Exactly 55 years ago this week, a previously unknown comet appeared in the sky.
Fortunately this was no intergalactic invader threatening the earth or prophesying the fall of civilisations, but, nevertheless, it foretold profound change. The 1952 comet was the de Havilland Comet, mark 1 - the world's first commercial jet airliner.
Previously, international travel was slow, expensive and difficult - a realistic option only for the rich and leisured. Our grandparents holidayed in Bundoran, Ballybunion, or Brittas Bay if they were lucky. Then, at a take-off, the new commercial jets compacted our world, making international travel speedy and relatively hassle-free. Traditional seaside resorts went into inevitable drizzly decline while glamorous high-street travel agents tempted us with the new status symbol of a dusky tan.
Soon savvy tour operator Joe Walsh was diversifying from prayerful pilgrimages. He urged us instead to "join the JWT" set by following the somewhat more hedonistic path to the Mediterranean.
Joe knew that what we wanted were not robust cultural experiences, but familiarity beneath blue skies - in short, Salthill with sun. And that is what he gave us. Within our home-from-home he saw to it that there were always abundant Irish people, Irish pubs and, crucially - a Barry's tea bag in every pot.
We may have agonised with sunburn, hated the milk and spent much of our time hung over, but still our postcards home extolled the wonder of it all. We fell in love with our modest annual adventure and so each year we returned to JWT and a host of later imitators for the comforting embrace of a package holiday.
Of course it was all much simpler then. On my maiden flight from Cork, I well remember a pleasant stroll from check-in to an aircraft that was totally free of annoying metal detectors or security men. We also took off exactly on time since airports were then uncrowded, relaxed places and as we taxied down the runway, friends and relatives waved to us from an open-air balcony.
And in the air we were made to feel truly royal. Aer Lingus hostesses were chosen from the crème-de-la-crème of Irish womanhood and wearing their latest designer creations they pandered to our every whim.
A cooked breakfast was before us even as the plane reached cruising altitude and we were assured that complimentary drinks and pillows were just a raised finger away.
In those seemingly far-off days, flying was a much-anticipated and relaxing part of the holiday experience.
As the industry became more competitive, however, things began to change. Those of us who booked early and provided cash flow for the tour operators began to feel like losers. Ruinous price wars ensured that tardy bookers obtained substantial discounts.
We now began discovering somebody in the next seat who booked last week and only paid half what it cost us before Christmas.
And then as we were becoming disillusioned with the package holiday straitjacket, low-cost airlines made a welcome appearance.
Soon we were wondering why we should buy inflexible one and two-week packages and fly at some ungodly hour of the night, when we could go low-cost and travel at the time that suited us?
With this new flexibility we could hop overseas for short breaks, or enjoy those 10-day holidays that never seemed to be available on traditional packages.
And so Europe became our oyster.
Flying was now available at incredibly low prices and taking full advantage, we became one of the world's great travelling nations. But hassles also increased.
We found ourselves struggling through overcrowded airports, or shoehorned into our seats on sardine can aircraft as airlines tried to maximise passenger capacity.
The smiling air hostesses of yore had now morphed into indifferent salespersons whose only function seemed to be selling us something at all costs. And the decline in service has continued. Far from being treated like royalty we are now herded on and off our flights. We struggle through security with as much dignity as we can muster while holding our trousers with one hand and hoping nobody nicks our watch while we replace our shoes.
And we must pay for our luggage, pay to sit as a family and if our baggage is a few kilogram overweight, the excess charge can cost more than the flight. Then scrunched in our seats, while trying not to buy a scratch card from a pushy flight attendant, we are haunted by guilty visions of what I now call "the polar bear index."
Propose a short break in Paris these days and you will surely be informed that such thoughtlessness means a bear cub keeling over somewhere in the Arctic.
Dare to suggest transatlantic and the huge carbon footprint ensures the entire bear family is no more. It's a no-win situation and small wonder that - like Slattery's famous London buses of the 1980s, - air travel has now become an unavoidable trial on the way to our destination.
Our amour with flying, which began with the impulsiveness of a teenage crush exactly 55 years ago, has now cooled noticeably into an essential, but loveless and frustrating liaison.