I’m drinking my freshly-stewed (sorry, brewed) coffee, well at least it’s less stewed than it will be for the other passengers, because I’ve been served first. Feeling privileged!

I’m on the first flight of the morning from Newcastle to Melbourne and at the wheel, (ok, it’s not actually a wheel, but let’s not get too technical) is my first-born son.

Yes, I’m putting my life in his hands at 35,000 feet above terra firma. It’s an odd, but good feeling. Of course this isn’t the first time that he’s flown me. I’ve done several short flights in Cessnas and the like, but during those flights I didn’t take the time to reflect and ponder, I was too busy praying and wetting myself simultaneously!

I know my son does this piloting thing all the time now and to him it’s second nature to be in charge of a speeding metal can hurtling through the clouds, but to unscientific me, who fails to grasp even the basic laws of physics, I am just amazed that he knows how to fly this thing, and land it safely.

As we make our descent into Melbourne, I hear his familiar voice announcing our ETA, weather conditions etc. He even thanks us for choosing to fly his airline – what a well-brought up boy! Believe it or not I find my eyes filling with tears. The man on the aisle gives me a strange look, but these are tears of joy and pride. If it wasn’t that I’d definitely embarrass one of the pilots, I just manage to stop myself from shouting out to the entire cabin that it’s my boy who’s landing the plane!