Post-pandemic, I’ve become a right Little Englander, even though I’m from Glasgow. I hate leaving the country because I hate travel, and I loathe flying. Gone are the days of any kind of nostalgic glamour a la Alan Whicker or that scene in Catch Me If You Can where Leonardo DiCaprio sweeps through the airport flanked by beautiful air hostesses.
Nowadays, it’s like Squid Game — trying to get through security without getting shot for not removing your belt, watch and trousers while unpacking your tech half-naked within 30 seconds and failing to place your Kindle in the right tray. And that’s if you’re lucky enough to have a flight which is actually taking off. Travel has become an endurance test.
