… must hit a tree and then explode into a thousand sad little fragments. But, before we get to that, I need to explain the level of detailed planning that precedes creating a window of time into which you can smash what used to be money.
Kids Easter Egg hunt starts at 12:30sharp. Flying starts at 10. So roll out of bed at 8 and:
08:01: Release mad dog and receive traditional greeting of big slobber and 30kg of misplanted paw on my foot.
08:05: Engage in daily re-enactment of “attack of the killer chickens” as you release the hungry, fat peckers , and then run away as they hunt you down assuming there is a hidden lettuce about your person.
08:08: Complete removal of chicken poo from beju poultry residence. Count chickens and sum only three. Recount does not magically produce another chicken. Notice dog has helpfully nosed gate open through which “free range Willy” has motored through.
08:09 Corner chicken and attempt to catch through use of approved “double arm grab”
08:14 Decide whoever approved that technique has clearly never dealt with Killer Chickens before. Examine bloodied peck marks while Mexican standoff breaks out. Dog attempts to break back in by herding escaped bird using an approach best described as “Bottom Sniffing”
08:16 Dog joins human on the bloodied side of Mexican standoff having been chastised by the beak of doom
8:17 With a “fuck this, it a sodding chicken not a bloody grizzly bear“, successfully apprehend squawking pray using “big wing” arm movements followed by swift Rugby tackle.
8:18 Flushed with success, don’t notice chicken flushing herself as she squeezes out a line of shit, perfectly aimed at my recently (as of 30 second ago) pristine new fleece.
8:19 Look into mad eye of the Chicken and know it’s laughing at me.
8:20 Return chicken to POW side of fence, attempt to clean up fleece poo but merely marinate remainder of clothing with liquid shit. All chickens now pissing themselves laughing.
8:25 Stalk out, return to house, stick both model batteries on charge, decant entire truck full of spares, wings, God knows what else from one room into the 4×4. Congratulate self on remembering to actually pack same number of wings as fuselages*
8:40 Wolf down breakfast. Embark on walk with domesticated Wolf.
8:41 Notice key component of Dog Walking missing, namely Dog.
8:45 After some frantic searching, discover Murf in the pond with his “oh it’s me you wanted was it? Sorry I thought it was the other Murphy you’ve been shouting at desperately for the last five minutes” look.
09:20 Return with Dog. Wave in general direction of family and promise imminent return from amazing flying session in which the repaired Boomerang will once again aspire to aviation.
10:30. 20 hours repair, 20 minutes flying. Let’s just leave it there should we. Okay let’s not, it was another TREE, ANOTHER ONE. One day I’ll have a proper accident where I crash into the ground or myself. But no, I just clipped a tree on the final approach. Final being the right word. Plane is wrecked, completely. I’m setting fire to it later.
11:50: Completed my first ever landing with a proper engine-y plane. Well second if you want to count 25 foot in a tree as a “landing”. Second training aircraft is nowhere near as nice to fly, but at least it still looks like an aeroplane. Amusingly everyone was commenting on what a great repair/recover/rebuild job we’d done on the boomer. Makes smashing it into a million pieces so much more easy to bare.
12:30: Return home. Sweep out sorry remains from the truck.
It’s still there. I can’t bring myself to sort it out. What you probably won’t believe – and I know I’m struggling – is apparently, my flying is actually pretty damn good and not many people make their first landing after 8 training flights. Loads of people have been in that tree. Think of it as a rite of passage they say.
I’m thinking of a beer 😉
* Ask me why. Go on, ask.
4 thoughts on “What goes up…”
Go on, I’ll bite, why? surely the number of wings should be *twice* that of fuselages?
Ah you would have thought so. But the wings are one piece so it’s an even simpler calculation. Twp Fuz, two wings. Not really hard to count. One hand and you don’t even need the thumb.
I’ve managed to get it wrong. Twice. It’s a skill I just don’t know what to do with.
That’s impressively broken, well done 🙂
It reminds me of my mountain biking really. Except the bits that get broken tend not to be me. More expensive to repair, but the excuses stay about the same.
I still think I could pull off a “wrong tyre choice” excuse for that one up there…