Next we pack ourselves into a hot metal box with thousands of strangers who may or may not have brushed their teeth and applied deodorant, before launching into the skies to battle our way through the legions of other hot, full, flying, metal boxes, to countries where we will be burned to a crisp and eaten alive by blood sucking critters and cash-sucking tourist traps alike.
Ah, the holidays.
We Brits do love a jaunt and they are not all bad, obviously, but the rise and rise of the cheap airline seat means they can, actually, be quite dreadful.
We all, obviously, understand the need for additional security measures that see passengers standing in line for hours and forced to strip virtually naked in the presence of staring strangers before being subjected to a full body search.
Not relaxing, clearly, but vital preparation for the invasion of your personal space when you finally get on board.
Unless you have remortgaged your house, you will be packed into a seat designed for the tiniest of tiny people, and not be allowed to sit down for more than around five seconds before getting up and down again in the manner of a meerkat.
After the unseemly battle for space in the packed overhead locker is completed with only minor injuries, you must fold your legs into your chest for takeoff while glancing round to take in the adorable chubby-faced toddlers and enormous, beer fuelled, rugby-playing gentlemen on a stag night who share your row. Then the seatbelt lights go off and the fun starts.
Unless you are lucky enough to have a sensible cabin crew who fake turbulence to get some peace, the cacophony begins as the charming children behind you kick your seat and the one in front is reclined into your face.
Meanwhile, the rugby players start singing, flirting, and asking to get up for the bathroom every two seconds.
Babies scream and you feel like joining them.
At this point, £10 for warm wine in a plastic cup seems reasonable.