Travel phobia

I am the world's worst traveller. I pack remedies for every ailment from piles and eczema, to athlete's foot, just to go to Cornwall for five days. I am like Auntie Vera in those old Giles cartoons, trailing round with a large bag of pills, with a hanky held to her ever-dripping nose. Just imagine me on Safari! No, don't go there. I'd need an elephant just to carry my medications.

The thought of having to get to an airport at a specific time makes my guts writhe and my temples pound with migraine. Then, if a delay is announced once I have psyched myself up and actually got there, my whole body goes on strike. Cystitis, the trots, an outbreak of heat rash, Beri Beri... you name it, I get it.

I don't think I'd be any better even if I were rich and had my own private jet. I just have travel phobia, exactly the same as the stage fright I used to get when I was a folk singer. Even when I was a kid at school, I used to cut my finger with a kitchen knife just so as to get out of sitting on the stage playing the piano for assembly, as the very thought of it made me tremble and feel sick. I am a complete wimp. However, hope might be on the horizon. My homoeopath has prescribed a mix of Bach flower remedies, scleranthus, wild oat and, er, something else. My friend in Cornwall has them. I am prepared to be dosed. I may just come up smelling of roses.