I like planes. I enjoy flying. Turbulence, truly, unravels my mind into distinct categories of wild thought. First I think: hey, there’s a slight chance we could be dying here. Second thought: well, oh well, this is fun – who cares if we die here? At least I go with a rush in my heart. At least I have a short space of time to consider my mortality (or just sit there recalling the joys of Jelly Baby head-tearing, because why wouldn’t we recall the inane while we hurtle to our deaths? It’s the best time for it).
By the time the turbulence has ended I’ve already moved on to dreading the mystery-box plane food. What will it be? Soggy hamster-feed? Meat that kind of looks like meat but might not be meat? Or will it actually be pleasant? I hope you enjoy Russian Roulette.
But in the end, after all the maraca-shakes of turbulence; the uncomfortable seats and the sick neighbour – I was happy to be in the sky. I am moving. Flying.
I am going somewhere.