papers (not too hard to do nowadays with all the what-you-see-is-what-you-get apps available) and once I boarded, was given the most current (like having been published an hour ago) copy of The Observer. Oh, and another glass of Rose.

Ok, I know there are millions (like most) out there who don't give a damn about how they get to their destination, as long as they get there. But you know what? After travelling for many years, oh, and getting older, I want to do it properly now and feel, when I arrive at the other end, that i can go straight into work mode and also know it was one of the best flying high rides of my life.

*Disclosure: Business class Etihad airfare paid for by the writer . .

A Zumba sceptic is now a believer, but don't hold that against me . . .

Those info-mercials with unbearably happy people, fluoro outfits, Calypso music and cheesy grins had me thinking Zumba was just for, well, happy, bikini-clad, smiley people.

In fact the word Zumba was all a bit too jolly for my liking.

But after some kind of kooky intervention, I realised I could mix my like of dancing with my loathing of exercise.

This could be the something that could get me off my ass that didn't require me hitting a dance club at 3am. *cue: reminiscing moment*.

At this Zumba class, no uniform is required. No spray tan or sequined 'G' needed and it cost me just 15 bucks for the hour.

I opted for an old black t-shirt, some even older floppy soft cotton pants and some gym shoes, whose heels, I was advised, to tape with shiny masking tape (supplied) 'for ease of movement on the carpeted school hall floor,' so said Sharon.

The night I went, Diego (who looks to have small but loyal cult following, a sensational accent and is husband to Shazza) was headlining the 7pm class.

It was a class of about ten people, from 25 to around 70-years-of-age, including one bloke around 40.

Basically, the Latin dance-inspired workout paces along incredibly quickly and because of repetition, you'll be bound to pick up the sets of 'steps'. Eventually.

The music is fast and furious, you can feel every part of you jiggle at some stage as you can choose to dip in and dip out, if you want.

But really, I was too busy merengue-ing with myself to even contemplate taking a breather.

There's lots of hip thrusting, fast foot-bopping, lunging and a fair of jazz hand movement too. Think Rio Carnivale and all that frenetic lower body pulsating that goes on and that's Zumba. And to music that is actually engaging.

Overall, I really liked it. And from me, the exercise heathen, that's saying something.

I've also read it burn lots of calories and judging by the sweat, I kind of like that aspect too.

I will be back . . .