He’s back! At 2.30 this morning there was a knock on the door. Terry, our number three son had been delivered safely back to Perth by Qantas. We have adopted the policy that any air travellers coming back to our house now have to use a taxi, even if it does cost fifty bucks.
I have to admit I had felt a bit of parental concern for him over the past 48 hours. Mainly because the ongoing and monumental US battle for Fallujah in Iraq seems to me to be an event which might have wide ranging effects. I would have been even more concerned had I known in advance where my son’s flight was routed at the last moment.
The aircraft had been delayed in London for two hours, apparently because a passenger was ill. This seemed to me a strange excuse. I would have thought such a matter could have been dealt with much more expediently. The delay shortened the time available to make the Qantas connection flight in Singapore. The plane had originally been scheduled to take a longer, slower, but nevertheless more economical route. However the aircrew decided that given the situation they could take the other route – the short cut over Iran. Uh oh! Furthermore if they went faster than usual they could get to Singapore in time to make the connection. (It would also make it harder for the SAMs to lock on.) The downside of this was they would have to burn up an extra 70 tons of fuel, but that apparently was a cheaper option than putting all the passengers up in a Singapore hotel overnight.
Iran is a country with more than its share of problems – and guess which country is next to it? Iraq of course. That smoke haze on the southern horizon was probably not from desert scrub fires. It was daylight yesterday when my son was passing through that part of the world. I wonder if any Persian peasants noticed a tiny dot in the stratosphere streaking eastward at full speed. It was chockers full of apprehensive passengers and a talkative pilot who managed to pull it off.
Never mind all this palava. We have our son back in one piece. He looks very fit, not an ounce of fat. That’s what the cost of food in Britain does for you. Pretty well the first thing he did when he got here this morning was to take a look in the fridge, then pour himself a glass of milk. He hadn’t had a decent glass of milk since he left five weeks ago. “ Glug! Glug! Glug!” As for jet lag, that seems to have transferred itself to me and my wife when he woke us this morning. We took a long while to get back to sleep, and then at six o’clock our 15 year old daughter started practising her saxophone. “Toot! Toot! Toot!” She never practices at that time of the day.
Then her twin brother started off. He has a sore big toe and has a doctors scrip to wear sandals. Trouble is this prevents entry to manual arts classes and the science lab. “Whinge! Whinge! Whinge!” He turned real grotty and wanted to stay home - this encouraged a raised voice and empty threats from his father - I have my faults, but I won.
Meanwhile the returned traveller is dozing comfortably in his sack. He can leave his valuables alongside his bed with the assurance they will probably still be there when he awakes. (All his siblings are at school.) He will have a nice lunch with his mum and dad today, and a nice dinner with the rest of the family tonight. (Even the grotty one.) But tomorrow its back to work. There are drains to clear and hot water systems to install. A plumber’s work is never done.
© MMIV Paul R. Weaver.
About the writerCheck out the index of my "common-man" monologues about survival in 21st century Australia – plus a little history occasionally. An original essay is added most days.
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