DBW and I have been contemplating making a weekend break to Dublin for a while, now.

So, on our way back from the Bloggy Friday, when she reminded me that Aer Lingus‘s “special offers” would expire last night at 24:00 and that we would absolutely have to book our flights before that deadline if we wished to stand a chance to save a couple of cents, my stomach started cringing, the saliva in my throat was instantly lyophilized before I uttered the fatal words that had been haunting my soul ever since she had mentioned the idea:

Remember when we traveled to Brugges last year? And you insisted we fly separately? So that we would reduce the chance of reducing the kids to orphans by 50%? If you (or I) crash? With the plane? And…like…die?

There was silence in the car.

Deep silence.

Complete with a deadly look which could only suggest that I would be immediately better off if I could instantly organize a one-way teleport to the nether world.

Followed by a typical woman-like

We’re not going to Dublin. Or Marrakech.

More deep silence ensued…

To which I countered with a feeble

Blablabla-airline safety records-blabla-fatal crashes-blabla-driving along-blabla-maniacs on the road-blabla-when is the last time we actually had a fatal crash-blabla-see: told you-blabla.

DBW must REALLY need a break: Dublin is booked, Marrakech: pending!