The airport is open! After all the controversy between the conservationists and the developers we are now living with these huge machines thundering overhead at regular intervals. Some people are rubbing their hands gleefully and counting unhatched chickens. Others are talking about moving out of the area.
Back at Parkesville the cup runneth over. Every time a jet roars over our pondokkie, my man rushes out to gaze, enraptured. This has led to taps being left on, cats being kicked and dogs being tripped over. Unfortunately, he expects me to drop all to enjoy the magic with him. Apologies to the neighbours if they see this old lady cavorting around in nighty and bare feet. His husbandship saw the first huge plane's trial run the other day and has been excitedly telling everyone that he experienced A Moment In History.
His idea of fun is to take me to dawdle (hours!) over a cuppa at the airport while he waxes poetic about each and every plane, burbling up all kinds of highly suspect technical details. He misinterprets my glassy-eyed stare as awestruck admiration. Actually, I know that I know that I know that those huge hotels with wings cannot possibly take off and fly - or land without plummeting into the new runway and leaving a gigantic crater. When, with a surge of tremendous energy, they soar into the air, I start doubting my grasp of reality. I feel compelled to say a prayer for each planeload of passengers and am afraid to miss one and thereby be responsible for a catastrophe. Hence the glassy-eyes.
So while my man thoroughly enjoys every hour of our (cold) cuppa, I stress and carry a huge weight of responsibility on my shoulders. (I have a similar problem with bikers. Every time we see one I ask for an angel to be sent to protect him. By now a large squadron of angels have become bikers. I wonder if they don leathers and helmets?)
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