I’LL get back to Mrs Davison in the care home in a while – suffice to say that her neighbour Genghis wasn’t happy about her being left there when she has a perfectly good home of her own, while her son who lives in England also had his nose put out of joint.

First I must tell you about my Christmas present. 

I’ve never been mad about flying. I don’t mind the hustle and bustle of the airport, and the warm anticipation in the weeks before a trip, but when I get on the actual plane and get buckled in, I begin to get claustrophobic.

Then the whining of the engines starts, and the mannequin grins of the flight attendants heighten my suspicion that something isn’t right; I mean, that noise wasn’t there last time I flew. 

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Add to this the brave face I paint upon myself and the result is tension you could cut with a butter knife. 

So, when I opened my envelope from the family at Christmas with “Supersonic Daddy!” written on the front, the last thing I expected was a 30-minute flying experience voucher from a club up in Derry.

I smiled and said thank you with a ‘what the hell’ glare at Fionnuala. 

“You are afraid of flying, Daddy, and this is to help you.”

Imogen was pointing out the light aircraft on the brochure.

“You will be able to fly it yourself, the man said.” Fiadh was cuddling up beside me.

“Are you the plane driver, Daddy?” Dermot’s big blue eyes were centimetres from mine. 

I had put it to the back of my mind after a spat with Fionnuala, which ended with her saying I didn’t have to go if I didn’t want to.

“The children want you to have a good time when we go to Brittany in the summer. It was their idea – I tried to argue against it.”

“I hate flying.”

“Then don’t do it. It’ll be forgotten about.” 

She knew and I knew that not only would it not be forgotten; it would be mentioned constantly, and so, with the first whiff of good weather, I found myself glum-faced, heading up over the Sperrins with the family, singing Leaving on A Jet Plane at full tilt. 

I always lean into the usual internal dialogue any time I’m about to fly: statistics prove its safer than driving. And yes, I had never heard of any issues with any flight schools, so what was I worried about?

I made them all go away for ice-cream – there was a sign we passed for a farm shop – and the pilot got me started with an initiation and a walk around the aircraft. It looked pretty flimsy to me. 

“She’s pliable, not flimsy. Stiffness is a disaster in aviation.” 

The pilot had an unnervingly strong Derry accent and the manner of a rally car enthusiast.

“This a 1972 Cessna 172K and it’s a wee dog of a plane.” 

I didn’t like his use of the word ‘disaster’, and also felt the need to question him about the age of the aircraft.

“It’s as old as China but hi, she’s never let me down. Not yet anyway.”

He laughed as he swaggered around the little plane and told me to hop in.

“Sit you on the right but don’t worry, I’ll be flying her – at the start anyway. She’s the same size inside as a Mark 2 Escort, sir.” 

I climbed in and sure enough it was like a small car. I marvelled at all the switches and buttons and dials: all the things that could go wrong.

The pilot laughed again and said if everything failed, he could still glide the plane down, and as we trundled along the runway, the engine whining and starting to roar, and then roaring more, we rose and turned and I looked down, resigned now, helpless, and saw my family eating ice cream at the gate, just dots as we went bumping up through the air and towards the dark outline of the Sperrins ahead...

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