Uncle Dave

Uncle Dave has the undivided attention of the children; they sit cross legged on the carpet in their pyjamas, facing him with their chins cradled in their hands. They know he has stories and gifts, eagerly waiting for anything on offer.
Dave arrived late last night in his typical unannounced style, with the usual small overnight bag, duty free gin and carton of cigarettes. His arrival at our home is always welcome as he holds the honorary position of god father to our youngest.
Sitting comfortably on the sofa with long legs stretched out in front of him, he is telling stories about flying adventures in New Zealand and Borneo. Rummaging through his bag, he produces, as if on queue, carefully thought out gifts for each member of our family.
In the middle of an animated story, reminiscing about an aerial escapade that he and I once had way back, I notice his enthusiasm for flying remains. I could easily be listening to a much younger man speak, and only the sun degradation of his Caucasian complexion and bulges of excess give away his true middle age status.
He and I, and a dog named Mindy once flew an aeroplane under the Auckland harbour bridge, an action so preposterous, that thankfully now days nobody ever believes us. He never really was a snappy dresser in younger years and now proves that some things don’t change at all with time. I am happy with the impression that his dress isn’t likely to change either, as it is part of who my old friend is. In respect of my house proud wife, well travelled shoes lie beside toes poking out of clean socks, revealing some time since an earnest manicure. He is speaking, using a joking manner that makes his speech cheerful and exciting to listen to. Smiling as he speaks, he reveals a neat row of yellowed teeth, also part of his character.
We have no idea how long Uncle Dave will stay and are afraid to ask in case it’s too short. Our house will be his home for whatever duration he desires.

Mr Abu Gazaleh

I enjoy an evening meal at an outside table on the outskirts of Amman Jordan. The restaurant, high on a hill, has an outlook across Israel to Jerusalem. I have been invited to enjoy this spectacular view by my superior, Mr Fouad Abu Gazaleh. Fouad is the Operations manager of newly formed, Palestinian Airlines who I have taken up contract employment with.
Fouad has obviously selected this venue to provoke my thoughts about Muslim and Christian relationships. He often says that if people were to concentrate on the similarities rather than the differences between Islam, Christianity and Judaism, then our world would be a more peaceful place.
Fouad Abu Gazaleh is a Palestinian, born in the old territory of Palestine and now, like so many other Palestinians, is living in exile in Jordan. He is an aircraft engineer by trade, having done his time with and working for Iraqi Airways for more than 30 years based in Baghdad. He is a born leader who is ideal for the new position that he holds with the fledgling Palestinian venture.
Many people lead by their position or a decree, with followers having to follow because of a title or rank. My boss doesn’t need title or rank as it is his personality and mature wisdom that automatically commands respect, thus follower-ship. People become naturally comfortable in his presence and easily trust him. I take time between courses to study this unique Middle Eastern man, he is in his mid 60’s, of average build with the revered callus of prayer on his forehead. His almond shaped blue eyes, now grey with age and rimmed with crows feet, retrace a life of empathy and understanding. Below a prominent Arab nose his bushy moustache grows wild above a wide and friendly mouth that is capturing my attention as he now speaks.
He is telling me that a lot of New Zealand soldiers died in Palestine during WW1 while fighting against the Turks and that he could take me to their cemetery someday.
“Perhaps your Grandfather or his friends are there!”
“My grandfather is buried in New Zealand, but yes, maybe he knew some.”
Hands toughened by years of mechanical work peel off hard earned notes from a leather pouch to pay the waiter.
Kiwi soldiers fought for Palestine! Now it’s Israel!
“Thank you, I will be honoured to go there.”

Road Safety

She didn’t see nor feel it happen, it happened so quickly that she nearly missed it. Her first indication of anything different was a quivering voice. The voice of a stranger.

He and his type were the boy racers. He was taking a country road shortcut home after a get together with his mates where they had enjoyed beer and burnouts. At age 19 he was a veteran of impromptu and unofficial gatherings, where young men flouted the road laws and drank heavily. He was living life close to the edge of society.
She was the wife of a businessman and lived a comfortable lifestyle with her family in the country. She was 35 years old and living life in the mainstream of society.
She had been visiting her mother and with the promise of her oldest daughter cooking the evening meal, she was eager to get home without delay.
She was familiar with the road and felt she was a competent driver, though she knowingly urged the turbocharged diesel to take her speed higher than normal. With a desire to justify a possible late arrival, she looked down and reached for her mobile phone.
Midway through Pink Floyds ‘Us and Them’, he slowed toward a compulsory stop and reached across to turn up the volume for the full impact of his favourite.
He misjudged the intersection, he wasn’t speeding. Just pissed.
She also misjudged the intersection, she wasn’t drunk. Just speeding.
The front of her four wheel drive Bighorn, impaled his drivers door at a speed in excess of one hundred kilometres per hour, killing him instantly. The high energy engagement of steel, flesh and bone made such a retort that it startled a nearby farmer who was herding cows for the evening milk.

She is trapped in her car, the stranger eyes her injuries and in the fair way that farmers are with life, he comforts her.
Her brain is confused and she can’t move, with her eyes open she can see lights and twisted metal. The strangers face is with her, a troubled brow urges her to remain still and to wait. She is aware of her own blood and there is some pain but it’s easing. Slowly sinking back into herself she worries about her dinner appointment and her family. The pain is gone, the lights have disappeared and there is no more twisted steel. There is the residual sensation of the stranger’s voice along with the fading rush of life. She realises that she will not get home and the only thing remaining, as she gently crosses from life to death, is her new voice, the new but vaguely familiar voice of her soul.

Queenstown

I remember sitting quietly in the passenger seat of a police car, driving across a Queenstown paddock.

A late Auckland breakfast is interrupted by a call from the Queenstown Police. The Police officer phoning me politely advises me that my aircraft has just crashed and that I am requested to travel to Queenstown to assist in the investigation.
This is not supposed to happen, it must be a mistake!
After hurriedly packing an overnight bag, I read a preliminary facsimile report while sitting in business class enroute to Queenstown. The words ‘all occupants suffering fatal injuries’ leaps out of the page at me.
Oh no, I often faint at the sight of blood!
The fax continues describing damage to the aircraft including fire and brief witness accounts.
The Ansett BAe 146 docks with Queenstown terminal at 11:30 AM, just 3 hours after the aircraft had crashed. As arranged, a reserved Constable Spooner is patiently waiting in the baggage collection area for me.
“Lets go it’s only a 5 minute drive to the crash site”
“Cheers,” I squeamishly hope I would see no blood.
Approaching the crumpled wreck, a deep in thought Spooner’s manner becomes one of genuine concern.
“I hope you have a strong stomach, because the DVI team hasn’t arrived from Invercargill yet.”
“What’s a DVI team?”
“Disaster Victim Identification Team, they match the body parts!”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing, adrenaline hits me hard.
Spooner parks close to the wreckage, I open the door and am greeted with the sight of an arm, a woman’s left arm that has been torn off at the shoulder. The petite limb, complete with a gold band is relaxed and lying peacefully by itself in the grass.
I know this woman well and am appalled at the mortification of such an unexpected meeting. I observe Spooner’s blank expression reflecting my own rapidly changing, self protective state of mind.

I spent four hours on that clinical investigation site in a dulled state of emotion, seemingly immune to the horrific scenes that my brain subconsciously records. Ten years later, after experiencing the investigation in entirety and reliving the scenes many times during my quiet moments, I am now at peace with it. I believe that my personal journey post the accident has also helped me to become a much safer Pilot and Flight Instructor.
I shall never forget that meeting on that day!

Amman Jordan

My Austrian colleague Alex and I have arrived in Jordan on separate flights. Alex arrived 10 minutes before me and we have arranged to meet in the baggage hall. Standing in line to obtain my entry visa, I’m approached by a European man standing behind me.
‘Do you know the cost of the visa and can I pay for it with a credit card?’ He asks with a well spoken English accent.
‘I’ve no idea at all, I can’t read Arabic, but I’ve got both cash and credit.’
‘I have no local cash, only a credit card, and what part of Australia do you come from?’ He asks.
‘Oh, I’m from New Zealand, I’m a Kiwi, and you, which part of England?’
‘I am so sorry, I find the accents difficult. I’m from Germany and I am a German.’
Great, German.
‘What town do you from?” I ask in German.
‘Yes New Zealand, a nice place, I would very much like to go there some time.’
He didn’t understand a word, My German is bad.
Later, joining Alex in the baggage hall we wait for our luggage.
My German friend enters the hall, smiling he makes his way toward us. I point him out to Alex.
‘I spoke to this guy earlier; he’s one of your lot, a German.’
‘What part off Germany iss he from?’
‘No Idea, He didn’t say.’
I listen to Alex’s High German introduction.
‘Good day, my name is Alex, I am from Austria, what part of Germany do you come from?’
His Oxford English reply of ‘Hello, have you also travelled from New Zealand’ confuses me.
A German that doesn’t understand German?
Later, at our hotel, I am puzzled and question Alex about our German.
‘Ja Bruce, we are in Jordan which hass seventy percent Palestina population. Safer if we should speak more in Deutsch too.’
‘But, why German?’
‘Have a think, the Palestinas fight Israel, The Englisch helped build Israel und the Germans killed 6 million Jews!

Her Interview

It was a day that could hold the key to her future. Dressed in her
new outfit she briskly walked along the busy midday
parade past an ice cream vendor. Knowing her weaknesses
all too well, she tried to pretend that she did not see
him. Though not prone to overeating she had recently
begun to notice the subtle effect her favourites had on
her figure, hence one of the reasons for her new outfit.
With little time to spare before her appointment she
succumbed to her desire, turned back and purchased a
chocolate ice cream. She used this precious time,
standing on the sunny pavement luxuriously eating ice
cream, to review her interview. The curator of the book
collection would be interviewing her for the librarians
position, he was a man with a reputation for fastidious
attention to detail and she wanted to impress him with
not only her librarian knowledge but also her womanly
appearance.
In the reception area, with only minutes before her
interview, she critically reviewed herself in a full
length mirror. The tailored dress fitted closely without
revealing excesses while tastefully accentuating her full
bosom. Only then did she notice, soaked into her dress
just above her left breast, a partially dried chocolate
ice cream stain…

SH-16

SH 16
I often muse the question of what the process of planning roads is all about and why our roads were made the way they are and who determined their course and direction. A straight line would be the most obvious choice for an expeditious highway system though I suspect the earthworks required to achieve such a feat would, thankfully, be too costly. Thanks to the folly of Maui’s wild brothers our current roading system climbs, descends curves, doubles back and spirals in all directions to allow New Zealanders to connect with each other via the medium of the motor vehicle.
When using a public road it is usually perceived that the destination is the ultimate goal however those in the motorcycle world see it differently. Riders view the journey as the goal and the destination as only a stop to reflect and share their own personal experience. Across the Australian desert the road is straight which offers little stimulation and motorway riding is also rather mundane so thankfully, due to NZ’s unique terrain, we live in motorcycle Mecca. So what is it about the curves that make it so interesting?

The rider is on SH 16 traveling north towards Wellsford. Wellsford is a small rural town that once existed only to service a wider farming community. It is now showing signs of a changing economy due to a sprawling Auckland and is now sporting a newly acquired “Café Row” with assorted trendy restaurants and bars. SH 16 vaguely follows the Kaipara harbour offering a pleasant scenic alternative to the traffic bound SH 1 further to the east. To the rider Wellsford is nothing more than just a suitable destination and, thanks to Auckland, a quiet coffee break. With the more immediate and current task of highway 16 unfolding beneath a narrow windshield he is not intending a scenic journey today and is mainly interested in the challenges that the curvaceous black strip of tar in front of him promises to offer.

A long straight has seen the speed build up to that of an instant jail term and the rider is now crouched low over the tank, even under the “air bubble” from the windshield there is considerable buffeting and whistling within the helmet environment. The noise is deafening with twin pipes snarling in the apparent distant past and the screech of air at 280KPH. The air parting on the front fairing is reacting like many small strong hands momentarily placed upon the bike, caressing it and guiding it in the same way that air reacts over an aeroplane wing. The rider, ever aware of such powerful aerodynamic forces, is continually adjusting the machines course in response to the winds eddying motion. The road now appears extremely narrow with the centerline markings blurring into one continuous line. The rider’s attention is becoming increasingly focused on a rapidly approaching bend in the road, a left hand bend.

Keeping an eye on the corner’s diminishing point provides information to initially compute, braking area, corner speed and line. Shifting to the right edge of the lane and into the braking area the rider sits up straight into the full airflow to advantage aerodynamic braking. Many strong hands are now wearing boxer’s gloves, battering the rider’s chest and helmet and straining back and neck muscles as the rider keeps his head looking in the direction of focus, gathering information. The “Air scream” is starting to diminish, the riders right hand has closed the throttle to idle and through an aluminum brake lever the rider’s, leather clad, hand and fingers are now exerting hydraulic advantage upon 12 brake caliper pistons that are starting the process of transferring high speed into heat.
The machine rocks forward under deceleration in the tradeoff of reducing stability and the increased braking effect of front tire loading. The rider welcomes and compensates for this familiar, unstable squirrelly effect, and continues to increase brake pressure. Sintered metal pads hiss against already blued brake rotors as the bike plunges deep into the corner at speed well in excess of double the posted recommendation.
As speed continues to wash off the rider is shifting down through a selection of 6 gears to maintain the ideal RPM in anticipation of the corner exit. This is like the compressing of spring coils to store energy in anticipation of a later release. Eyes are still following the corners diminishing point searching for the perfect apex whilst peripheral vision is in auto self preservation mode like a sentry looking for gravel, wet spots, dead animals and cars or anything else that may harm him.

The apex is cemented and lines are finally drawn, a drop of the left shoulder and change of weight on the foot pegs as the front wheel brake is eased off. A barely perceptible push on the left handlebar counter-steers the bike into a left bank angle onto the chosen line towards the rapidly approaching Apex. Further automatic shoulder and hip adjustment coordinated with tiny counter-steer make fine adjustments to maintain line and speed. A swiveling of the head keeps the riders natural horizon and a lingering pressure on the rear brake serves to desperately scrub off a few k’s of excess speed whilst augmenting stability as the whole human machine assembly is now leaned well over.
The Sentry warns of rear tire stress, forcing a part of the rider’s brain to project thought, through the frame & flesh interface of machine and man, to the soft sticky tyres, which, under increasing gravity force are heating up and peeling off excess layers of rubber into the chipseal.

All riders must have a Sentry, the Sentry lives in the many dark recesses of the riders mind and is totally devoid of any emotion or thrill that the ride may provoke. The Sentry, armed with his repertoire of images of grotesque, dismembered bodies and grieving friends and family is the rider’s dull companion and savior.

The rider finally satisfies the alert condition by easing off the rear brake at a precise moment of speed and time allowing the sentry to suspiciously retreat to the rear of conscious thought and carefully watch the remainder of the ride whilst contemplating the merits of step through scooters.
The lean angle is now at an extreme and the “G” multiplied weight of the rider and his bike is pressing down onto the roads surface through front and rear tire contacts points of no bigger than those of a small child’s hands. The hot tyres are well earning their keep by biting into the chipseal and laying a barely visible trail of strained rubber into the road surface. This subtle trail of rubber from a lineage with such exotic names as Pirelli and Bridgestone is all that will remain, once the bend is completed, to testify the personal achievement of such a private and alive moment.

The fraction of a second of time that the motorcycle spends at the apex of the corner distorts within the riders mind and seconds become minutes as more visual information is gathered and processed to finalize how the corner will be exited. The bikes position in the corner now reveals a slight uphill exit. The worried Sentry is already up front again, knowing the riders pleasures all too well and is sending a loud and clear warning about the limits of tyre performance when subjected to 175 horse power on an up hill corner exit.
Gently rolling on the twist grip throttle with the right hand allows, through cables and sector cranks, induction air butterflies to flick open as computerized fuel injection nozzles begin spraying fuel into the engines intake system. The RPM is perfect, the waiting engine is coming alive again and the spring is uncoiling.
The rider is now sensing the surge of power as the motorcycle begins to propel itself out of the corner and muscles knot in anticipation.

Rocking back on its suspension under acceleration conveniently begins straightening the bike out of the corner requiring more adjustment of the riders body and countersteer to meet the changing dynamic and keep the machine on line. Rolling on more throttle, and up shifting, 3rd Instant loss of licence, 4th jail term, 5th crouching low to avoid the Mohammad Ali, 6th Shit.!! The deep growl of induction air 20 cm below the riders chest and firm kick on his tailbone from the rear fairing coupled with the audible and visual cues of rapid acceleration provoke an intoxicating cocktail of adrenaline and hormones. This rush of chemicals instantly solicits a series of nervous accusations from the ever wary Sentry. Warnings noted and events stored for future dreaming the rider now projects thought ahead preparing to repeat the whole corner, straight, corner, hill process over again knowing that each future corner will be different offering new challenges and pleasures before his day is over.

The coffee is rich and creamy and has a name derived from Wellsfords new vocabulary. The rider, partially de-leathered with loops of sweat under each arm and a helmet hairstyle is sitting on the outside pavement recounting recent exhilarating events. The machine is on its side-stand with an almost lifeless appearance, its head is resting loosely to the left. Heat shimmering up from its twin pipes is the only clue to the hissing and roaring monster that had just tore up SH 16. The caffeine is taking effect, the rider and his companions begin excitedly discussing the next leg of their adventure. The Sentry, cursing the day he met his alter ego, is busy shuffling through his assortment of scary images of crashes and red and blue flashing lights in preparation for the next onslaught knowing that his day is to be a long one. The answer to any question about the methodology behind road construction though a perfectly logical one to ask is, as all true motorcyclists know, may only be answered after all roads have been ridden. And Oooooh the curves..! The curves are JUST a mandatory ingredient for any days riding..

Maritime Patrol

The long range electronic maritime patrol aircraft is on a strategic patrol in the Timor Sea, one of the “hot spot” areas of the Australian Exclusive Economic Zone. The aircraft is crewed by four men; Pilot, Co-pilot, Radar operator and Communications operator. They are hunting for Illegal fishermen, Drug smugglers, People smugglers and Pirates. The aircraft is in close contact with and supported by a naval vessel.
General intercom chatter is interrupted with the formal protocol of a radar contact.
‘Pilot, this is Radar.’
‘Pilot, Go ahead.’
‘We have a contact bearing three two zero at seventy five miles, it’s inside the zone and painting up like an Indon type two.’

Mirga Budadamawan, the master of the nine metre perahu layer, surveys the hazy clouds on his western horizon.
‘Perhaps we can see the green clouds’ he says in the suggestive way that Indonesians use when seeking assistance.
Mirga, like his forebears, is a seafarer from way back and has fished for shark in the Timor Sea since he was fourteen. His traditional vessel, powered by its triangular lateen sail, has no navigation equipment other than a simple hand held compass, a time piece and its master’s knowledge.
Mirga knows that the green appearance of high clouds, created by the reflection of shallow sea around Ashmore islands, is critical to fixing his position. If it is too far north on his horizon then he may accidentally stray into Australian waters. He is concerned about the haze that’s been obscuring his vital navigation reference for most of the day. He is all too aware of the consequence of being found in the wrong place.

‘How far inside the zone is he’ enquires Ian Roy, the pilot of the aircraft.
‘Three miles’ replies Mark Lavis, the radar operator who is also a warranted customs officer on board.
Ian is a civilian contractor to Australian customs. He loves the flying experience of the contract, however, as a New Zealander he is also acutely aware of issues surrounding marine ecology and subsistence fishing. Like his Australian Co-pilot, he is an aviator at heart, rather than an enforcer of the law.
While he is the aircrafts commander and has a fair sense of justice, he does not hold a customs warrant. He fears that the outcome of this flight will see traditional Timorese fishermen lose their livelihood over an easy navigation error.
‘A three mile error isn’t too bad after sailing 400 miles in a wooden boat’ he cheerfully comments, attempting to soften Lavis’s well known inflexible manner.
‘Doesn’t matter, he’s over the line and I want to take a low level look at him.’
Lavis is a lifer at customs. He loves his job and enjoys flying. He is a law enforcer, not an aviator.

‘Pesawat tidak bagus’ (Aeroplane no good) mutters Mirga as he hears the sound of aircraft engines. His five man Rote based crew also hear the aircraft approaching and now appear sombre with the possibility of being found in the wrong place.
Timorese people have been fishing here since time began and now these Orang Australia draw a line over the sea, call us thieves and sink our boats.
The red and white aircraft rapidly approaches from the south at a low altitude, they pray to Allah for it to be just a routine inspection.

Dropping down to 100 feet above the sea at a speed of 200 knots, Ian steers the aircraft toward the dainty teal coloured vessel. He approaches it from behind and positions to pass it down the aircraft’s left side. From his panoramic cockpit view, he can see Indonesian crewmembers squatting around a small cooking fire aft of the cabin. One of the fishermen is standing, grey with age and dressed in a traditional sarong, he steers the boat while observing the flyby. An insignificant amount of fish is drying on the deck and nets are hanging in the rigging. Ian has the utmost admiration for these men. Men who with great skill and endurance, risk their lives to earn a meagre living in the only way they know how. Fishing in the Timor Sea.
These are Fishermen, not pirates! He fumes.

Lavis is now imaging the vessel using a high tech infrared camera that is tracking and recording every detail. He also runs a clinical and recorded voice commentary of the inspection.
“Indon type two, underway, six crew, non Caucasian, fish product on deck, nets drying in rig.”

More use of formal protocol spells trouble.
‘Pilot this is Radar’
‘Pilot, go ahead’
‘They’re Illegal; I’m going to arrest them and want to hold over them while we wait for the Navy.’
‘Yup will do’ replies Ian, his fears sadly realized.
Lavis instructs the comms operator to contact the Navy, to advise them of the vessels position and that he is initiating an arrest.

Mirga follows the flying machine’s approach. He can see the large infra red eye mounted in a swiveling turret below the aircraft’s nose. It unerringly stares at him as it records every move. Technology that he has never even heard of is gathering evidence to be used against him. The aircraft runs down the starboard side of his boat, climbs to the North and returns to circle overhead.
The circling aircraft confirms his navigation error. There have been no green clouds today. He now realizes that he and his crew will be in an Australian jail tonight. He will be tried for illegal fishing. His beloved boat, his family’s boat, will be used for target practice and sent to the bottom. His life is over.

Circling overhead at 1000 feet in his air conditioned cockpit, Ian Roy quietly observes the arrest. He sees the grey one being handled, with little dignity, into the boarding craft. He finally speaks his mind over the intercom.
‘Wall of death pair trawlers are legally raping the sea because they are in international waters, barely 10 miles from here.’
‘And yet here we are, nailing these poor guys to the wall over a handful of sharks.’
‘Who are the real bad guys out here?’

Pacific Sunrise.

Somewhere ahead in the Pacific I have a rendezvous with the sun in a most spectacular fashion. I love this place. We are flying at night from Tokyo to Hawaii and are in the latter stages of a long flight. After becoming lighter by burning off fuel, the aircraft has made its final step climb to maximum altitude. We are cruising at 51,000 feet, in the outer reaches of the stratosphere and are now closer to space than any other commercial aircraft can fly. Only 8 millimetres away, through a glass windshield, the atmosphere is almost devoid of oxygen and the temperature is minus 70 degrees Celsius. The aircrafts interior capsule is quiet and warm, comfortably supporting human life. My current world is in the cockpit of a Gulfstream aircraft, 6 CRT screens, spread out before me, are electronically the only indication of my time and space situation. VIP passengers are sound asleep with their own time zones and the flight attendants are also sleeping. The quiet moments of high altitude flight are only disturbed by the, somewhat reassuring, distant rumble of jet engines to the rear of the aircraft, pushing us all through the atmosphere at some 80% of the speed of sound. There are stars around us, but no evidence of the planet below. We are speeding eastbound, at 1200 KM/H towards an invisible eastern horizon. The earths surface below us is also rotating eastward, at 1600 KM/H towards the sun. The twilight zone, a six degree wedge between day and night, is now extending at an angle from the earths surface ahead of us, towards a point in space above and behind us. We are still flying in the black air whereas a few miles ahead, on the other side of this demarcation is the light of day.
It starts brightly as a thin, deep blue strip on a curved horizon, giving a visible reference and proof that the earth is indeed a sphere some sixteen kilometres below. Like a movie in fast motion, blue is joined by indigo, red, yellow and orange as tomorrow races around the earth’s corner to meet us. Twin vapour trails mark our passage, out of the black, through the colour and into the daylight.
“And they all slept through it!”
Colin, our co-pilot, who also loves the dawn, has spoken the first words of our new day.

My Daughter

I arrive home from a longish period overseas and am welcomed by my family at the airport. My wife and two daughters have taken the day off to meet me and I am also excited to return home. After kisses and hugs I am curious about the fourth greeter, my eldest daughter’s boyfriend. Crossing the car park to our family car, I notice the body language and touch between Georgina and her friend. I also, for the first time, notice there is a markedly different contour to her anatomy.
My god she looks like a woman and what’s the story with this hopeful that she has in tow!
I wonder about how this could have happened so quickly, perhaps its because I’ve been absent for the last couple of years.

16 years ago a little bundle of joy arrived and I remember thinking that she was the most beautiful creature in the world. I could cup her head in my hand while she lay along my fore-arm with her tiny feet kicking my bicep. Earliest words included “daddy” and during the next 13 years, Georgie and I spent so much time together as a father and daughter team. We rode our motorbikes, flew planes, fixed cars and travelled the world. Things have changed with a growing daughter, changes I barely noticed, however, on reflection they have now arrived in one big obvious chunk!
“Daddy you can’t come in because I’m getting dressed.”
“Daddy I can’t come flying tomorrow because I’m staying at Kelsey’s.”
“Dad, I can’t ride with you today, I’ve got my period.”
“Dad shut up you’re embarrassing me.”
“David, meet my dad, Bruce.”
I had a few blanks that needed filling in and turn to Rachel. She has waited for this day, the day I would realise that I had to let go of my little girl and say hello to a young adult.
“Contraception, but she’s only…”
“Bruce, she’s sixteen and how old was your first girlfriend?”
“Yeah but...”
My arguments are weak and uninformed.

I am wearing motorcycle leathers and preparing for a regular Saturday ride. Georgie is home, which is unusual these days, she eyes my preparation closely.
“Can I come?”
“Where’s David.”
“Away with his mates.”
“You will have to borrow your Mothers leathers, nice day for it though and Steve and Nigel are coming too.”
I’m surprisingly comfortable with my newfound reserve status.