Rebecca Barry: Bjork's got a lot to answer for

It's Bjork's fault. "One day it will happen," sings the Icelandic star on the prophetic 1993 song, One Day.

"One day you will blossom ... when you're ready an aeroplane will curve gracefully around the volcano with the eruption that never lets you down."

Coincidence? The pop singer is no doubt cackling into her home-cooked laufabrau as thousands of international travellers are forced to become Tom Hanks in The Terminal and hustle for the first plane outta that holiday destination they've been saving up to get to for the best part of their lives.

All because a stupid volcano with a name that sounds like someone threw a drumkit down the stairs decided to let off some steam. Not another day in the Greek islands, Dad.

Don't worry, son, we'll be back to grey skies and fax machines in no time. Keep an eye on that pregnant lady, I don't want her getting ahead of us in the queue.

It's hard not to feel sorry for those who missed important occasions, were forced to cancel eagerly awaited trips, or suffered health or financial woe as a result of an unstable pressure valve in the Earth. In which case Eyjafjallajokull serves as a reminder of the uncertainty of life and the need for a Plan B should it throw another tantrum.

But it was amusing to see those first flights home greeted by a virtual ticker tape parade. We made it!

We flew home in a big metal tube. Rather than living on a boat for six weeks. Or paddling in a canoe for six years. You wouldn't dare complain about the plastic omelettes and lack of foot room if the family had turned out to give you a hero's welcome.

Was it really so bad to be away for a few extra days? Isn't this what Skype, text and Facebook are for? Why do we always want to be somewhere other than where we are?

It's endemic of our modern jet-setting age that we're so put out by a giant zit in Iceland. Ironic that, as the world is forced to remain at a geographical distance until the huffing and puffing subsides, we are brought together by the inconvenience of one event. And it's puzzling that a form of transport that allows us to circle the globe within a day hasn't the technology to protect against the threat of a plume of smoke.

Despite the sky being choked with the fumes of this particularly toxic burp, it gets a breather from the fossil fuels spewed out by the aircraft we so take for granted. Plus it's better to look at than Marc Ellis' attempt to market his website with a fake eruption on Rangitoto.

There are just as many reasons to fear it. Like many air travellers, I have enough trouble convincing my nerves that the tin bird I'm in is actually going to rise off the ground without worrying about all the particles of ash that could wreak havoc with the jet engines. With a trip to Europe planned next month, it's not particularly comforting to hear that Eyjafjallajokull has been known to trigger its big sister, Katla, 10 times the size.

I fear I am becoming irrationally fixated on the destructive power of clouds. It didn't help to stumble on this historical account of Pompeii: "The heat ... boiled their brains until the pressure shattered their heads like eggshells."

When events of this disruptive nature occur, it's natural to want to understand the reasons, and to then point the finger.

But it's not like Bjork was too busy surfing porn sites not to notice that the Earth was moments away from combusting. Or that she used sleight of hand to cover bad investments in her volcanic stocks. Was it simply penance for Iceland's bankruptcy?

She certainly has a lot to answer for.

As we contemplate our powerlessness in the shadow of the ash cloud, let us find comfort in the words of Bjork herself:

"The beautifullest fireworks are burning in the sky just for you."