As someone who flies a lot for work, many of my moments of high blood pressure or ‘Is this really what I want in life?’ introspection take place in airports or on aeroplanes. I cannot – to put it gently – relate to the moronic practitioners of the ‘airport theory’, which involves turning up deliberately late for flights to get an adrenaline rush, and/or to make a sorry living off social media views. No, I’m there in good time, so it shouldn’t be a particularly stressful experience. And yet I’ve come to rather despise flying.
It wasn’t always this way. Admittedly my relationship with flying got off to a slightly tricky start. In my childhood I used to get extreme bouts of restless leg syndrome, which is a part of my medical history I’m happy to share for its comedic value.
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