The man in Seat 31D

I was once on an airplane coming in to land during a thunderstorm at New York's LaGuardia airport. My palms were sweating as I wiped them on my trousers at ten second intervals, trying to think positive thoughts of loved ones, football games I'd played (yes, I know), parties I'd enjoyed, my Mother's easy laugh... anything other than the fireball at the end of the runway.

We landed safely. Of course. Everyone clapped. Except two people. I was busily wiping my brow, trying to look cool in a leather jacket. That wasn't sweat, just... humidity. The man in the seat across the aisle continued to snore, as he had since take-off two hours earlier. As we taxied to the gate, I wanted to take the pillow from the empty seat and suffocate him. Just quietly. The bastard.

Some people love air travel. We control freaks tolerate it. I'll only feel truly comfortable on a plane when I have a pilot's licence. And knowing my car-driving skills, perhaps not even then.

Sure, I know the statistics, the logic of the safety of air travel versus, say, riding a bicycle. I'm much safer strapped into a 747 than my Specialized Roubaix, but...

I travel overseas at least once a year. I still go through the same ritual before take-off (sorry, it's a secret); still grip the armrest tightly when turbulence buffets; still tilt my body in the opposite direction to the plane, making the woman sitting next to me very nervous (luckily, she's my wife); still host stomach gymnastics until the plane lands; still nonchalantly disembark, sometimes even trying to whistle to show off my calm demeanour. I end up facing the Immigration Officer with dribble on my lips. 'Je suis Australienne' I squeak. As if that's an excuse.

I have recently returned from Thailand. The flights home were a Boeing 737, one hour from Phuket to Kuala Lumpur, followed by a 747, eight hours from KL to Sydney. Except, half-an-hour before boarding in KL, they announced the jumbo had a 'technical difficulty' which is perhaps better than saying 'it won't get off the ground with three hundred people aboard'.

We all groaned. It was midnight. As directed, we trudged to another gate, where, miraculously, another 747 was being loaded with food and luggage. Malaysian Airlines had somehow scrapped one jumbo and found another. I was impressed.

It's why I fly only 'first-world' airlines - Singapore, Malaysian, British. And never 'third-world' airlines - Air India, Jetstar, Kenya Air, Qantas.

Flying is bad enough. Why make it worse.

I love reading the letters to the editor in the Travel Section of newspapers. People complaining of poor food, delays, surly flight attendants. I'm still in awe that we transport millions of people around the globe so safely. I'll happily eat plastic junk, wait an extra hour, abide the schoolmarm tones of the harried flight attendant, as long as the plane lands in the country it's supposed to. What more could you want.

Well, now you ask... I'd like a parachute under the seat, as well as a life-jacket.

Can you jump out of an aircraft at 37,000 feet and survive? And when do you pull the ripcord?

So, if you're sitting next to a sweating bald man who's leaning in your direction on a plane anytime soon, introduce yourself. I'd be happy to say hello... when the plane lands.