Travel Phobia

I have to catch a train to Liverpool at midday tomorrow. This requires a journey of almost two hours from my home to Euston station, and having to obtain my ticket from the fast ticket machine. Last time I tried this, I ended up with half a ticket, the return section having been kept by the machine. Fortunately, as it was a long and expensive journey - especially so if I had had to buy a new ticket on the day to replace the one I had bought in advance at a quarter of the price- I had taken with me the email from thetrainline.com, containing the details of my purchase and with this, I was able to persuade the ticket inspector that he should not either charge me £90 or throw me off the train.

Travelling in the UK is a dodgy business. Once upon a time, you could rely on a single ticket costing exactly half the amount of a return one. Now, it can cost twice as much, which is utterly ridiculous. We are all forced to become on-line hunter-gatherers, searching for good hauls and bargains and, when we find them, letting out the whoops of Neanderthals discovering a stricken dinosaur.

I awoke with a feeling of dread in my stomach, completely connected to the forthcoming journey. I mean, so much could go wrong. This is a journey I must make, as it is to help out a friend who is going into hospital. Nothing, bar World War Three (and certainly not my random collection of ailments) must prevent me making the journey. Yet so much could go wrong. I could wake to find the tube trains aren't working, owing to leaves on the line, or a sudden strike. I could be faced with a fast ticket machine that won't even spit out the ticket for the outward leg of my journey, let alone the return. I could find Virgin Trains have pulled the particular train I am meant to be travelling on, forcing me to take the overcrowded next one and stand for three hours. I could find the trains aren't working at all for some reason. And (hushed tones and trembling limbs) the train might crash! I know I shan't sleep tonight.

If you think this attack of pre-travel nerves is bad, you should see me when faced with a flight, as I shall be in a mere three weeks' time. Waiting around for two or more hours in the Departure Lounge is, in my mind, equivalent to sitting in the dentist's waiting room knowing you have to have root canal work, or a wisdom tooth pulled.

There must be a name for my condition. I call it Morbid Fear of Travelling. I hope I shan't reach the state my mother got into, a kind of agoraphobia that prevented her from going any unfamiliar, including my sister's new house. She never visited me in London once in the 30 years between my moving and her dying. I suppose the only treatment is to get out more - and by that, I mean get out to far-off locations involving more trains and more planes.

If only you could be given a pill, put into a pod and transferred across the world without knowing anything till you woke up the other end, lying in a comfy bed with a bottle of champagne next to you and the blue sea sparkling outside the window. I'd like to be beamed up like Scotty in Star Trek. Come on, scientists. It's cool, it's green, it's stress-free, it's the answer we've all been waiting for.