My son Frank and I are sat on a plane, about to experience our first take off together. A shared aeronautic adventure across the skies; the stuff of memories and bonding experiences, right? No. No it’s not. We are actually both terrified.
Not, it has to be said, of the flight itself. Yes, we are ostensibly launching ourselves thousands of feet in the air in a tiny pressurised tin comprised of wings and duty-free beauty products But my father-in-law, who builds these things for a living, is sat across from me and owns a pair of Unflappable Eyebrows that inspire great confidence. Nor am I terrified because the UK’s terror threat level was raised to “severe” just 72 hours before; or in other words on our wedding day. Statistically speaking, fireworks are more dangerous than a terrorist attack. I'm 10 times more likely to die from an accidental fire in my home than from a terrorist attack (this is particularly illuminating in a year where I have set a hoover, a toaster and my second microwave on fire).
No, we’re not terrified for any of these reasons. Frank; almost three years old with autism, is terrified of the seat straps holding him down. These straps are unfamiliar; they restrict his view, his movement, and is subsequently hulking out with the equivalent magnitude of an atom bomb. We’re talking full-on eyes bulging meltdown. The engines are firing to the tune of 200mph, and it’s at this point I realise Frank has Houdini’ed the straps entirely, and is writhing and thrashing out of his seat. Me? I'm terrified that I'm on a plane with him.
