Even psychotherapists can have irrational fears

IDON’T travel well. Actually, I don’t fly well. Trains and boats are a doddle. I’m a good swimmer, so am reassured by the fact that I would have a fighting chance of swimming to the nearest rescue boat or treasure island. When it comes to flying, the struggle between my rational and irrational mind is Herculean. There would be no swimming to safety: simply a freefall into never-never land. I feel completely helpless on a plane and my capacity to trust is absolutely pushed beyond limits. When this happens, all I can do is put my jacket over my head, resign myself to my fate and go quietly (so as not to annoy or alarm fellow passengers). Indeed, this very scenario erupted this week when flying back from London Gatwick. Yes, I know it’s only 50 minutes. I know that it’s safer than travelling by car or on the winged heels of Mercury. I just didn’t think so at the time. In fairness to me, I blame the captain for triggering my panic and severely testing my capacity to trust. Everything was sort of going okay. By “sort of”, I mean my anxiety levels were at a manageable four or five (on a scale of 10). Seatbelts were fastened, the crew were taking their little seats by the door. We were meandering along the runway at a sensible pace. I was in aisle three and close to both the cockpit and the emergency exits. I felt confident that I could scramble out in time if we had to abandon our heels and go down those big bouncy castle slides after we’d safely made our emergency landing and before the plane caught fire. All ship-shape and Bristol fashion. Then the captain said: “Good morning, everyone. I hope you enjoy your day in Edinburgh where the temperature is currently 17 degrees …” The problem was, though, that it was 7pm in the evening and we were bound for Glasgow. His minor faux-pas instantly unleashed in me a mundane but catastrophic scenario that went something like this: the captain was so used to this short-haul flight, he’d allowed himself a few

glasses of wine with his dinner. Thereafter, while strolling nonchalantly along the VIP tunnel to his cockpit, he gets a call from his wife who tells him she’s leaving him for that really nice guy who’s been installing the sauna in their luxury five-bedroom home in Surrey. And to crown this fate-sealing scenario, his co-pilot is a rookie with a fear of authority complex who is neither competent nor confident enough to stop the captain dead in his tracks and take control.

The scenario grew enough arms and legs to eventually engulf the whole cabin crew who, I now believed, were so preoccupied with their own domestic problems that they, too, had failed to notice the captain’s “strange behaviour”. Oh, you fool, I told myself, why didn’t you renew that stupid life insurance? Why didn’t you give your other land-locked kids your PIN number for the debit card? Why didn’t you Hoover up that Hobnob you stood on at the side of your bed? In my vortex of terror, head still hiding under my jacket, my attention then swivelled round to more technical issues. I swore I could hear a kind of chortling, choking sound in the engines as the captain accelerated along the runway. I now believed that because of his pressing domestic issues, and feeling ultimately emasculated by the younger, testosterone-embellished sauna-installer, the captain’s legs were weak and he couldn’t put enough wellie onto the pedals to ensure adequate speed to get us airborne. Peeking out from my jacket, I swore I saw a wave of anxiety wash across the eyes of the two stewardesses in their little seats. They had stopped chatting. They, too, must have noticed that strange choking sound in the engines. Why aren’t they getting their trolleys out to flog us extortionately priced plastic paninis and flame-grilled crisps and the duty free perfume? There must be something very wrong. I covered my head again and tried not to feel angry at my kids’ attempts to stifle their hilarity at my antics. They tried to comfort me: “Mum, cool it. Everything’s okay. Nothing’s going to happen.” In my acutely regressed state, I still managed to feel indignant and muttered in muted but dark tones: don’t tell me it’s okay when it is clearly not okay. At this juncture, they laughed openly and unashamedly. So also, I sensed, did the man who was sitting across the aisle from me.

But then, just as I was beginning to submit to the absurd randomness of my fate, I heard the familiar sound of metal boxes being unclipped. Oh, glory be, the two stewardesses were loading the flame-grilled crisps and the plastic paninis on to their trolley. My heart rate dropped to about 130 beats per minute. When we finally got free, my friend was there to pick us up. As people do, she asked, “How was the flight?” “Och, fine,” I replied.