At last the day has arrived. In a mere handful of hours we’ll be on our way to Thailand to cast off our woolly jumpers in exchange for bikinis (me, not Rodney) and sundresses (me, not Rodney).
I love my life. I love living, and breathing, and eating, and dancing. Etc. I love not being dead. I mention this because folk have been reminding me of my mortality all week. I’ve been receiving lots of messages wishing us a safe journey, and a handful of messages advising we steer clear of terrorists. My mum’s message had a sort of inquisitive tone: ‘Do you think you will be flying over any terrorist bastards, darling?’. Hard to say mum, hard to say.
Usually I’d roll my eyes at such foolishness. But there is no eye rolling occurring at the moment. I am neither ashamed nor proud to admit that I am positively shitting myself. My carefree backpacker vibe has been shaken. The fire of fear has been stoked. I’m officially afraid of flying.
I used to love long haul flights. The little dinners and the free gins and the personal movie screens. But all I’ve been able to think about this week is planes being blown out of the sky and people being shot with AK-47s. It’s enough to stop a girl from ever wanting to leave the house again.
Except I don’t have a house. I have a van. A very cold f*cking van. And unless I want to spend the winter miserable and hypothermic (I don’t) I need to woman up and board the plane.
Statistically speaking, we were more likely to die in the van this summer, or on the Piccadilly line train that I’m presently sat on. In fact, Google tells me that the only form of transport safer than a plane is the escalator or elevator. Unfortunately it’s not yet possible to get an escalator to Asia (or so Google would have you believe). So plane it is!
I’m doing my best to get into a cheerier frame of mind. A wise man once said ‘the only thing we have to fear is fear itself’ (I don’t know if he was wise actually, but I like his words nonetheless). Other phrases that I’ve been mulling over include ‘when your time’s up, your time’s up’ and ‘don’t let the bastards get you down’ and ‘a life lived in fear is a life half lived’ and ‘you’re not dead yet’. But my current favourite is the thing my brother says to me on our yearly trips to Cornwall… ‘tell your face it’s on holiday’.
So that’s my plan for the next 20 hours. To tell my face it’s on holiday. How am I doing so far?
Yeah, not great.
As you can see I’m now at the airport (time flies when you’re afraid of flying) so I’m going to go drink myself a gin or two and keep telling things to my face until Rodney gets here. He’ll probably be very late just to add some further tension to proceedings.
On the off (statistically minuscule) chance that this is my last post, let it be known that I left this world with a belly full of gin and a face that looked almost like it was on holiday.