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“It’s like an asylum drawing,” said my husband in response to yet another sketch I stuck under his nose.
I didn’t know how to answer that.
“Asylum? As in, someone looking for asylum?” I said.
“No, it looks frantic, as if it were done by someone in an asylum.”
We visited my husband Marcel’s family in Britain over the Christmas period, and took two flights in the space of five days. It’s the middle of the stormy season, which meant turbulence, bumps and in my case lurching stomachs. Neither my husband nor our three kids suffer from in-flight nerves, but – ever since I became a mother – I do. My husband tries in his way to allay my fears.
Marcel: Think of it like this – this is the tenth flight the crew have made today.
Me: Then why is that stewardess running? There’s clearly an emergency.
Marcel: Think of it like a ship.
Me: Oh, so it’s like it’s floating on air, just another fluid, and is as stable as that!
Marcel: No, not at all.
Me: You could have pretended.
Marcel: The craft is made to withstand forces many times greater than this bit of turbulence.
Some things he said helped, others didn’t. Worst were the kids saying things like “look how far the ground is” or “we’d definitely die if the plane crashed now”.
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