mytbc

On Falling In Love

So, as we know, I am in a ridiculously long distance relationship with a wonderful woman from rural Georgia (the American one, not the being bombed by the Russians one). Normally this is, if you’ll permit me to use a cuss-word for a second, a pain in the ass. However, there is one big advantage of loving a woman who lives 3,500 miles or so away from you. If you wish to visit her, you’re generally required to go there in a big metal tube in the air. These are called aeroplanes, and they’re pretty cool.

I think my first memory of anything to do with aeroplanes is being in primary two, discussing our various summer holidays with my friends. My family were never really rich enough to go away anywhere. Our idea of a holiday was to make use of a Caravan in Saltcoats that was owned by a mother and toddler group my mum used. We may have gone there that summer. One of my friends though, he’d been to Florida! He then borrowed my micro machines aeroplane to demonstrate how the plane had taken off and done a loop the loop before it flew them to Florida, so I’m not sure how reliable a witness he was.

It would be many years before I would get to fly in a plane myself. If I count properly, about eleven years. That was difficult to work out, since I only have ten fingers. In 2003, I was a fresh faced youth of 17 (This is my passport photo, taken at the time) hanging around in equally fresh faced circles. Paul had heard about this music festival down in Kent that he was quite keen to attend. It didn’t take much to persuade me.

Kent, though, is rather far from Perth. I mean, not like the distance to the Sun, or even America, but far enough to make it difficult for two young lads who can’t drive to get there easily. Luckily there was a solution. We could simply fly down! With the advent of budget airlines, flying was no longer a rich man’s game. Paul booked us some flights on EasyJet from Edinburgh to London Gatwick. His step-dad was roped in to drive us to t’airport, since it was an early morning flight. I mean leaving the house at 5am early morning flight. Eurgh. I remember staying up until about 1am or something with Paul, and I honestly felt that it was about two minutes after my head hit my pillow that I was being rudely awoken.

Still, we made it to the airport, and made it into the air. To be honest, it wasn’t particularly exciting. I really don’t remember much from that flight at all. Might be tiredness, or just that flying with EasyJet isn’t particularly memorable. There were certainly no loop the loops or anything like that. I do remember getting to Gatwick to find out that the baggage claim carousel was out of action, which was quite disappointing, and that the automatic ticket dispenser at London Victoria Railway Station wouldn’t take our Scottish money

It was on the return, though, that I fell in love with flying. You know I love Glasgow. It is my favourite place in Scotland, and coming with that is a contempt for anything from Edinburgh, including their airport. It rankles that the British Airport Authority neglect Glasgow Airport to keep their evil Edinburgh agenda on track. So, obviously Glasgow Airport is the superior of Scotland’s main airports, but I will grant that when you are landing, the views as you come into Edinburgh Airport blow Glasgow’s out of the water. The Forth Bridges from the air, the majesty of the Forth herself, with her many islands, the shoreline at Leith. All look fantastic as your plane swoops over them to landing. When I think of the views at Glasgow, which are basically the high-rises of Clydebank… Well, let’s just say I prefer to land at Edinburgh.

I started this post with the full intention of describing my journey last summer, to Atlanta, but I feel this is a good point to finish. I will return to it in a later post. Until then, loyal *cough* reader, farewell

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3. I love you, Dave.

So, as we know, I am in a ridiculously long distance relationship with a wonderful woman from rural Georgia (the American one, not the being bombed by the Russians one). Normally this is, if you'll permit me to use a cuss-word for a second, a pain in the ass. However, there is one big advantage of loving a woman who lives 3,500 miles or so away from you. If you wish to visit her, you're generally required to go there in a big metal tube in the air. These are called aeroplanes, and they're pretty cool. I think my first memory of anything to do with aeroplanes is being in primary two, discussing our various summer holidays with my friends. My family were never really rich enough to go away anywhere. Our idea of a holiday was to make use of a Caravan in Saltcoats that was owned by a mother and toddler group my mum used. We may have gone there that summer. One of my friends though, he'd been to Florida! He then borrowed my micro machines aeroplane to demonstrate how the plane had taken off and done a loop the loop before it flew them to Florida, so I'm not sure how reliable a witness he was. It would be many years before I would get to fly in a plane myself. If I count properly, about eleven years. That was difficult to work out, since I only have ten fingers. In 2003, I was a fresh faced youth of 17 (This is my passport photo, taken at the time) hanging around in equally fresh faced circles. Paul had heard about this music festival down in Kent that he was quite keen to attend. It didn't take much to persuade me. Kent, though, is rather far from Perth. I mean, not like the distance to the Sun, or even America, but far enough to make it difficult for two young lads who can't drive to get there easily. Luckily there was a solution. We could simply fly down! With the advent of budget airlines, flying was no longer a rich man's game. Paul booked us some flights on EasyJet from Edinburgh to London Gatwick. His step-dad was roped in to drive us to t'airport, since it was an early morning flight. I mean leaving the house at 5am early morning flight. Eurgh. I remember staying up until about 1am or something with Paul, and I honestly felt that it was about two minutes after my head hit my pillow that I was being rudely awoken. Still, we made it to the airport, and made it into the air. To be honest, it wasn't particularly exciting. I really don't remember much from that flight at all. Might be tiredness, or just that flying with EasyJet isn't particularly memorable. There were certainly no loop the loops or anything like that. I do remember getting to Gatwick to find out that the baggage claim carousel was out of action, which was quite disappointing, and that the automatic ticket dispenser at London Victoria Railway Station wouldn't take our Scottish money It was on the return, though, that I fell in love with flying. You know I love Glasgow. It is my favourite place in Scotland, and coming with that is a contempt for anything from Edinburgh, including their airport. It rankles that the British Airport Authority neglect Glasgow Airport to keep their evil Edinburgh agenda on track. So, obviously Glasgow Airport is the superior of Scotland's main airports, but I will grant that when you are landing, the views as you come into Edinburgh Airport blow Glasgow's out of the water. The Forth Bridges from the air, the majesty of the Forth herself, with her many islands, the shoreline at Leith. All look fantastic as your plane swoops over them to landing. When I think of the views at Glasgow, which are basically the high-rises of Clydebank... Well, let's just say I prefer to land at Edinburgh. I started this post with the full intention of describing my journey last summer, to Atlanta, but I feel this is a good point to finish. I will return to it in a later post. Until then, loyal *cough* reader, farewell