Take cover

For a few seconds there is a second sunrise, a wave of warmth that tries to overtake and wrap us in a fiery clasp before we dive once more to hide behind the trees and scatter frost in streaks of slipstream. Weaving round the woods and banking over buildings, we come all in a rush upon a clutch of grey uniforms huddling round their breakfast fire. They scatter like starlings from their coffee and cigarettes, but we are gone in a rush of noise and blurry castor-oil smoke, to streak across the lines and mangled wire, then pull up into a lazy loop and let the world turn somersaults. Guns are thudding now, their side fired first at us, and our side fired back at them, and then they forgot us and fired back at those that fired at them, and from our lofty point we watch with quiet glee as each side goes to work, their purpose rekindled now the day's duty roster is well and truly nailed to the noticeboard.

A smoker's life is a wonderful rollercoaster of frantic activity punctuated by those few reflective minutes of distraction. I miss the variation in the pace of life more than I miss the aromatic tang of nicotine. Without a similar habit to let me vary speed I have to get used to trudging steadily along from one minute to it's successor. Paradoxically, I have less exercise now I no longer have to take a walk to reach the safety of the reservation that all companies mark out for the declining tribes that still cling to their old ways and habits. I took to taking walks anyway, just to stop my arse from getting chair-sores, but I no longer had the spur to reach the destination as quickly as before, and no longer had the warm buzz inside to get me back to the desk to tackle the problems with fresh insight and renewed vigour. Life slowed for me when I stopped, and I became ponderous and earth-bound.

The field has come in sight, we slip and slide to shed the speed we carried over from the frantic flight across the lines, brush our wheels against the twigs that lost their icy shimmer with the warming of the sun, and gently bounce along the grass to trundle in a lazy arc that trickles to a stop before the sheds. Mechanics come to stroke our wings and shed a tear or two about the tears we've carried with us from the front. And so we end the way to start the day and go, one to the care of ground staff, the other to the care of mess staff.

I took a morning trip to town today to get a haircut, and strolled back along the road towards the car park, glancing at my new reflection in the windows. As I passed the trolleys standing idly at the Supermarket a dog broke loose and rushed to wrap his paws around my leg. I tried vainly to shake him off, and his owner rushed to rescue me from what could have become a sticky moment.

"It's just affection, he can't help himself", she said, as she regained control, "he's mostly Border Collie".
"I have similar urges", I replied, "but my partner says I'm mostly Borderline Autistic".

I have this compulsive attraction to things that aren't always good for me, the aromatic tang of smoke, the subtle scent of perfume, the rush of air at speeds too fast for commonsense. One or more of them will get me somehow.