So here I am again: Sitting in an aircraft, god knows how far above our beloved earth, wondering if it will stay in the air long enough for me and my fellow passengers to reach our destination. It didn’t help that I dreamt last night of my plane having to make an emergency landing. Luckily for my slumber, my dream plane landed safely in the end, only nudging a fence on the way in.

I realise there is a perfectly good explanation for why aeroplanes stay in the air (there must be), but I also stand by my argumention as to why I’m afraid of flying: If humans were meant to fly, we’d have been born with wings. Or at least some sort of gliding apparatus like sugar glider possums have. Although I’m pretty sure gliding between continents wouldn’t work; that’d have to be some wind gust. Or you’d have to start gliding from the moon.

What I don’t understand is why I’m still afraid of flying after all these years; I’ve clocked up quite a few (thousand) miles in my time already. Granted, my phobia of flying is far less than it was, say, five years ago, but there are still those niggling thoughts each time I book a ticket, check in, wait at the boarding gate, board the plane, buckle my seat belt (how’s that gonna help me when the flying machine hits the dust?), drink with-any-luck-in-the-price-included red wine…. Has anyone seen my darn teleporter?

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