So you know what it will be: we'll get to Bristol airport for 4 and be surrounded by glamorous women in white slacks and Victoria Beckham shades, and there'll be me in whatever I could lay my hands on at 1.30 having packed all my 'best' clothes. (Ooh, that reminds me: I must show you my new sunglasses.)
Then I'll look around at all my fellow travellers and think, 'If the plane crashes, these are the people with whom I'll be spending my last minutes on earth.' (What? Doesn't everyone do that?) And then I'll cast them in their roles. He's the man who'll heroically pull a young girl from the wreckage; she's the woman who'll die just before the rescue crew arrives; he's the boy who'll cling onto his girlfriend for as long as he can before having to let her go. (Oh, come on, someone else must do this too?)
It's not that I'm scared of flying. These days the only bit I don't really like is the take-off. Oh, and then I do listen for strange noises. And watch the cabin crew. If they look relaxed, I don't worry too much. I get too excited trying to unwrap my little meal package and finding it's chocolate pudding, which I don't like.
So, anyway, I'd better go and pack now (my books are all ready). And remember to leave out something to wear.