That’s it. No more flying. No more anything. If I want to disappear I’d rather do so on my own steam.
The Angel, ever helpful when his mother despairs with the world and its many pitfalls, mentioned the Bermuda Triangle. Please don’t. Not that the BBC offers anything more conclusive.
So many theories proffered. Makes one wonder how people coped when Vesuvius erupted (reference Anno Domini, Pompeii). I don’t like uncertainty. It spoils things. One minute everything is fine, the next it’s still fine and then the next it’s not so fine. In fact it’s downright shite. And that’s not taking into account all my own flight disasters. Not that I ever ended up in the Andes. I am modest: I once spent ages – doesn’t matter where – only to find myself, eighteen hours later, on a platform. Stockport, just outside Manchester. Midnight. On New Year’s Eve. With only my suitcase for company. Do weep on my behalf. I didn’t. Mainly because the situation and build up to it was ridiculous.