When I was a student, I once saw a job advert for an "international courier". The successful candidate, read the advert, would fly to a variety of countries escorting items deemed either too valuable or important to be sent unaccompanied or abandoned to the cargo hold.
My active imagination immediately conjured up visions of myself travelling first class to a small European principality, accompanying a tiara or some crown jewels.
My parents on the other hand also conjured up images, of their only daughter languishing in a Columbian prison after being caught with some suspicious substance or powder.
As a result, I never did go for the job, and instead spent my holidays working in a sausage factory.
I still fantasise about the idea of an international courier, but now, I fantasise from the point of view of someone who would pay a small fortune to employ one. Not because I have tiaras requiring transporting to foreign kingdoms, but because I have three small children who I have to fly with.
Just think what a fabulous idea it would be, if we could arrive at the airport, hand the children over to the courier, and recline gracefully in our seats for 12 hours' peace and quiet.
While I sip my complimentary gin and catch up on the latest in-flight movie, this courier would be entertaining my children. I would nap, while they tried the "open two juice cartons simultaneously while also building a small lego model" tango that is the lot of parents who travel with their children.
I would flick through a magazine, while the courier wrangled a 2-year-old into an aircraft toilet that is not designed to comfortably fit one person, let alone two, one of which really wants to press the emergency button. Repeatedly.
This plan would be a win for all involved. The children would get someone focused on them, ready to play I spy for 10 hours, who has the energy and enthusiasm of youth.
The courier would get a flight to exotic climes, and upon disembarking could collapse into the peace of a hotel.
Meanwhile, we parents would leave the flight refreshed, and therefore able to deal with three children, a luggage trolley, jet lag and the almost guaranteed "I left my teddy on the aeroplane drama" that is normally played out at 10 decibels just as you have reached the front of the customs queue.