We live under the flightpath into Heathrow, and sometimes the planes are very low and loud as they circle over London on their final approach.

This is a good thing if you’re in one - as I have been a few times recently - because it means you can peer out of the window and spot our street, which is always mildly exciting - I love seeing something familiar from a totally different perspective (which is why I’ve been completely lusting after this book (and this one) since it came out last year.

It’s also curiously relaxing to lie on the bed on weekend mornings, or late afternoons during the week, flopped full clothed after getting in from work and counting the seconds in the interval between each passing plane - ninety, more or less, and close enough to distinguish the airline, though not the passengers inside, peering out through the oval windows at the city streets below.

But sometimes the distant noise of the overflying plane invades my dreams. Last night I dreamt that a plane exploded over the city - I watched from the rooftop as the the aircraft banked and swooped and burst into bright flames which showered to the ground like fireworks. And I woke up frowning.