For me a tour of these countries would involve a maybe five simple meals a day, plus snacks. I sometimes wonder whether I was a hobbit in my previous life. Unfortunately I don't think I'll ever manage to get to these countries though, because the odds of them building a bridge between Australia and any of the other Continents in my lifetime are slim. And I don't fly well.
Although tooting involves a completely different orifice I gather it's an extension of my fear of public speaking.
Only thing I'm not scared of is actually dying, but the how I die is a whole other kettle of fish. And in fact I suspect my fear of flying is more my fear of the two minutes of plummeting out of the sky than the actual impact. But no need to go into that here, I can save it for when I get me a good psychiatrist. And trust me, he's gonna be rich.
Never quick to quit, the girls at work tried to allay my fears so that I might one day bite into a chocolate eclair or have Foie Gras on toast for breakfast in the home of the guillotine (fear of having my head chopped off, Highlander style, isn't in the good seats in the Auditorium of Bruce's Fears, but it definitely gets invited to the after party).
"I fart on planes all the time," said one of my lovely workmates. Don't be shocked. I'm the only bloke at work and this conversation is lame compared to some of the topics I've had the pleasure of trying to ignore. "Nobody can hear you toot over the sound of the engines."
And for the first time in many years I actually thought flying might be doable for me. Until I got home.
"Oh, they'll hear YOU alright," my sweet wife told me. "Although there's a chance the people up in business class might just think it's really bad turbulence."
I never like air plane food anyhow.