I still marvel at the idea humans can now soar above the clouds in a pressurised metal tube. To me, there is no noise on earth as exciting as the sound of jet engines rising in pitch, preparing for takeoff. Not even a midnight horror can dampen the thrill of flying.

Waiting to board, we passengers queued stoically. An overtired toddler, weaving listlessly through our line, suddenly reversed gear and became hyperactive. He began leapfrogging his mum’s bag until his foot caught the handle and he sprawled across the tiled floor, letting loose a volley of ear-piercing wails. I heard the middle-aged couple behind me exchange sighs. A flight attendant wearing a clipboard and sensible shoes announced:

“All economy passengers seated rows 60-75 please proceed to the gate for boarding.”

I looked down at my boarding pass: 73H. Probably next to the rear-most toilets.