(NB: Mum, if you're reading this, stop reading now...)
Two nights ago Lesley Reece and I were flying in a 50-seat Fokker 50 from Perth to Albany to run a writing workshop day for 65 young people. Problem was, we flew into a storm in the south-west that in fact (we found out later) flattened trees, caused major flooding and claimed a life at the exact time we were trying to land. Twice. I've flown in some wild conditions before, but this was something. I don't usually get frightened in planes, but I was frightened. Similarly, I never throw up on planes, but this time I went perilously close to joining the dozen or so others who were emptying their guts into little bags. Loudly.
As I say, the pilot had two gos at landing, but with the plane bucking, weaving, yawing, pitching, rolling, dropping metres at a time, it was a terrific relief when the pilot came on the PA and told us that we were heading back to Perth. My main cause for relief was that my last meal wasn't going to be the rather ordinary chicken casserole served in a very small plastic bowl.
Cue forward a few hours. It's 4:15am, and Lesley and I are catching a cab back out to the airport to catch our replacement flight to Albany. And this time ... a perfect - and I mean perfect - three-point landing.
Mental note to self: never tempt fate by blogging about disasters, even in jest.
Until next time, and the time after that, and the time after that, this is James signing off.