Half an hour ago I groggily sat myself up and reached for one of the books that litters the left-hand side of my bed. From Dawn French’s autobiography:
“I am trying to book a holiday. It has to be one week long and in the UK somewhere. We haven’t got enough time to go abroad, and besides, I don’t really want to do that – I’m feeling a bit carbon footprint-guilty, plus I hate flying. Flying, for me, is utterly exhausting for the simple reason that it is my duty (on behalf of all the passengers, I hasten to add) to keep the plane in the air by sheer force of my mind… If I lose concentration for even a minute, the massive metal crate will surely plummet earthwards and hundreds of tragic deaths would be on my conscience…”
I’m not particularly phobic about flying myself – I mean I don’t like it (cramped, gaudy colours (esp. Easyjet-orange), ears popping, kids skriking etc) – but I do appreciate the thought process she describes in humorous fashion.