Come fly with me
So, the forthcoming Mexican extravaganza is the Holy Grail of holidays for me. A fortnight of five-star luxury awaits, interrupted only by some pampering and hopefully a bit more luxury. The forecast down Cancun way is positively sizzling and we have hard liquor and a Jacuzzi in our room, so the outlook is sunny. In order to immerse myself in this decadence however, we have to get me across the Atlantic, and given that I like flying about as much as Mr T does (although this is the only thing we have in common) it’s not a prospect that fills me with joy. The Other Half is currently pondering the exact dosage and frequency of Jack Daniels that will allow him and our fellow passengers to travel in comfort, spared from my hysterical wailing and potential to run up and down the aisles in a frenzy of unfounded terror. About three weeks before I travel I tend to start having anxiety dreams, and by the time I arrive at the airport I’m in a state of low-grade terror that can only be alleviated by Rescue Remedy, Heat magazine and beer. Not necessarily in that order. I just can’t shake the conviction that by stepping onto a plane I’m signing my death-warrant. My mind helpfully runs through every aircraft disaster film I’ve ever seen - Final Destination, Alive, Airport '77…..) and I have been known to simply sob gently for the entire duration of the journey. Interestingly, if you ask the cabin crew to sedate you they just sort of laugh and wander off to trowel on more coral lipstick and sneer at people’s shoes. Trust me when I say that you never, ever want to be sitting near me on a plane. I’m the wild-eyed drunk person who clutches the armrests and mutters “we’re-going-to-die-we’re-going-to-die-we’re-going-to-die” for an hour before collapsing into a bourbon induced coma, only to screech awake at the slightest hint of turbulence in order not to miss an opportunity to be hysterical in the company of complete strangers. On a flight back from Gibraltar last year (that runway is WAY too short and ends abruptly at the sea – not good….) a friend employed the interesting technique of distraction by way of poking me gently on subjects that infuriate me. I ranted all the way home in a gloriously bad mood. However, I’m sure the prospect of a ten-hour monologue from me on a range of subjects from people who whistle to women drivers to the Bedingfield family to the Da Vinci code (don’t get me started) and any number of others in between doesn’t fill the Other Half with joy, so maybe we won’t consider that a serious option.
And it’s no use trying to placate me with statistics and facts – it’s my irrational fear and I’ll wallow in it if I want to.