The dragon is the blazing red spirit of the skies, the luckiest animal on the Chinese zodiac. So surely, I thought, booking a plane for the weekend when the stars align for the Dragon Boat Festival in the Year of the Dragon would be about as auspicious as you can get. I thought my airplane's yin and yang was bound to be as evenly balanced as a spirit level - especially since I am a class-of-1988 Dragon baby.

As I arrived at Beijing airport on the morning of June 22, and was handed a freebie Dragon Festival-colored bracelet by a smiling official, I couldn't help feeling that my flight to Hong Kong was as in-tune with the heavenly spheres.

Oh, the tragic irony.

The first hint that something was slightly out of joint came when I glanced at the departure time on my ticket. Instead of the expected 12.10 pm, it read 2 pm. I checked the departure boards and indeed, my midday flight had been bumped backward.

Ah well, I thought. I had a good few chapters of The Hunger Games to get through. I sniffed out a Starbucks and settled down.

An hour or so later, I checked the flight board again. My estimated departure time now reads 4 pm. I procured a second Starbucks - frappe this time - and switched to a somewhat racier novel.

When the departure time moved to 5 pm, people began to get cranky. A small throng gathered to shout at the airline staff, who tried to deflect their rage with free plastic boxes of sponges in oil masquerading as meat. Bursts of staccato Chinese echoed round the departure lounge, undercut with threatening, passive-aggressive Americanisms - "Well, I just hope we don't miss our connection flight, that's all I'm saying."

I tried to lose myself in my smutty book again, but it was no good. My patience had worn as thin as the garments worn by the hero and heroine. When 6 pm turned to 7 pm, I snapped. I stormed up to the desk, pushed away the cardboard sandwich the flight attendant was trying to bribe me with, and demanded an explanation.

It was then that I saw the plane.

Our plane had landed. The trouble was, the passengers who had been sitting on it for the past seven hours because of "technical failures" were now staging a lock-in, refusing to disembark until the airline compensated them in full.

Team Beijing was not best pleased. One flight attendant fled behind barricaded doors as at least 15 people attempted to storm the plane, wielding complimentary plastic water bottles and baying for the blood of those good-for-nothing mutineers on board. Other staff members desperately tried to placate them, swearing that they would pay for hotels, taxis and missed onward flights, while handing out yet more fizzy drinks and processed food.

Finally, at 7:45 pm, a deal was struck with the mutineers. Yet we waited another hour on board to be cleared for take-off. One passenger lost it completely and had to be restrained by the crew as he screamed to be let off the plane.

We arrived in Hong Kong around midnight, weary, pale and drained. We were grouped together, supposedly to be taxied to our hotels. We made it as far as downtown Hong Kong. The driver stopped at the side of the road, opened the doors, and switched off the engine. This was, it appeared, the terminus.

At about 2 am, I tumbled out of another taxi and into my hotel. As I reached for my wallet to pay the driver, my eyes caught sight of the little bit of colored string from the airport I had tied around my wrist 14 hours ago. Blessed by the dragon? I think not.

Then again, this was the Dragon Boat Festival. Perhaps the spirit of the waters was so miffed at my going for his flashy younger brother's mode of transport that he decided to crash my karma like a ton of bricks. Interestingly, once I switched to ferries in Hong Kong, the skies brightened, the sun shone, and I had a wonderful weekend.

Dragons are fickle creatures, I suppose. I guess the message is, don't count your dragons before they hatch.

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