I'm off to Auckland. My carryon is stashed in the overhead locker. I'm buckled in and carefully not listening to the safety instruction from the air hostess about what to do in the “unlikely event” of an emergency. 

I'm doing this for two reasons. Firstly, it reminds me that I'm about to fly and that’s not good for my nerves. Secondly, given the lack of space between my seat and the one in front, it’s impossible to adopt the brace position she suggests: any panicked attempt to do so could only result in concussion. 

Besides which, I know that surviving a crash is unlikely whatever posture I assume - even if it’s on my knees, babbling. The only possible advantage of cracking your head on your seat tray is that you’ll be unconscious during the plummet earthward. But I digress. This isn’t meant to be about fear of flying. It’s meant to be about food ...

 The art on the walls any of my childhood homes consisted of three plaster mallards, 
prints of the Laughing Cavalier, the Red Boy and the Blue Boy in their velvet suits. And there were some painted pink roses on a sign which hung over the Formica dining table. “Christ is the unseen guest at every meal” it said unnervingly, “the silent listener to every conversation”. 
Neither the paintings - or the ducks - were ever referred to as “art”. The question of who had created them, their purpose, or why they were displayed was never discussed.