There is, let’s face it, a phobia for every occasion. Whatever you’re having yourself.
Indeed, it is no longer acceptable to have a merely conventional phobia, such as claustrophobia (fear of small spaces), agoraphobia (fear of open spaces), arachnophobia (fear of the humble spider), or even aerophobia/aviophobia (fear of flying).
Regarding the latter, I know a man who is terrified of flying and, having medicated himself well with brandy at a Paris airport, boarded his plane for Canada and ended up sitting beside an attractive and relaxed psychiatrist on her way to a conference in Toronto.
They chatted for a while, she about her husband and kids while the brandy inside him wrestled fiercely with terror, something his pride also struggled mightily to control.
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Eventually, she decided to sleep and offered him a book she had finished reading and recommended, highly.
It was Alive, about a young Uruguayan rugby team, 16 (out of 45) of whom survived an air crash in the remote Andes after a two-month struggle which included cannibalism involving dead comrades. He, discreetly, slipped it behind magazines on the back of the seat before him.
The same man could never be accused of caligynephobia (fear of beautiful women) nor, certainly at that moment, of somniphobia (fear of falling asleep).
And though he was clean-shaven, he certainly does not suffer from pogonophobia (fear of beards) as he is known to sport facial hair occasionally.
But it does get ridiculous. I mean, phobophobia (fear of phobias). Really? Seriously? Or Xanthophobia (fear of the colour yellow) – there goes half the Ukrainian flag – or omphalophobia (fear of belly buttons), not to mention dextrophobia (fear of things to one’s right).
Come on.
But no dancing either. Chorophobia is a fear of dancing, while nostophobia is a fear of returning home, presumably after the dance when there’d be some explaining to do, surely.
We just won’t talk about arachibutyrophobia (fear of peanut butter sticking to the roof of your mouth. I can think of little else!), though, I must confess, to occasionally suffering from hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia (fear of long words).
Confronted with the Welsh placename Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch, how else is the average person to react?
But one phobia I freely confess to is nomophobia (fear of being without my mobile phone).
Terror stalks there.
Phobia, from Greek phobos for `fear, panic, terror’.’
