Whoever said it is better to travel than to arrive is insane.
I was packing this afternoon to go on holiday to family in Spain and noticed my semi-permanently-packed travel kit was missing its Valium. Checked the bedside drawer in case I had put it there. Nope.
It isn’t fear of flying, not as such. Underground cellar, train, plane, makes no difference, whether I’m is going somewhere or just trapped, it’s the being unable to move freely that turns me into the passenger from hell. There’s no fear, just rage. I’m tall, I’m no sylph, I hate crowds, and I’m claustrophobic. Wedge me into a seat without enough leg-room, heap people around me, seal a door and tell me that’s IT for 4 hours, and you might as well touch a match to a fuse. Anyone who wants to get past me gets a paint-stripping glare of hatred. When the person next to me takes up more than their fair share of the armrest, I could quite easily twist their arm out of its socket and leave it sticking straight up into the air. I remain rational enough to realize this is socially unacceptable, but only thanks to Valium.
It has taken two phone calls, and dissolving helplessly into involuntary tears of horror, to get a replacement script. I can collect it tomorrow, Tuesday, night. I fly at dawn Wednesday morning. I can do this. I can do this. I can do this. I can do this. I can do this. I can do this. No, really, I can. Thankyouthankyouthankyou to my local GP.
If you’re flying to Spain on Wednesday and find yourself next to an autumn rose with her hat pulled down over her nose, drool probably running from her mouth as she slumps in drugged sleep, do yourself a favour. Don’t wake her. Don’t even breathe too deeply until the plane starts its descent. Seriously. Your holiday will be so much better.
Deep breaths. Happy thoughts.