During the week long plane/volcano “crisis”, we heard countless stories of people desperate to get home, and often with good reason: they were going to miss important family events, had run out of money, were all alone in a strange land with no way of getting home other than by metal bird. In my current place, I can’t think of anything better than being stuck someone with nothing to do other than think my own thoughts and do my own thing. Life with a husband and child is wonderful, enriching, busy, but the thought of being forced to spend time with myself is guiltily appealing.

As this fantasy develops, I debate with myself whether I would want my laptop with me and unlimited internet access, or whether I would prefer not to have any access to this technology. Weighing it up, I would love to be able to see my little one at least once a day on Skype, just to make sure he is coping without me and to see his darling face. But perhaps I would use this enforced volcano-induced me-time (so often craved) to start writing with a pen again… Yesterday I wrote a handwritten letter to a friend. My hand ached, and the result was a scrawl compared to the heady days of winning the school handwriting competition.

As well as writing about whatever happened to come into my mind, I would make the most of every minute of my extended stay, sleeping, eating, just sitting and watching. This used to be one of my favourite hobbies, until the pace of modern life and the need to work, do, socialise, stay in touch, procreate, etc. just caught up with me. If I knew the place where I was stranded well, it would be even better, as I wouldn’t be tempted to run around “doing” the sights, I could just relax and feel at home.

I am certain that after three or four days I would be climbing the walls to get back to my son. And I can think of one serious downside to being stranded without an internet connection: imagine seven days of Facebook posts waiting to be read when I got home…

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