Flying phobia creeping back now I've bought the tickets

I want an adventure.

The Teen wants an adventure.

So, I rang Granny in Murcia, Spain.

“I have rented out my house for six months,” I told her. “We are looking at schools and arriving on Thursday.”

She laughed, gutturally down the receiver.

OK, so I haven’t rented out my house. Dad’s living in it for one thing and for another, Murcia is home to the Black Widow.

But the Teen and I are flying out on Thursday and this will be my first flight as a grown-up in charge, ever.

As you already know, my fear of flying has limited my world to Cornwall and the Channel Islands.

And if I really want a taste of the exotic, I go to Lidl.

Now despite attending Virgin’s Fear of Flying course, I already have that feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach, which is overtaking the excitement of the Andalusian Horse Show we are going to on Friday night.

So this morning I am going to ring (as instructed by Richard Branson) Ryanair’s special assistance department.

The Teen is mortified.

“For God’s sake Mum, special assistance is for people who are disabled, not you. You are so embarrassing,” said the Teen.

“Well I do have a disability, it’s called fear and anyway, Mr Branson told us to ring the special assistance department because of it.”

My Dad has offered to take us to the airport on Thursday at the crack of dawn.

And as you may know, he has a thing about airports and, knowing him, he’ll be waving us off from the airport cafe while I sit in my seat, a quivering wreck.

But I wanted an adventure. And now I have one.

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