So, after several weeks of horrendous winds, I was feeling hopeful of going up this weekend. And then, midweek, Cyclone Freidhelm (or to use the charming name bestowed on it by the Scottish Twitter community, Hurricane Bawbag) blew in, battering Scotland and Northern England. Although I hadn't pinned my hopes on finally going up this weekend, I kept checking the weather and found it improving. Finally, with me due to leave the house and drive to the airport, I called the flying school to check if I was actually going up.
"Well, there's some heavy snow coming in. Tell you what, call back in half an hour and we'll have a better idea then."
Half an hour and a quick phone call later, I was off to the airport. Getting out of the car, I felt the wind pick up again. It was a fleeting gust though, and before long I found myself being ushered... into an office. Sitting in front of a whiteboard, my instructor started drawing things and talking about them; I could tell that this wasn't going to be another pootling about the sky looking at the scenery lesson. Having only used the control column before, I was suddenly hearing other controls mentioned. Thankfully, I'd been doing some reading, so the instructor wasn't suddenly hitting me with too much new information. The one bit of new information that I hadn't expected was the bit about how the lesson was going to go: "I'll do the radio, you're going to do everything else" was the gist of it.
And so we walked out to the aircraft. Sorry, make that my aircraft - I did say in the post about the last lesson that I would claim ownership if I got the same one three times running.
Sitting in the left hand seat, the next thing I knew, I was being given a book. A book? I'm here to fly, not to read!
OK, so not just any book. This was the aircraft checklist, which takes the pilot through what they need to be doing at various stages. The crew of the next commercial flight you take will probably be using one, which you can take in one of two ways. Either "Oh, that's good. They're being thorough, and making sure that nothing's missed out." or alternatively "They have to look at a book to fly this thing? I thought they were qualified? Let me off!".
Going through the checklist, it felt as if we were on the ground for an absolute age, and it's only when you see it all written down you realise how much stuff is checked before the engine's even started. Just for my little Cessna, there are 20 steps from the time you enter the aircraft until getting the engine started (not including the three pages of external checks, which my instructor had already carried out). This is followed by another 39 steps after starting the engine, but before taking off!
And so, having checked (and double checked) an awful lot of things, we were finally ready to take off. The checklist got stowed (by which I mean chucked in the luggage space behind the seats), and we were heading onto the runway. Specifically, I was heading onto the runway. I was steering the thing. And then I did the takeoff. This wasn't new; I'd been present for two takeoffs in the same aircraft, only this time I wasn't merely sitting back as someone else did it. Frankly, if you asked me how the takeoff went, I couldn't tell you. Everything was a blur, but as take off doesn't get formally taught until much later in the syllabus, I'm not too upset about that.
As in my last lesson, we headed for the city centre first; there are some great landmarks for when you're learning to fly visually. Then we headed South for a change. The weather wasn't great - the cloud was quite low in places, and it wasn't long before I discovered that planes don't have windscreen wipers. Although we got blown about a bit, it wasn't as bad as my second lesson, and having had a good word with myself after that one, I didn't get too worked up about it. We got to where were going... and spent the next 40 minutes flying in circles.
Why flying in circles? Well, this lesson was about the controls rather than the previous two which have been about getting a general feel for the aircraft. Starting with the control column - I thought I'd got this one nailed, but my pre-lesson reading had told me that the controls have several effects; pull the column back, and you climb, but also start to go more slowly. That sort of thing.
One might think that flying in circles for 40 minutes would get dull, but the things I was learning about were coming so thick and fast that the scenery barely got a look in. It wasn't until I looked at my watch that I realised how long I'd been there.
On the way back, progress was slow; there was quite a headwind, although it was fairly steady so we didn't get blown about too much. Looking over to my left, it was amazing to see how a certain type of weather can suddenly stop - there was a clearly visible line between a rain shower and a patch of glorious sunshine, something you don't get to see from ground level.
We flew across the city again, and approached the airport. More checks (also in the checklist) before we landed. My instructor handled the landing, leaving me to get the aircraft back to where we would park it.
Now, here's the interesting bit: the control column does nothing on the ground - when you're taxying, it's all done with your feet. I had a disconcerting moment as I tried to turn with what my brain was now convinced was a steering wheel, but soon got the hang of steering with my hands resting on my lap.
Pulling up to where we going to park (with me almost forgetting that I was steering something a tad wider than a car, and the instructor having to steer me away from another plane that I was about to clip with a wingtip), we came to a stop. And got the checklist out again. Yes, there's even checks for shutting the thing down.
All in all, a great lesson. Now to go and read that bit of the training manual again, and start reading up for the next one!
Saturday, 10 December 2011
Sunday, 4 December 2011
Better to be down here...
"Better to be down here wishing you were up there, than up there wishing you were down here", as someone or other once said.
Well, one half of that truism currently describes me. And as I'm not stupid enough to try writing a blog post whilst airborne, it's got to be the first one. I'm grounded. I was grounded last Sunday, too. With winds at 18 knots, gusting to 28 - and an aircraft with a limit of 17, it just ain't happening.
Oh well, I guess it saves me clearing the snow off the car.
Another lesson booked for next Saturday. Here's hoping I'll be up there, and not wishing I was somewhere else.
Well, one half of that truism currently describes me. And as I'm not stupid enough to try writing a blog post whilst airborne, it's got to be the first one. I'm grounded. I was grounded last Sunday, too. With winds at 18 knots, gusting to 28 - and an aircraft with a limit of 17, it just ain't happening.
Oh well, I guess it saves me clearing the snow off the car.
Another lesson booked for next Saturday. Here's hoping I'll be up there, and not wishing I was somewhere else.
Sunday, 30 October 2011
Lesson two: In which our hero gets a bit scared
Well, it's been two months, and I've not managed to fit any flying in; that's not good, but in my defence I've just been starting out in a new job, so things have been hectic. The serious learning to fly starts... ummm... yesterday. I've bought a log book and everything!
Not that I've spent the last two months sitting around doing nothing. Amongst other things, I've learned to read METAR weather reports, meaning that I left the house yesterday and headed to the airport feeling quite confident in what the weather was going to throw at me. Of course, what I'd failed to appreciate is that I was only reading what the weather was doing when I left, not what it was doing when I was sitting on the runway. But still, my instructor was happy enough to go up, and up we went.
Same aircraft as last time, incidentally. I've decided that if I get the same one on the third lesson, I'm going to start referring to it as mine. It's probably the closest I'll get to ownership of a plane, anyway.
Almost immediately after the wheels left the tarmac, we hit a bit of a crosswind and ended up climbing at what, to my mind, was a rather unusual angle. I'd been sitting in the flying school waiting room watching takeoffs earlier, and none of those pilots had done this! Mind you, the last few aircraft I'd seen were a bunch of 737s, 767s and a 777, so I'm not sure the comparison to a little C-152 works. Again, the instructor got me away from the busier airspace around the airport, and pointed me in the direction in which we were to go. The combination of wind and the fact that we'd had some fleeting but intense sunshine earlier which had warmed the ground up nicely made for interesting flying. Pointing the aircraft in the direction I wanted to go didn't really achieve anything, we'd soon end up pitching over to the side in what I considered quite an alarming fashion. A look across at the right hand seat revealed my instructor, happily looking out of the window with his hands on his lap; "OK," I said to myself, "if he's not flapping, neither will I", and carried on.
We pitched over again 30 seconds later, and I found myself in a flap. He had a word. Told me that this sort of thing was what they'd consider perfectly normal summer weather (well, British Summer Time didn't end until this morning, so I'll give him that one), and that I'd just have to go with it. So I started going with it, persuading the aircraft back on course after each little episode. Although I didn't like it, at least mother nature and I reached an understanding with each other. And so, being British, the conversation turned to the weather. He pointed out a cloud to me, and commented on the sort of conditions we'd expect to find if we got too close.
We flew across the city; I got to see my office from an unfamiliar angle, and discovered that the building is even uglier from above than it is at street level. As we headed towards the coast, things got calmer. My little flapping episodes grew rarer, and smaller in magnitude. We made a turn, and headed up the coast. The wind was now largely behind us, and so we covered ground quite a rate. Turning around at the northernmost point of our trip, the wind reminded me that it was there by making my turn a little more entertaining than it would have been previously, but by now I'd got the hang of things and wasn't going to let it get the better of me. And then as we continued to turn, we had a headwind. Whilst we'd previously had the wind on our tail, we were flying straight into it.
Our ground speed no longer looked impressive; the scenery was changing much slower than previously. Below us, we were being overtaken by cars. We passed a local airfield that's popular with microlights, to discover that they'd all had the sense to stay at home.
The leg back to the airport was much the same as the leg out; a combination of wind and pockets of warm air conspired to unsettle me at intervals, but I soon saw the familiar sight of the control tower, and before I knew it we were back down.
Lesson two done and dusted, I arrived back at the flying school office to do the hard part (the bit that involves parting with money), to find them discussing whether or not to cancel the rest of the day's lessons due to the weather. Oh boy.
Not that I've spent the last two months sitting around doing nothing. Amongst other things, I've learned to read METAR weather reports, meaning that I left the house yesterday and headed to the airport feeling quite confident in what the weather was going to throw at me. Of course, what I'd failed to appreciate is that I was only reading what the weather was doing when I left, not what it was doing when I was sitting on the runway. But still, my instructor was happy enough to go up, and up we went.
Same aircraft as last time, incidentally. I've decided that if I get the same one on the third lesson, I'm going to start referring to it as mine. It's probably the closest I'll get to ownership of a plane, anyway.
Almost immediately after the wheels left the tarmac, we hit a bit of a crosswind and ended up climbing at what, to my mind, was a rather unusual angle. I'd been sitting in the flying school waiting room watching takeoffs earlier, and none of those pilots had done this! Mind you, the last few aircraft I'd seen were a bunch of 737s, 767s and a 777, so I'm not sure the comparison to a little C-152 works. Again, the instructor got me away from the busier airspace around the airport, and pointed me in the direction in which we were to go. The combination of wind and the fact that we'd had some fleeting but intense sunshine earlier which had warmed the ground up nicely made for interesting flying. Pointing the aircraft in the direction I wanted to go didn't really achieve anything, we'd soon end up pitching over to the side in what I considered quite an alarming fashion. A look across at the right hand seat revealed my instructor, happily looking out of the window with his hands on his lap; "OK," I said to myself, "if he's not flapping, neither will I", and carried on.
We pitched over again 30 seconds later, and I found myself in a flap. He had a word. Told me that this sort of thing was what they'd consider perfectly normal summer weather (well, British Summer Time didn't end until this morning, so I'll give him that one), and that I'd just have to go with it. So I started going with it, persuading the aircraft back on course after each little episode. Although I didn't like it, at least mother nature and I reached an understanding with each other. And so, being British, the conversation turned to the weather. He pointed out a cloud to me, and commented on the sort of conditions we'd expect to find if we got too close.
"Is that a lenticular cloud?", I asked
"Yes"
"I used to work with a glider pilot, and he was quite prone to pointing out clouds to me."
"Ah. They love them. Mind you, they carry parachutes."
We flew across the city; I got to see my office from an unfamiliar angle, and discovered that the building is even uglier from above than it is at street level. As we headed towards the coast, things got calmer. My little flapping episodes grew rarer, and smaller in magnitude. We made a turn, and headed up the coast. The wind was now largely behind us, and so we covered ground quite a rate. Turning around at the northernmost point of our trip, the wind reminded me that it was there by making my turn a little more entertaining than it would have been previously, but by now I'd got the hang of things and wasn't going to let it get the better of me. And then as we continued to turn, we had a headwind. Whilst we'd previously had the wind on our tail, we were flying straight into it.
Our ground speed no longer looked impressive; the scenery was changing much slower than previously. Below us, we were being overtaken by cars. We passed a local airfield that's popular with microlights, to discover that they'd all had the sense to stay at home.
The leg back to the airport was much the same as the leg out; a combination of wind and pockets of warm air conspired to unsettle me at intervals, but I soon saw the familiar sight of the control tower, and before I knew it we were back down.
Lesson two done and dusted, I arrived back at the flying school office to do the hard part (the bit that involves parting with money), to find them discussing whether or not to cancel the rest of the day's lessons due to the weather. Oh boy.
Sunday, 28 August 2011
First time at the pointy end
"Nervous?" my other half asked me as I went to bed the night before my first flight.
I wasn't. But then again, I didn't sleep either. Like a child on Christmas Eve, I kept wanting it to be the following day. Deciding that I may as well be up and about anyway, I plodded downstairs and made myself a coffee, before opening up my laptop and looking at the airport weather report. No wind. No rain. 300m visibility.
My heart sank. 300m isn't an awful lot. It didn't look like I was going.
I had time, though. Doggedly refreshing the page, the visibility improved drastically after a few hours. We were back on. My early morning 300m had turned into a glorious >10km, so we stood a chance of getting airborne without bumping into things hidden in the murk.
I headed off to the airport, allowing extra time for getting lost as I wasn't going to the main terminal for a change. Once there, I met my instructor. A genial chap with a big pair of aviator sunglasses, and a bigger smile. "Where are you from? Oh, that's not far. We can fly down there if you want?". I declined, telling him that I saw enough of the place from ground level, and that I didn't think it would look much better with the addition of a few thousand feet. We decided that flying out to the coast would be a nice alternative.
As we headed out to the aircraft, nothing had quite prepared me for the size of it. I thought I'd been on a small plane before having flown in an Embraer 145, but with its two seats and a single step to help you into the cabin, the little Cessna was a completely new level of small. A quick introduction to the various bits and pieces in front of me, and we were off. The tower gave permission to enter the runway, with the caveat that there was a 737 due to land very shortly; we pulled out of the taxiway where we'd held, the instructor doing what I presume to be the aircraft equivalent of a handbrake turn to face the right way down the runway, and headed off. The experience was almost surreal; in an airliner, you're very aware of being pushed back in your seat, and the aircraft taking its time to leave the ground. Our little Cessna was rather gentle in the way it left the blocks, but it still only took only a few hundred metres before we were airborne.
And so, we were in the air. The sheep in the field at the end of the runway turning into little white dots below us, and the view across the landscape opening up further and further. When you're on a commercial airliner, you don't get to see this part, at least not in the same way; whereas a passenger looking out from the side of a plane might get a fleeting moment where they can admire the view before the pilot banks the aircraft into a turn, limiting them to either a view of the ground or the sky, I got to see everything unfold before me in a way I hadn't before. My instructor took us away from the airport, with its bigger planes that would have no doubt not played well with our little Cessna and signalled that it was my turn.
"Don't worry about the pedals", he told me. I just had the yoke in my hand. I'd been told to be gentle with it and so for the sake of not denting my own pride by having the instructor rescue me from my own mistakes in the first minute, I tried it out ever so softly. Turn it left... we go left. Right... we go right. Push it forward, houses get bigger. Back, and they get smaller. Easy! 32 hours of flight time needed for the NPPL licence, and I'd just mastered it in about 30 seconds.
OK, to say that I'd mastered it might be over-egging somewhat, but I'm allowed these little victories. The fact remains that I had some degree of control over an aircraft, even if my instructor was taking care of things that I had no real idea about at that stage. And so we flew around for a bit, going up the coast with the instructor pointing out landmarks, all of which I was at least vaguely familiar with, but none of which I'd ever seen from that viewpoint before.
We'd talked about various things on the way, and I'd managed to take at least some of them in, including the bit about turbulence. As luck would have it, it was quite a calm day, but on the way back to the airport we hit a bit of an updraft. I was trying to turn right at the time, but the air coming up underneath us had different ideas, and we went off left. After getting used to feeling in control for the last 20 minutes or so, to suddenly find the aircraft doing its own thing was a bit unnerving. We were soon out of it though, but it was remarkable to see just how different things feel in a smaller aircraft.
Before long, the airport was in sight again, with the runway more or less at right angles to us. I knew that soon enough, my little stint at the controls would be over.
We carried on flying towards the airport, still at right angles to the runway. I made the turn to line up whilst the instructor made radio calls. We got closer, the instructor helping me stay lined up. He pointed out what I was later to learn was the PAPI, a set of four lights telling me how low or high I was coming in to the runway. As we got closer and closer, the runway filled my field of vision in a way I'd not experienced before. I'd been used to seeing it approach from the corner of my window in the passenger cabin, but to suddenly be all large and grey in front of me was a bit different. I'll hold my hands up and say that for the first time in my life, I was a little bit scared about the whole being in an aircraft business.
As we got closer, I saw my instructor's hands hovering near the yoke. I reassured myself that he'd be taking control back at any second. We were now actually over the runway. "It's no different to flying at 2000 feet, really!" he quipped, whilst still not taking over from me. Eventually he did take over, and took us down the last ten feet or whatever was remaining. As we taxied back to the stand, I mentioned that I thought he'd take over a lot sooner. "You seemed to be doing alright, so I left you to it!" came his reply.
So there we were. Sitting on the apron, my body was at ground level although my heart was still in my mouth from the landing, and my head was a few thousand feet up.
It was incredible in a way that nothing else I've experienced was. I was lucky enough to try a balloon flight earlier in the year which was truly breathtaking. Sitting in a light aircraft doesn't have quite the same eerie quietness as ballooning, but on the other hand being able to point the aircraft in a certain direction, and not ending the flight being dragged headfirst through a field full of cowpats are definite pluses!
I wasn't. But then again, I didn't sleep either. Like a child on Christmas Eve, I kept wanting it to be the following day. Deciding that I may as well be up and about anyway, I plodded downstairs and made myself a coffee, before opening up my laptop and looking at the airport weather report. No wind. No rain. 300m visibility.
My heart sank. 300m isn't an awful lot. It didn't look like I was going.
I had time, though. Doggedly refreshing the page, the visibility improved drastically after a few hours. We were back on. My early morning 300m had turned into a glorious >10km, so we stood a chance of getting airborne without bumping into things hidden in the murk.
I headed off to the airport, allowing extra time for getting lost as I wasn't going to the main terminal for a change. Once there, I met my instructor. A genial chap with a big pair of aviator sunglasses, and a bigger smile. "Where are you from? Oh, that's not far. We can fly down there if you want?". I declined, telling him that I saw enough of the place from ground level, and that I didn't think it would look much better with the addition of a few thousand feet. We decided that flying out to the coast would be a nice alternative.
As we headed out to the aircraft, nothing had quite prepared me for the size of it. I thought I'd been on a small plane before having flown in an Embraer 145, but with its two seats and a single step to help you into the cabin, the little Cessna was a completely new level of small. A quick introduction to the various bits and pieces in front of me, and we were off. The tower gave permission to enter the runway, with the caveat that there was a 737 due to land very shortly; we pulled out of the taxiway where we'd held, the instructor doing what I presume to be the aircraft equivalent of a handbrake turn to face the right way down the runway, and headed off. The experience was almost surreal; in an airliner, you're very aware of being pushed back in your seat, and the aircraft taking its time to leave the ground. Our little Cessna was rather gentle in the way it left the blocks, but it still only took only a few hundred metres before we were airborne.
And so, we were in the air. The sheep in the field at the end of the runway turning into little white dots below us, and the view across the landscape opening up further and further. When you're on a commercial airliner, you don't get to see this part, at least not in the same way; whereas a passenger looking out from the side of a plane might get a fleeting moment where they can admire the view before the pilot banks the aircraft into a turn, limiting them to either a view of the ground or the sky, I got to see everything unfold before me in a way I hadn't before. My instructor took us away from the airport, with its bigger planes that would have no doubt not played well with our little Cessna and signalled that it was my turn.
"Don't worry about the pedals", he told me. I just had the yoke in my hand. I'd been told to be gentle with it and so for the sake of not denting my own pride by having the instructor rescue me from my own mistakes in the first minute, I tried it out ever so softly. Turn it left... we go left. Right... we go right. Push it forward, houses get bigger. Back, and they get smaller. Easy! 32 hours of flight time needed for the NPPL licence, and I'd just mastered it in about 30 seconds.
OK, to say that I'd mastered it might be over-egging somewhat, but I'm allowed these little victories. The fact remains that I had some degree of control over an aircraft, even if my instructor was taking care of things that I had no real idea about at that stage. And so we flew around for a bit, going up the coast with the instructor pointing out landmarks, all of which I was at least vaguely familiar with, but none of which I'd ever seen from that viewpoint before.
We'd talked about various things on the way, and I'd managed to take at least some of them in, including the bit about turbulence. As luck would have it, it was quite a calm day, but on the way back to the airport we hit a bit of an updraft. I was trying to turn right at the time, but the air coming up underneath us had different ideas, and we went off left. After getting used to feeling in control for the last 20 minutes or so, to suddenly find the aircraft doing its own thing was a bit unnerving. We were soon out of it though, but it was remarkable to see just how different things feel in a smaller aircraft.
Before long, the airport was in sight again, with the runway more or less at right angles to us. I knew that soon enough, my little stint at the controls would be over.
We carried on flying towards the airport, still at right angles to the runway. I made the turn to line up whilst the instructor made radio calls. We got closer, the instructor helping me stay lined up. He pointed out what I was later to learn was the PAPI, a set of four lights telling me how low or high I was coming in to the runway. As we got closer and closer, the runway filled my field of vision in a way I'd not experienced before. I'd been used to seeing it approach from the corner of my window in the passenger cabin, but to suddenly be all large and grey in front of me was a bit different. I'll hold my hands up and say that for the first time in my life, I was a little bit scared about the whole being in an aircraft business.
As we got closer, I saw my instructor's hands hovering near the yoke. I reassured myself that he'd be taking control back at any second. We were now actually over the runway. "It's no different to flying at 2000 feet, really!" he quipped, whilst still not taking over from me. Eventually he did take over, and took us down the last ten feet or whatever was remaining. As we taxied back to the stand, I mentioned that I thought he'd take over a lot sooner. "You seemed to be doing alright, so I left you to it!" came his reply.
So there we were. Sitting on the apron, my body was at ground level although my heart was still in my mouth from the landing, and my head was a few thousand feet up.
It was incredible in a way that nothing else I've experienced was. I was lucky enough to try a balloon flight earlier in the year which was truly breathtaking. Sitting in a light aircraft doesn't have quite the same eerie quietness as ballooning, but on the other hand being able to point the aircraft in a certain direction, and not ending the flight being dragged headfirst through a field full of cowpats are definite pluses!
Me and flying - how I got to this point
I think I was about 14 when I first flew. Balkan Airways, from Birmingham to somewhere in Bulgaria. It was a Tupelov, but apart from that I don't really recall much about it. I guess my interest in flying didn't start until much later.
I think it's largely my partner's fault. She's absolutely terrified of flying, and has nearly crushed the bones in my hand whilst we've been sitting on commercial flights. The moment anything on the aircraft makes a noise, or something feels different, she goes into full-on "Ohmygodwe'regoingtodiewe'regoingtodie" mode. I started doing a bit of armchair study before we took a flight together, so that I could say to her "That noise is the gear extending", or "That one was the flaps - this is what flaps do", or even "That noise means that another passenger wants a drink"; she's still terrified, but at least she's a bit better when she knows that whatever just happened is perfectly normal.
I didn't confine my armchair reading to pre-flight, though. When we went away, I'd find myself making mental notes of things that I'd seen or heard, and looking them up when I got home. When I did this, I'd find new words, phrases or concepts that I didn't understand, and I'd have to look them up as well. I soon found myself with every tab open in my browser on some sort of aviation reference, Wikipedia page, or just looking at aircraft porn. It was at this point that my other half suggested that maybe I should get help.
I fully expected this 'help' to take the form of a nice man who'd lie me down on a couch and talk to me about my obsession. With fees starting from £40 a session, psychotherapy may have been quite a cheap way to deal with it. Instead, she suggested I took lessons. I think she occasionally suggests things like this as a bargaining chip: "Yes, I know I spent £100 on a new handbag, but how much do you spend on flying?" is a conversation I can see us having in the not too distant future.
So, that's where I stand now. I've done a trial lesson (which I'll write about next), and I fear that I'm hooked. The armchair study has been taken to new levels. I can't wait until the next time I'm in the air.
I think it's largely my partner's fault. She's absolutely terrified of flying, and has nearly crushed the bones in my hand whilst we've been sitting on commercial flights. The moment anything on the aircraft makes a noise, or something feels different, she goes into full-on "Ohmygodwe'regoingtodiewe'regoingtodie" mode. I started doing a bit of armchair study before we took a flight together, so that I could say to her "That noise is the gear extending", or "That one was the flaps - this is what flaps do", or even "That noise means that another passenger wants a drink"; she's still terrified, but at least she's a bit better when she knows that whatever just happened is perfectly normal.
I didn't confine my armchair reading to pre-flight, though. When we went away, I'd find myself making mental notes of things that I'd seen or heard, and looking them up when I got home. When I did this, I'd find new words, phrases or concepts that I didn't understand, and I'd have to look them up as well. I soon found myself with every tab open in my browser on some sort of aviation reference, Wikipedia page, or just looking at aircraft porn. It was at this point that my other half suggested that maybe I should get help.
I fully expected this 'help' to take the form of a nice man who'd lie me down on a couch and talk to me about my obsession. With fees starting from £40 a session, psychotherapy may have been quite a cheap way to deal with it. Instead, she suggested I took lessons. I think she occasionally suggests things like this as a bargaining chip: "Yes, I know I spent £100 on a new handbag, but how much do you spend on flying?" is a conversation I can see us having in the not too distant future.
So, that's where I stand now. I've done a trial lesson (which I'll write about next), and I fear that I'm hooked. The armchair study has been taken to new levels. I can't wait until the next time I'm in the air.
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