Although I’m fascinated by the idea of space travel and the type of world which future generations will live in, I was saddened to hear of the set-backs suffered by Sir Richard Branson’s plans for space tourism.
One pilot died and the other was badly injured when Virgin Galactic’s SpaceShipTwo exploded in California’s Mojave Desert last week.
It got me thinking about whether, if I had the money, I would put my name down to be a space traveller.
Of course, all new technologies go through their teething and testing phases. Accidents will happen and blame will be laid at many doors.
But just say, imagine, that the technology was deemed ready and that I could go. Would I?
Apparently the passenger list for the first flight includes Branson, his children and Justin Bieber.
Hmm. Already I’m thinking that’s not quite the company I would want to be keeping – and in all fairness to them, I’m probably not the company they’d want.
An unknown middle-aged woman whose only claim to fame is . . . um, I can’t even think of one.
So the inaugural flight’s out.
Now I have to save to take the rest of my family – people who are duty bound to love me however much I fuss about having a quick wee before countdown begins. That’ll take some time.
My husband and I took a flight around Everest a couple of decades ago.
We paid what seemed like a huge amount of money at the time and boarded a flight at the crack of dawn.
There were about six of us on a tiny plane and it felt like it was being catapulted on a mad trajectory through the skies with a simple hope that we wouldn’t crash into the sides of a Himalayan peak.
We were joined by Howard and Midge, a couple straight from The Simpsons. They complained for the whole flight that we had a better view – windows the same size, the same side of the plane.
Imagine, then, that you’ve saved all your extra thousands, carefully dressed in your space gear, taken your anti-gravity and anti-sickness pills and then find yourself strapped in next to Howard and Midge.