Throttlebear
Oct. 7th, 2008 04:53 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
skyringCanberra to Sydney
737-800 VH-VXE “Coffs Harbour”
QF560
0650 - 0829
This is it. The start of a world tour of Charleston. I've taken the Friday night off, preferring to put some solid effort into tidying the office instead of driving a cab for twelve hours. My wife wants to turn my office into a family room, saying (with some justification) that as I'm no longer a bookseller, I don't need a room with floor to ceiling books. Fair enough. I'm not the tidiest person in the world, and her threat to hire a rubbish skip while I'm away and tip into it anything she deems to be junk has had an effect.
I've cleared away half my stuff and secured a promise that she'll hold fire on the skip until I return and I'll tidy away the rest of it then. She's talking about new curtains and carpets. Women.
Not a lot of sleep, one way or another, and I'm up early for an 0730 departure. For a wonder, I've packed the night before. Instead of dashing around wondering what I've forgotten, this morning I'm calm and controlled. I don’t bother with my usual caffeine slug. I’ve got an hour in the lounge before my flight, and even if the machine espresso is insipid, it’s still better than what I can fix for myself.
There's only one quick return to the house to collect the laptop power supply, eliminating the chance that I might experience the trip instead of writing about it. Hmmm.
Canberra is a grey and drizzly day, in contrast to my bright spirits as we park the car and then stand in the checkin line for twenty minutes. I've got a window seat towards the front of the plane and there will be at least half an hour chatting in the lounge with the wife and daughter, coffee and muffins.
But as soon as we're in the lounge, in between dropping my carryon at a convenient window seat, and getting a cuppa from the self-serve espresso machine, there's an announcement. All passengers holding boarding passes for QF872 report to front desk. The plane is unserviceable, and we're to be squeezed aboard the earlier flight. Leaving now. Or wait several hours.
Stampede for front desk, abandoned coffee left dripping into cup, and we gods of the Qantas Club are allocated seats at the back of QF560, awaiting our immediate grace.
Back to the waiting women sipping their coffee. Wife gets up, and I brush past her to take a photo of the plane. She was expecting a fond farewell embrace, and becomes distinctly cold when I turn, holding out my arms for a hug. Not quite a peck on the cheek, but I'm hearing that rubbish skip being rumbled into position. This could prove to be an expensive photograph.
(Pause for real-time check - I'm in the Sydney Qantas Flounge, and they are running the A380 around just outside the windows. Talk about a distraction!)
My assigned seat of 26A is on the far side of a seated couple: middle and aisle. The plane is almost empty, so I grab 27A in an empty row. After about five minutes passengers 27A and 27C arrive, but they take the middle and aisle seats with barely a murmur.
It's drizzle outside, overcast above, and we're delayed while the passengers and crew of my cancelled flight scramble aboard. Even with two planeloads, our bird is only two thirds full.
We take off and spend about an hour stooging around, taking the taxidriver way to Sydney. Captain apologises every now and then, blaming air traffic control. No matter. I have a true chance to savour the muesli biscuit and mango juice served as breakfast.
Mild turbulence (outside) keeps the crew in their seats and with the unbroken cloud it's a reasonably tedious flight. I pull out cotourist Ringbear, sitting him on the seat top to take a few photographs, and I can feel the smiles from the two rows behind, full of displaced cabin crew.
I catch a glimpse of the harbour beneath after we turn and join the landing pattern, but the cloud is high enough to hide the towers of Sydney. The top of the bridge arch breaking the cloud top like a surfacing whale would be a sight worth seeing, but no, it’s cotton wool all the way in.
I haven’t had a chance to get a good bear photograph. Usually I try to get a photograph of the cabin crew holding Ringbear. Seatbelt sign on most of the way, and these short flights it’s hard to find a moment when the cabin crew aren’t busy. We land, hit the gate, and I linger. Being near the back of the bus, this is sort of what happens anyway. I’m the last passenger out and I accost the young lady at the door, offering her my bear and my camera.
Bless her heart, she understands the deepest desires of middle-aged men, and ushers me into the cockpit, where the copilot is tidying away the paperwork. Just a few seconds of dials and smiles, but it absolutely makes my day, and all the way through the terminal, onto the transfer bus,
737-800 VH-VXE “Coffs Harbour”
QF560
0650 - 0829
This is it. The start of a world tour of Charleston. I've taken the Friday night off, preferring to put some solid effort into tidying the office instead of driving a cab for twelve hours. My wife wants to turn my office into a family room, saying (with some justification) that as I'm no longer a bookseller, I don't need a room with floor to ceiling books. Fair enough. I'm not the tidiest person in the world, and her threat to hire a rubbish skip while I'm away and tip into it anything she deems to be junk has had an effect.
I've cleared away half my stuff and secured a promise that she'll hold fire on the skip until I return and I'll tidy away the rest of it then. She's talking about new curtains and carpets. Women.
Not a lot of sleep, one way or another, and I'm up early for an 0730 departure. For a wonder, I've packed the night before. Instead of dashing around wondering what I've forgotten, this morning I'm calm and controlled. I don’t bother with my usual caffeine slug. I’ve got an hour in the lounge before my flight, and even if the machine espresso is insipid, it’s still better than what I can fix for myself.
There's only one quick return to the house to collect the laptop power supply, eliminating the chance that I might experience the trip instead of writing about it. Hmmm.
Canberra is a grey and drizzly day, in contrast to my bright spirits as we park the car and then stand in the checkin line for twenty minutes. I've got a window seat towards the front of the plane and there will be at least half an hour chatting in the lounge with the wife and daughter, coffee and muffins.
But as soon as we're in the lounge, in between dropping my carryon at a convenient window seat, and getting a cuppa from the self-serve espresso machine, there's an announcement. All passengers holding boarding passes for QF872 report to front desk. The plane is unserviceable, and we're to be squeezed aboard the earlier flight. Leaving now. Or wait several hours.
Stampede for front desk, abandoned coffee left dripping into cup, and we gods of the Qantas Club are allocated seats at the back of QF560, awaiting our immediate grace.
Back to the waiting women sipping their coffee. Wife gets up, and I brush past her to take a photo of the plane. She was expecting a fond farewell embrace, and becomes distinctly cold when I turn, holding out my arms for a hug. Not quite a peck on the cheek, but I'm hearing that rubbish skip being rumbled into position. This could prove to be an expensive photograph.
(Pause for real-time check - I'm in the Sydney Qantas Flounge, and they are running the A380 around just outside the windows. Talk about a distraction!)
My assigned seat of 26A is on the far side of a seated couple: middle and aisle. The plane is almost empty, so I grab 27A in an empty row. After about five minutes passengers 27A and 27C arrive, but they take the middle and aisle seats with barely a murmur.
It's drizzle outside, overcast above, and we're delayed while the passengers and crew of my cancelled flight scramble aboard. Even with two planeloads, our bird is only two thirds full.
We take off and spend about an hour stooging around, taking the taxidriver way to Sydney. Captain apologises every now and then, blaming air traffic control. No matter. I have a true chance to savour the muesli biscuit and mango juice served as breakfast.
Mild turbulence (outside) keeps the crew in their seats and with the unbroken cloud it's a reasonably tedious flight. I pull out cotourist Ringbear, sitting him on the seat top to take a few photographs, and I can feel the smiles from the two rows behind, full of displaced cabin crew.
I catch a glimpse of the harbour beneath after we turn and join the landing pattern, but the cloud is high enough to hide the towers of Sydney. The top of the bridge arch breaking the cloud top like a surfacing whale would be a sight worth seeing, but no, it’s cotton wool all the way in.
I haven’t had a chance to get a good bear photograph. Usually I try to get a photograph of the cabin crew holding Ringbear. Seatbelt sign on most of the way, and these short flights it’s hard to find a moment when the cabin crew aren’t busy. We land, hit the gate, and I linger. Being near the back of the bus, this is sort of what happens anyway. I’m the last passenger out and I accost the young lady at the door, offering her my bear and my camera.
Bless her heart, she understands the deepest desires of middle-aged men, and ushers me into the cockpit, where the copilot is tidying away the paperwork. Just a few seconds of dials and smiles, but it absolutely makes my day, and all the way through the terminal, onto the transfer bus,
