Aagh.

I am flying to Melbourne tomorrow. My flight leaves at six am, which means being collected in a taxi at half-four, which means being up at four at the latest, which means being in bed…

I have, as usual, travel anxiety. I’m not frightened of flying – I have precisely no fear of being up in the air, or of aeroplanes, or of crash landings. What I am afraid of is missing the flight. Of some random event – an escaped rhinoceros, for instance, or a meteor landing or an armed invasion from outer space – making me late to the airport. Of accidentally getting on the wrong flight and finding myself airborne and heading for Perth, or Uzbekistan. Of getting to the airport and finding that I’ve left my luggage at home, or that they’ve moved the airport overnight, or that suddenly physics has gone on strike and aeroplanes no longer work, and that somehow it’s all my fault because I’m not organised enough.

Because travel anxiety is completely rational. Said no one, anywhere.

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