Every time I have to fly, I die a little...

E IVERY time I fly I realise just how much I despise it. Some might say I’m a lunatic on the ground, but put me in the air and I’ll show you loony. I would have absolutely no idea what to do if, God forbid, an emergency occurred. have never been able to listen to the instructions because my mind is in turmoil and I’m catastrophising. I would just have to put my head between my legs and kiss my dainty little derriere goodbye.

It’s not the take off and landing. I could fly the plane for those two exercises. It’s the turbulence that gets me. People always try to reassure me with trite platitudes.

“It’s only like driving on a bumpy road”. Now I would prefer to be on four wheels on a bumpy road than in a metal cylinder being held up by a miracle. To compound matters I nearly always end up sitting next to psychos. Or in front of them. Or behind them. On a recent long haul flight a dyed blonde older person threw her seat back two minutes after take off. Her head was virtually on my lap. I was tempted to tell her she needed to get her roots done pronto. I said nothing. But karma is a strange thing, and when the turbulence became really mean and nasty, I felt obliged to hold on to the seat in front and moan and groan. Rocking and keening. I could see I was making her agitated and nervous but I had little control over my actions. And what are the rules on elbows? Much to my chagrin, the people on either side of me had their elbows in my space and I had to sit like a Dalek.

I also become curmudgeonly in airports. Why are people with backpacks blissfully unaware that they are blocking aisles in bookshops? Oblivious that they have lethal weapons on their back. I really am a grumpy old bat.