Friday, November 11, 2005


The plane could go down in this dark Scottish moorland. The wind’s blowing gale-force but they’re still flying. They wouldn’t fly if it wasn’t safe. Would they? Was that parking attendant a conduit and his words ‘when you come back’ just a kind of dramatic irony. “What a night!” he said. The glint in his eye. The dark wind-thrashed silhouettes on the horizon. What did they mean?

Should I join these foolhardy soldiers in their lonely march down the walkway. Who else thinks at all?
These harbingers of doom tend to jump out at you at times of anxiety. But then again, Prestwick Airport don’t exactly stretch the imagination: their slogan is “pure dead brilliant.” Yeah, wicked!

Is someone trying to tell me something? Is 11.11.05 like 07.07 or 9.11? Where, exactly, do you draw the line and run, panicked, back home to your log fire?


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