A number of things are wrong. First, I’m standing in a field surrounded by darkness, my mind pulling the covers over its head and mumbling into its pillow. Second, I’m in Spain and it’s summer, yet frost dances along the grass and spiked yellow flames snarl into the air like crazed snake tongues at an all-night rave.
Third, and most significantly, I’m about to climb into an oversized picnic basket that’s going to whisk me hundreds of metres above the earth with not so much as a seatbelt, a lifejacket or a parachute on hand. There’s not even going to be a well-groomed semaphore routine pointing out the nearest emergency exit.
I’m about to step into a hot air balloon. And it pains me to tell you I feel nervous.