soulMerlin’s Almanack

Oct 1

Sept/30 Flying and Dying - part five

Category: Flying and Dying

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Bloggers too them all

“No! Other way!”

I’m at full pelt along the corridor. “No” I shout back “He’s Just told me your wrong!

The two security vultures looked shaken. “You ain’ t carrying any liquids, are yuh?â€‌ snarled one preditor. “No! I scream back over my shoulder, shortcircuiting the double-negative. “Well hurry then!â€‌, screeched the other scavenger with a fetid snigger .

Two things have become increasingly clear.

  1. No one ever (well hardly ever) puts a comment on one of my posts
  2. Yanks just cannot bear to be second place or wrong. “No Way Buddy!â€‌
    click below and wait one minute for Japanese Translation
  3. As well as the manic ‘know it all’ airport appearance, there was one fateful cab journey in which the driver was so determined that he knew where our destination was (even though the dingbat didn’t) that he drove around fifty miles in the wrong direction, before he finally admitted defeat and consulted his controller on the radio. It’s just a thing about being the best; our cousins on the other side of the pond are convinced they’re right (even though we know they’re wrong) and we pretend we’re wrong (even though we know we’re right.) Same difference really.

But am I a tad miffed that no one who eyeballs my weekly missive can raise the motivation to tap in a few comments, observations or simple abuse?


It’s like the Universe you see. The Web that is. And my little Almanack thing is just a little particle of a speck in the black infinity of cyberspace, but if someone had the grace or pity to jot a little tad of wisdom under one of my laboured posts?


Special Screening - (in space no-one can hear you scream…)

“Why am I being stopped for a special search again?â€‌ I ask the next preying mantis to lightly place her feeler on my upper arm and guide me to a glass interrogation compartment, where I am puffed and analyzed under the hollow gape of my security attendant/guard.

No Answer…

…Four return journeys from Hartford to Heathrow and three â€کspecial-screening’ interrogations’ When I asked why I was being singled out, the response was a depressing “Once you’re in the system…â€‌ type of reply what system? What am I in? Missed flights, delays, headaches exhaustion and misinformation; it all seemed to confirm the foreboding question whispered by the spirit-ball in my dream. So even at quantity prediction level, my dream had earned it’s cred’s – the tingle of realizing that I was reading about locations in a book at exactly the same time as I was passing overhead, 35,000 feet above was a big bonus as the chances of that particular sequence of events and coincidences occurring was extremely minute. But the rest? Well it all depends how you look at it I expect.

Then there were a lot a little things; I knew my suitcase was the next one to appear on the baggage collection belt. “You’re next.” I thought and sure enough, round came the little grey suitcase that once was Christina’s. But it was still a fight; a fight all the way through each of the four trips. “Take the Skytrain to platform 8 you’ll get BA there”). The latest in the line of know-alls stood a tad over-straight in a none-specific uniform, with the face of a mustachioed Ernest Borgnine, “Yeah go on. Down the escalator, through the front entrance, across the road, up the elevator on the other side, third floor….You can’t miss it!” (that last statement of insane prediction almost inevitably sends me on an endless journey of mystery, misery and sheer panic!) Stupid Imperialist that I am - I assumed that the shouted “You’ll get BA there!” referred to British Airways. Oh No, you narrow soulMerlin…The BA in question referred to Buenos Ayres Airlines…How could I have been so wrong? I doubled back on my tracks and under the reliable instruction of a Brit. (a BA - yes a British Airways hostess, all dark stockings, hyper-blond hair and dehydration lines) I started to hurry back, heart thumping, legs aching and my lungs regretting my still-undefeated smoking battle.

Around then I knew I’d missed my flight - and I had rehearsals in High Wycombe the next day. Suddenly it didn’t matter. So what if I missed my flight? If I did, then my assistant would do just (well almost) as good a job as me. “Whatever you want.” I said to the roof of the corridor (I still personify ‘the force’ and I still look upward when I talk to Heaven). That’s really primitive - Or is it? You see, the lower end of the colour spectrum is red and the upper end is blue - there you have it Heaven (blue/high freq) and Hell (Red/low freq) Sort of a bit boring and limiting somehow and rather obvious; but it sums things up better than a book of religious philosophy. And so I slowed down.

On the Skytrain back to platform 7, I had a chat with a fellow traveller, who seemed to have been a JFK wanderer for several days. We looked at each other, each recognizing a kindred spirit - and smiled. A dog in a rucksack pretended not to notice, but my smile continued to grow. I sauntered up to the BA desk and was immediately put on the 8.30 flight (only two hours later) and upgraded to boot!

So I smiled most of the way home. And people smiled back and were pleasant and things went well enough (even with a further four hour delay).

So what about the prediction that I would see a North American Indian? Well I had discovered that Greg who plays the Snake Preacher in “Whistle Down the Wind” had a Great Grandmother who was an Indian squaw named Susanna Americana and I was struck by the Totem Pole appearance of the statue outside the theatre in Houston. Not very special really. Not like conclusive proof of a happy hunting ground - or a cloud, a harp and a nightshirt. (I wonder if they have more fun in Hell?)

well, I was just settling into my seat, when I looked across to my left and there, sitting and looking rather irritable, was an elderly Indian lady. Being English and naturally unfriendly, I decided to ignore her, rationalizing that she probably wouldn’t want to talk to me anyway. And so we sat for the next six hours. Suddenly near the end of the flight, she looked across and jabbed a finger towards the floor area underneath the seat in front of me. I looked and there was a 25c piece; I picked it up and on an impulse I pressed it into her palm, forming a handshake grip as I did so. Her face glowed as if she was seeing someone else she knew. I realised later, with an all over tingle, that it was the face I had seen in the spirit-ball vision.

Well, even Columbus mistook America for a part of India…

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