THIS may sound ridiculous, but there was one book that most definitely wasn't going to be included in the hand luggage as I prepared for this flight to Barcelona.

And yes, call me superstitious if you like. Yet the fact remains that nothing, not even the proverbial wild horses, would have persuaded or convinced me that taking a tome entitled Buddy Holly: His Life And Music on the plane was a good idea.

There. I've confessed. You see, to even have in one's possession a book that must, by definition, end in its subject being splattered over a snowy field in the American state of Iowa could be just a tad too tempting to the fates.

So instead, I packed the most innocuous title I could find, an intense tale about corruption in high places. Interesting, agreed - but if the truth be known, I was really longing to read this yarn about the tall tunesmith from Lubbock, Texas. Hey-ho.

Let me set the scene. Accompanied by she-who-must-be-obeyed, I was travelling with a group of long-time friends to the Catalonian capital for a short break. Our little party of six comprised three journalists, a therapist, heating engineer and a deputy headteacher. Sorry about the last one.

Anyway, I'll nail my colours to the mast. On a few occasions, I have been known to be brave... heroic even. This record of courage includes the day I fought Mick Lucas on the village green and lost; accepting that I had to learn about new technology; buying a round at the Brunswick Arms in 1988; and facing a mad French farmer and his litter of in-bred, pinheaded, gun-toting sons on a Breton farm track.

Now, you can quite clearly see I am no coward. But air travel is quite daunting - for days before a flight, my mind turns to thoughts of doom. Usually, it takes the form of imaginary headlines written after the aircraft has come to grief.

Reunion party perishes in holiday-of-a-lifetime jet horror, screams one splash head. Totally unknown columnist dies in terror plunge, honks another. Hero hack floors eight hijackers with stiff uppercuts and saves hols flight, booms one more. Ah yes, there might be some difficulty with that one. But this is therapy, so bear with me for a while, dear reader.

At last, the day of the holiday arrives. The trip to the airport becomes the last journey of the condemned man. We meet the others and I request that she-who-must-be-obeyed does not tell the gang about the faintheart in their midst. No snitching please, o mighty one

It's not that I'm ashamed, it's just that I don't want to have the mickey ripped from me continuously for the next week. So we exchange greetings, all ever-so-jolly, with the usual telltale stuttery banter characteristic of those who have only 40 more minutes to live.

Soon, our luggage has disappeared on the conveyor belt and we are being X-rayed, frisked, and then allowed to wait on death row... sorry, the departure lounge. Amazing grace, how sweet the sound... the day thou gavest Lord is over. Yes, I know, utterly pathetic.

Soon, we are crammed into this tube, sitting bolt-upright with the chair of the person in front just a few inches from our faces. Talk about sensory deprivation - yes, yes, that's it. This phobia has nothing to do with fear, it is a hatred of being closed in.

No, that's nonsense. Be honest, this is to do with self-absorption. I mean, what makes my life so special? I'm just one of several billion human beings who have existed on earth since it began, merely a strip of protein supported by two stalks called legs. In the scheme of things, we are talking about a grain of sand on the beach.

Strangely enough, this makes me feel better. But where's that blooming drinks trolley? Come on, come on. It's mid-morning, so it's quite normal for someone to down four whiskies in the space of 10 minutes, I reason.

Ah, here's the nice lady with the medication... er, refreshments. Yes, thank you so much, I'll have two miniatures and a spring water please. The condemned man drank a hearty breakfast...

My friend Brian - and old mucker from the early days - is talking animatedly as the aircraft taxis along the runway. He knows I am not paying attention and he's right - all my senses are geared to listening to the engines, waiting for that change of tone which indicates lift-off. He receives confirmation of this vagueness when I laugh in the wrong place, thereby ruining one of his gags.

Vaaaa-RHHHHOOOM! The front bit of the plane is pointing skywards, two jet engines going like the clappers. How does this happen, I wonder as I wipe the moisture dripping from clammy, ice-cold hands. Why is it possible that 350 tons of people, suitcases and metal can travel through the air? I just don't believe it.

The minutes tick by, and we are cruising at 35,000 feet. This is the safest bit, so I relax a little. Draining the last dregs of whisky, I calm down enough to be able to hold a relatively lucid conversation with my companion. Like Toad, the impression I try to create is of a person used to the jet-set life.

"Oh yes, this is just a short hop, you know. Flying? Nothing to it, old bean. Now when I went to America, why, the turbulence over Newfoundland, yes by jiminy, that really was interesting, enjoyable in fact... oh no, doesn't bother me one jot. Bothers you? Ah well, each to their own..."

The bonhomie did not last, for the approach to Barcelona airport was not without incident. Right in the middle of the gedunk-gedunk landing process we suddenly soared back almost vertically into the sky. A few moments later, the pilot explained that we had taken evasive action because of the proximity of the plane in front. Lummy - was it a near miss - and if so, where's the steward with the blooming trolley?

Anyway, that was the end of the drama and we thoroughly enjoyed our break. Back at the airport on the last day, the actress Penelope Cruz walked past our table, looking as cool as Cephalonian cucumber. As I was wondering if she was also an aerophobe, my gaze turned to the end of the check-in queue and there was another celebrity - David Neilsen, aka Roy Cropper of Coronation Street.

I walked over, and after apologising for bothering him, requested his autograph for Alice, my youngest daughter. He was happy to oblige, and after exchanging a few pleasantries, I rejoined our party.

Half-an-hour later, the plane roared up and away from Barcelona. I gazed down at the blue Mediterranean and then, out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of Roy and his wife, clearly relaxed and enjoying the flight.

And in a flash, I knew we would be all right. For while a shooting star like Buddy Holly was never going to make old bones, the cocoa and slippers persona image of Roy Cropper was probably the best insurance of hem all.

Ah yes, steward. I'll have just a single miniature whisky this time. All of a sudden, I feel absolutely fine.

Next week: Tears for souvenirs were all they left me.