“What’s that sound?” The Author squealed.

“Will you just shut up,” The Wife snapped back, a low growl through gritted teeth. It was not a question. “Or I’m asking to be moved.”

Even through his panic, The Author considered that might be a good option to save the trip. He knew one false move at the very start and the entire fortnight would be spent on the fold-out bed of his penthouse suite. Backache would ensue. Plus a wide and unrivalled selection of the finest migraines known to man.

Then the sound happened again, and this time he was sure it wasn’t one of the thirty-seven trusted beeps or boops The Author had catalogued away in his paranoid mind. And, as English Airways Flight 257 (Heathrow to JFK) suddenly broke into three and a half pieces and plummeted rather hurriedly towards the Atlantic Ocean, The Author swivelled in his seat, brought his head close to his beloved wife, and screamed above the howling engines, “I told you so! I told you so! I told you-”

He felt pretty damned justified as they hit the water.