First off, I hate to travel. I am afraid of airplanes. So being on one isn't high on my agenda of pleasant things to do with my time. But off to Cannes I go, after trying my best this year to talk myself out of it. Some head Film Scout I am, huh? Anyway, to cut to the chase I make it fine as far as Amsterdam. However, my fear surges on the hopper to Nice. I announce my phobia to the pilots loud and firm, and I also check them out: can they do the job? Do they know how to fly over or around the Alps with ease and grace? Well, what do they do but they turn around to invite me to fly the plane with them in the cockpit jumper. Hey, I am in. Better to supervise (he-he) the pilots than sit backstage and cry for the next hour-and-a-half. So, now I know how to fly a plane. (It didn't look like they were working too hard, but there were a few buttons and dials whose purpose wasn't self-evident). They even gave me a pilot's hat to wear, which may have had to be explained to the other passengers when I stepped out of cabin with the hat sort of on my head à la Charlotte Ramlping in The Night Porter. The only thing I needed in my hand was a martini to really freak out the other passengers. I was tempted to say "It's my Daddy's airline" but I kept quiet.
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