Exit the Dragon...
This is what was flying and shooting near my house yesterday, Flighty tells me. Flighty knows everything about planes as you might suppose from his name. Thank you!
(I must say though, I rather preferred the idea of Puff the Magic Dragon. A warthog is much less acceptable. Though more likely to be associated with me, I grant you).
Showing posts with label gatling gun. Show all posts
Showing posts with label gatling gun. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
One for Flighty
I live by a tiny airbase. Well, I say by, it's a mile or so from my house. I've never been there as a grownup, but as a child I went samphire picking in a marsh with a friend and her mother one evening, and we were ushered away by a man who said we'd be blown up by the bombs if we weren't careful. I remember being quite thrilled. A favourite book of mine was Carrie's War, and as a wee one, I imagined myself in all kinds of dramas, so this was probably lovely. I'm not much better as an adult, chucking myself into dodgy situations. Anyway. I never really think about the place much -the father of a schoolfriend of Bonny's works there. He's a bit of a drip, and though Bonny's friend says he is a pilot, she also insists that she has a flat in Big Ben, so I suppose he is someone who manages graphs or something. I drive past the sign that says R.A.F VeryTinyVillagebytheSea twice a day too, but I don't really give it much thought apart from when I'm outside in the garden and very noisy jets fly over, or there is some bombing out to sea and then I get a bit annoyed as the village is very quiet otherwise.
Today whilst sunbathing off the effects of a miserable visit to the dentist (more later) both myself and Hats the Mutt were alarmed off our lazy bellies by an HORRENDOUS noise. It sounded like a huge, giant sized zip being drawn across the sky, and went on for a good while. The dog leapt up, ears all spanish policeman hat shaped and I was aghast. Wondering what the hell it was, I called dad - he used to be an aircraft engineer in the RAF years ago. I tried to explain the sound - like the big sky zip, but also like something horribly wrong with a speaker or an amp at full blast, when it happened again - Oh, dad said, I hear it now (he lives 10 miles away to give some idea of how loud it was in my garden). It's puff the magic dragon, he said.
It's amazing how quickly thoughts of alzheimers, dementia, how mum would cope can whip through your mind. Puff the magic dragon? I mean I know he lived by the sea, but wasn't that in a land called HonnerLee or something, rather than VeryTinyVillagebytheSea?
Turns out it was this. It fires 6,000 rounds a minute. That's a hundred a SECOND. All firing off into the north sea, inches from my hammock.
Ok, well not inches but it bloody sounded like it.
It went on all afternoon.
Today hasn't been a great day. Nine o' clock had seen me at the dentists, where Petr the Over Friendly Polish Dentist, did something like the Lindy Hop as he tried to remove a molar from my mouth. For twenty minutes. "Are you okaaaay?" he asked, sweaty droplets landing on my brow.
"Of course I'm fucking well not you great OAF" my eyes replied. With a hint of "oh, I'm just a fragile little thing please stop hurting me."
"Vell, I aim doink it now, so sorry, please vait"
Please wait. Honestly. Six hours later my mouth (and tongue and nose) were at optimum numb, too late. Which made me sound very, very stupid as I tried to negotiate a place on a course at the local college in August. I have to go tomorrow to take an hour long test to see if I am capable of passing the course.
In Maths.
*weeps softly*
Puff, come back for me.
I live by a tiny airbase. Well, I say by, it's a mile or so from my house. I've never been there as a grownup, but as a child I went samphire picking in a marsh with a friend and her mother one evening, and we were ushered away by a man who said we'd be blown up by the bombs if we weren't careful. I remember being quite thrilled. A favourite book of mine was Carrie's War, and as a wee one, I imagined myself in all kinds of dramas, so this was probably lovely. I'm not much better as an adult, chucking myself into dodgy situations. Anyway. I never really think about the place much -the father of a schoolfriend of Bonny's works there. He's a bit of a drip, and though Bonny's friend says he is a pilot, she also insists that she has a flat in Big Ben, so I suppose he is someone who manages graphs or something. I drive past the sign that says R.A.F VeryTinyVillagebytheSea twice a day too, but I don't really give it much thought apart from when I'm outside in the garden and very noisy jets fly over, or there is some bombing out to sea and then I get a bit annoyed as the village is very quiet otherwise.
Today whilst sunbathing off the effects of a miserable visit to the dentist (more later) both myself and Hats the Mutt were alarmed off our lazy bellies by an HORRENDOUS noise. It sounded like a huge, giant sized zip being drawn across the sky, and went on for a good while. The dog leapt up, ears all spanish policeman hat shaped and I was aghast. Wondering what the hell it was, I called dad - he used to be an aircraft engineer in the RAF years ago. I tried to explain the sound - like the big sky zip, but also like something horribly wrong with a speaker or an amp at full blast, when it happened again - Oh, dad said, I hear it now (he lives 10 miles away to give some idea of how loud it was in my garden). It's puff the magic dragon, he said.
It's amazing how quickly thoughts of alzheimers, dementia, how mum would cope can whip through your mind. Puff the magic dragon? I mean I know he lived by the sea, but wasn't that in a land called HonnerLee or something, rather than VeryTinyVillagebytheSea?
Turns out it was this. It fires 6,000 rounds a minute. That's a hundred a SECOND. All firing off into the north sea, inches from my hammock.
Ok, well not inches but it bloody sounded like it.
It went on all afternoon.
Today hasn't been a great day. Nine o' clock had seen me at the dentists, where Petr the Over Friendly Polish Dentist, did something like the Lindy Hop as he tried to remove a molar from my mouth. For twenty minutes. "Are you okaaaay?" he asked, sweaty droplets landing on my brow.
"Of course I'm fucking well not you great OAF" my eyes replied. With a hint of "oh, I'm just a fragile little thing please stop hurting me."
"Vell, I aim doink it now, so sorry, please vait"
Please wait. Honestly. Six hours later my mouth (and tongue and nose) were at optimum numb, too late. Which made me sound very, very stupid as I tried to negotiate a place on a course at the local college in August. I have to go tomorrow to take an hour long test to see if I am capable of passing the course.
In Maths.
*weeps softly*
Puff, come back for me.
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