I haven’t been on a plane for a decade – since 2012, which would be nice to look back on as a halcyon time, if only to run screaming from the blazing fuselage of the present for a second. But the truth is, Boris Johnson was already mayor of London, and it was one of the 10 warmest years on record. That September, the Arctic sea ice shrank to its lowest extent recorded. The climate emergency was happening. It just hadn’t been declared yet.
That summer of 2012, also on record as the last time I felt strange stirrings known as national pride, I watched the opening ceremony of the London Olympics in the basement of a Krakow bar. Four months later, days after discovering I was pregnant with my first child, I took two long-haul flights and a sea plane to a new luxury resort in the most undiscovered part of the Maldives. For four nights. On a press trip.
