Westward Ho Ho Ho!
- From: james <james@xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx>
- Date: Tue, 6 Jul 2010 11:34:16 +0100
My gripes about having to attend a meeting in Plymouth fell on deaf ears. My wife even refused to hand me my gazetteer so that could arm myself with information and find out why a successful and prosperous company should think of holding a kneesup in Plymouth of all ungodly places. The cost of the train fare alone was outrageous. More than the cost of a cheapo single flight to NY.
Then my dear wife had the bright idea of my flying to Plymouth. I explained that people flew to New York or Cannes, but not Plymouth. Who in their right mind would assume that a bunch of pasty makers in manikin green could even conceive something as sophisticated as an aerodrome let alone run it?
So I flew to Plymouth and back again. There are moments when my dear wife does have rather good ideas. My initial reservations were unfounded. Two hours from Gatwick and I was installed in an acceptable hotel with a glass of chilled shandy and with more English-speaking staff than I'd find ever hope to find in a Surrey hotel where it seems, most staff speak some ghastly throat disease language which well-bred English ears some never be exposed to they're soldiers suggesting that the locals surrender. The reverse process the following day after a proper English breakfast (none of the cornish pasty and clotted cream nonsense that I'd been dreading) or those puff-filled ghastly crescent-shaped things that garlic munchers favour.
So not only had my trip west saved money but I'd also done my green bit to help save an unregarded and unlovely corner of England from the perils of galactic warming and primate change. Eden 1 looked wonderful from the air, Gatwick looked even better. The runway has proper VASI lights and VFR don't apply like they do in Drake's bowling country.
--
James Follett
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