Travelling

I like travelling. I used to get upset by it, but not anymore. In fact, arriving can sometimes be a bit of a disappointment once the flying above the clouds, rounding mountain roads etc is done. The one thing, the hitch, about travelling is the constant presence of imminent death. Whenever I fly, or drive for long distances, I'm aware that death is often inches away, hurtling pasted usually dressed in a metal and concrete combo that never goes out of fashion. I've not spent too long thinking about this, but I do think that the origin of road rage is probably the sudden outburst of the suppressed fear of death. Driving one feels so weightless, gliding along with the music on. Even the slightest touch can disabuse us of that particular whimsy. Fortunately, it went well this time. The shell of a twisted Juggernaut full of burning rubbish on the motorway outside of Nice was a hearty reminder, although up until