Creative Writing Ch.1v1 (over milk wood)

Prologue;

Sarah’s latest bodily repairs have disqualified her from coming on holiday-this time!
So Sarah, lie back on your chair, close your eyes and let us bring you with us, in heart and mind.

17th December
I don’t know what it is about going on holiday, but there is always a mixture of anticipation and panic in our house.
I begin the relaxation phase a lot earlier than Michelle, and leave packing for the last possible moment. In fact this year, I had a works’ Christmas do at the Rugglestone Inn, Widecombe-in-the-moor. It was a hoot- but no ‘tight owls,’ as we had to drive.

But for Michelle, and therefore us; a kind of hyperactive, manic activity occurs in the final hours before every holiday, that makes us all fall out. It seems no one can make a valid point on any subject matter, without contradiction from another. It nearly put paid to my efforts to be more patient.

I suppose it’s a mixture of leaving the dogs behind, making sure the doors are locked (several times), tiredness from an early flight and making sure someone pops some milk in the fridge, ready for our return. As for the children and me, we are unconcerned by such practicalities. We just need food, one of those neck-pillow thingies and access to an array of electronic gadgets; or for me- a good book.(or right now, the iPad)

I’ve given up reading the in-flight magazines. I don’t need a watch, aftershave or one of those happy faced, cuddly-toy aeroplanes. Neither do I want to read about the beautiful beaches of Mauritius when I’m going to Tenerife.
I am here to savour the moment- no trace of a smooth pebble in my pocket.

After a bit of an altercation with a speed camera on the road to Bristol Airport-in the fog- on the road where the speed limit varies like the content of a Bingo callers bucket; we arrived. We satisfied our need for food, then climbed the steps onto flight BRS-TFS / FR4753.
Well actually, that was after one last panic, that we had missed the gate. But we made it, so I’ll carry on. (Michelle’s face was a picture – of the hammer-house variety)

The head rests on this Ryanair flight were a garish yellow, and hurt Michelle’s eyes. “It’ll be ok when the lights go out,” I said.
Our Captain for today was Andy. It’s 18 degrees in Tenerife and a little cloudy.
We all raised an eyebrow, and checked our watches.
“And it’s only 7am,” went the murmur; like a Mexican wave at Upton Park.
(I doubt anyone could see that far with the naked eye, at the new ‘ Stade de Londres, Olympique’)

I have to say, that I prefer my Pilots to be called Roger or Patrick, but it’s a sign of the times I suppose. I don’t know why Andy isn’t as reassuring. Patrick and Roger might listen to Mozart, whereas Andy drives a BMW and listens to Take-That. Anyway, I reckon he’ll get us there wherever he was educated. He might even have a dash more common sense and be calm in a crisis;
Like degree-less Police Officers or Nurses. But I digress;

As we were pressed back into our seats and rose above the cloud cover, and out of the drizzly murk, the first showings of dawn slowly came into view.

Row upon row of ploughed clouds. An endless, furrowed field of fallow fluffiness.
And as the dish of the sun, peeked over cloud and set the horizon on fire;

“Wow, beautiful!” I shouted.

After being ‘shushed’ by Michelle, I realised my ears hadn’t popped and I sounded like the Major, off Fawlty Towers.
The couple in the seats next to me thought so too, (about the beautiful dawn-not sounding like the Major) and we took turns to bob our heads to cop an eyeful in the tiny window; like the sticky, staccato keys of an old typewriter.

Then a blinding light, filled the cabin, sending me blinking, back into my seat. The sun has risen.
Michelle’s light- sensitivity peaked, as the rays bounced off the yellow headrest and she bowed her head low.

She pulled up her cardigan like a blanket, gave me some cash to buy a drink and announced she was going to sleep.
“Yeah right!” I said, with not a little sarcasm; blowing my lips as if missing the end of the tuba.

Sure enough, I purchased two hot chocolates, and Michelle passed one along to Emily.
My son Josh, had been out clubbing the night before, and had only gone to bed an hour before we got up. I said we should just let it go and enjoy the holiday.
“Ignore the funny Elephant-print, clown-trousers,” I said, it’s just a fad; “He’s got a good heart underneath that dirty t-shirt.”

I’m glad I did, as we had the best talk ever, in the airport lounge. Michelle had kept a safe and watchful distance, unwilling to disturb this brief moment of harmony. I suppose it’s a dad-son, dad-daughter thing- but I love him all the same.
His face was pressed against the window, in the opposite aisle. I studied his gigantic Adam’s apple, and gaping mouth. Eyes concealed under newly bought sunglasses; and I smiled. That’s my boy!
I did take a cheeky photo to wind him up later though.

(Next episode- the landing- I hope!)