Laura Waddell writes the latest article in her regular book club series.
When I’m on a plane I rarely read the book I’ve diligently packed in the hopes I’ll get through some of my to-read list. An anxious flyer, I am more likely to be paying attention to any sounds I perceive to be unusual (all of them), any micro-expression of the flight attendants that betrays what could be alarm. I spend my time in the air despising the confines, the menu, and my fellow travellers, until I can find some peace in looking out at the clouds (alcohol helps with this. I recently had the best flight of my life after little sleep, two complimentary glasses of wine with the sun tinging clouds apricot; I pressed my face to the window in tipsy wonder both at the scene and with coming to a kind of peace with flying). The book I’ve brought will sit on my lap, looked at and looked away from, picked up and put down, distractedly.