DorkySon is learning to fly.
I don’t mean in the metaphorical sense that people so often use to describe teenagers – becoming more independent, testing boundaries, working towards personal dreams – although I suppose these things are also true.
I mean that every second Saturday, weather permitting, we drive him to a small aerodrome a few kilometres east of Hobart, where he sits at the controls of a Cessna 172 and learns how to keep it in the air.
“Oh no,” said DorkyDad. “What a terrible start to a holiday.” We had just been treated to the sight of Alex Salmond, recently off a flight from London, strutting through Edinburgh airport. For a man in a crumpled suit, he exuded an extraordinary air of arrogance.
As it turned out, DorkyDad was right. Our holiday did not get off to a great start. A security alert at Edinburgh meant that we missed our connection at Heathrow. Despite arriving with 25 minutes to spare, we were discouraged from even attempting to catch it, and had already been re-booked onto another flight the next morning.
There followed a farcical afternoon and early evening, in which we were sent from floor to floor, desk to desk, and back again, in an attempt to secure three things: our bags and DorkySon’s pram, a bed for the night, and confirmation of our flight the next day. It proved surprisingly difficult. Individually, every member of staff we spoke to was lovely. Collectively it seemed like the right hand wasn’t even aware of the left hand’s existence. I am giving myself a week or two more to chill out before I write to BA… but they had better be ready for me. Continue reading
Dorkymum | Stories from Tasmania 