I’m flying to Europe in a few hours and I’m having some thoughts.

Of course, when I say “thoughts”, I mean, confronting jolts of fear that have aftershocks in my guts. I’m not really scared of flying, but I do have some niggling anxieties I feel as though I should get out of my system now, in the safety of my parent’s house in case they manifest into a brain fart that makes me say something that you really shouldn’t say in an airport unless you want to get escorted out by armed officers.

I’ve obviously got the major fears swirling around in my head – plane failure, kidnapping, air pirates – but it’s the tiny finicky details of Euro travel that have me a little jittery such as:

Getting a yuuuge phone bill: I had perhaps one of the most first word nightmares a few weeks ago about this. I don’t really remember the details but I was in Europe having what appeared to a be great time and, at some point, I remember that I didn’t turn dat roaming off my phone. I don’t recall how the rest of the nightmare unfolded after that but I did wake up with my stomach absolutely knotted with fear, fear of an exorbitant phone bill. Like, no one wants huge out of pocket bills, but I feel this one would be one of the hardest to swallow because the blame lies squarely on you and the only benefit you would get from all this data roaming would be being able to see the most up-to-date posts from your distant relatives who enjoy posting life advice with pictures of those little yellow minions for some reason.

Losing my passport: I am genuinely terrified of this. I’ve had my passport in my travel backpack for weeks. I know where it is, but my head isn’t convinced. I’m just going to check it now.

Inadvertently sparking a international terror incident: What if my coldsore cream is also a corrosive substance? What if the jumper I washed yesterday and dried in the wintery wood smoke tests positive for explosives? What if a Facebook group I liked back in my uni days has gone real extremist in their views?

What picture are they going to use if the plane goes down? I don’t take a lot of selfies, but when I do, they’re always shithouse. My Instagram account is mostly pictures of my Dad being… Dad or Mum being sweet or something about tea. I think the most recent one of me where you can see my face is one where I have a pickle up my nostril. I think, if anything happens to me, I’d like for the picture of me shoeless, wearing a wine-socked dress with an armful of sausages in the Bunnings carpark. It’s on my sister’s Instagram account.

If I don’t get arrested or maimed in a crash or decide to change my identity, I’ll try my best to post old columns regularly. But please don’t hold it against me if I’m too busy being tres fabulous to post stuff.

Catchya!