Few things are simultaneously exciting and terrifying like flying. I love everything about flying except the takeoff, and specifically the bit when the plane levels out. There was a flight I once took when I was sure that the damn thing had stopped mid-air and was deciding whether or not to crash. I love the rest. flying over the clouds, taking photos of clouds and formations and leaving the air flight hostesses in no doubt that the only time that powdered gunk they call milk will be introduced into my cup I will at the time be flying not as a passenger but as cargo. There’s no way I’m paying outrageous fare to drink powdered plaster of Paris. I know there is real milk in the galley and by George I’m going to get some.

In light of the unfortunate Air France crash, I recall a few years back I was flying from Gaborone to Jo’burg, and the passengers, (both of us) were asked to strap in by smiling stewardesses. We obliged. They then began the traditional volley of instructions on safe flying and halfway through, unable to contain myself I put my hand up.

The one giving me the instructions looked taken aback at the occurrence. Clearly she had yet to be questioned.

“Now then, Kelly,” I began comfortably. “We will be flying at 30,000 feet, which is 9-10 kilometers up, and  this Boeing 737 weighs about 50,000 kilos. True?”

Kelly gave her best South African Airways smile. “True”.

“Should something happen, gravity will insist that those 30,000 feet above sea level be reduced to more manageable levels. So, let’s say we have engine failure. Without the engine a 737 has the grace of an obese hippopotamus in molasses soaked weetabix. This bad boy will descend with the momentum of the gods. We will hit the ground so hard a small hill will be created in China. True?”

Kelly smiled her most professional smile.

“But we might hit the water,” my fellow passenger said thoughtfully.

“Clearly you have never belly flopped at the local swimming pool. At the speed we’ll be going by the time the plane hits the water, we might as well hit concrete. Less damp. But I digress. My point is, fortune does not favour the poor fools in a 50 tonne aircraft that had a direct hit to soil or water having descended as quickly as possible from 9 kilometers up.”

There was a brief silence and my wisdom was digested.

“Seriously, Kelly, is there any point in all these precautions? Will me putting my head between my knees, acrobat that I may be, make a difference if the plane hits the Republic Of Botswana at several hundred miles an hour?”

Kelly did not have an answer for me. But she gave me an extra dinner and several bags of peanuts and fascinating stories of the colourful life of cabin crew.

Our Father, who art in Heaven, was pleasantly surprised to hear from characters who generally used His Name in vain.