My trip is all but done. I’m sat in the departures lounge of Edinburgh airport, enjoying a nice, chilled Diet Coke and preparing for the flight home. I’m not the world’s best flyer. As a child, flying was an experience that I loved. Watching the houses dwindle away beneath me was something I looked forward to seeing. As I’ve got older, though, I’ve become more and more nervous. These days I have to fight down the panic when taking off, and take the time to clam myself if we hit a patch of turbulence.
I’m not sure why this has happened. Lorna has suggested that the older one gets, the more one feels one has to lose if an accident happened. Perhaps. I would put it down to the slight hypochondria and fear of death I developed during my Dad’s illness last year, except that I know I felt this way when we went to Copenhagen and Malta. That said, I remember the flight to New York being OK.
It is, officially, a mystery.