'Twas the Week Before Christmas

‘Twas the Week before Christmas

(after Clement Clarke Moore)

‘Twas the week before Christmas, when all through the land

Not a creature was stirring. not a mouse, moose or man

The bags were all packed, the tickets in hand

The great exodus had been eagerly planned.

The children were strapped all squashed in their seats,

While stressed attendants offered them treats

And mum in her aisle seat and I in my plight

Had not settled at all for a long painful flight.

When out on the wing there rose such a clatter,

I sprang from my seat to see what was the matter.

The captain announced, as quick as a flash,

‘Return to your seats or we’re going to crash!’

The moon gleamed like silver on the edge of the wing

Shone brightly and clearly on engines, and something

I hadn’t expected to see up for a spell,

But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny camels.

With a bemused driver, lost and quite sick,

I knew in a moment it wasn’t Saint Nick.

This tired old guy, torn and wrinkled with care,

Was worn out from shopping, his pockets were bare.

Our eyes met through glass layers, out there in space,

And I heard that man speak at an even pace:

‘See, the elves are on strike, pensions the key

Early retirement and cost-cutting, they won’t work for me!’

‘I’m hitching a ride, making a break for the sea 

Pizza, chicken and chips, no plum pudding for me.

I’m fed up with children wetting my knee

Demanding an i-phone, PSG or a wei.’

‘They drag on my nose and shriek in my ears,

I’ve planned my escape for months and for years.

The greed and the heartbreak are more than I’ll take,

And I cannot compete with all of those fakes.’

He pulled out a bottle of Scotch from his bag

Twisted the top, drank deep and lit up a fag.

My eyes were popping, my brow was a-sweat

I couldn’t believe this worse nightmare yet.

I pulled down the window shade and shut both my eyes

Too much Christmas spirit, too many mince pies?

The captain was speaking ‘Hold on and listen up

We’ve turbulence ahead and the pilot’s a pup.’

‘Settle back and relax, the trolley’s coming round

In twelve hours more we’ll be hitting the ground.

Don’t look out the window, all you need to do

Is watch the movies, eat, drink and poo.’

‘Thanks for flying with us, it’s always such fun

To take you for thousands, and then when we’re done

We’ll fly you back to the sandpit for more months of toil

Keep you tied down, exhausted, and trapped in the oil.’

I cracked open my eyes and considered my fear –

Christmas holiday madness comes round once a year,

And Saint Nick with his camels was really a hoot

The babes are asleep, my wife has her loot –

There is no understanding the greed of man

I give up, give in and smile when I can.

Christmas blessings to all, you strange cyber crew

Happy New Year and good health is my wish to you!

x

Flying Home

image courtesy of  flickr.com

Flying Home

When you read this I’ll be gone

on wings of aluminium

jet-propelled

rocket fuelled

across a hemisphere of night

sky flecked with stars and a swinging moon

We launch ourselves after midnight

exhausted

and twinged with guilt, relief, excitement and fear:

flying always smirched with unease

these days, this planet, this disease of terror and distrust

An endless night might take us home –

to the stars or to Australis Incognita –

but known to us as home:

children, parents, shades and blood

await our safe arrival

From desiccant dust and oppressive sun,

alien life and rules –

to freezing Melbourne

swept with Antarctic wind

and awash with blessed rain

Dripping trees

a welcome bark

cold beer

hot bacon

and ... home

I hope you all have safe and happy holidays - I hope to be 'calling in' but I expect limited access to the cyber world for a short while.  All the best, Isabel xx

x

Strangers

I always try to be friendly to strangers, like taxi drivers and bell boys, especially seat companions on long haul flights, not because I am a naturally effervescent person, but rather due to a belief that if I reach out and try to make some human contact - before the stranger reveals themselves as a psychotic murderer - maybe the tenuous relationship thus established will subvert any violent intentions and, let's face it, save my life.  I realise this may be viewed as an unattractive character trait on my part, and I apologise if you find this offensive.  Put it down to a glitch in my trust circuits.

I was squashed into the window seat in the last row of the plane.   I chose the seat so I would not be clambered over.  If I need to get up, I would rather do the climbing myself.   My neighbour - James, let us call him - was tall and thin with angular features and dark straight hair.  I noticed his hands were elongated , with long thin fingers and the hint of webbing between them.  James was grateful for the aisle seat so he could unfold his legs and rotate his ankles.

When I spoke to him, he revealed he hadn't actually spoken to anyone since he'd boarded his first plane.  He took his first flight earlier that morning from a regional city to an international hub, and when I joined him, he was beginning the third leg of his trip.  It was the first time he had left his homeland, his province even his region.   He was unfamiliar with the flying procedures, listening intently to the safety announcements, afraid to undo his seat belt, or to get up to use the toilet.

He told me later that he hadn't eaten during the three hour transit time:  he had no money in the local currency and did not understand how to get some.  He  had no idea what the local prices would be when translated into his still unknown sterling.

I gave him my lunch and introduce him to cheese, while pointing out the plastic-wrapped cube on the tray was not representative of the breed.

We spoke about bicycles and the availability of rice, artery walls and of love.  Eighteen hours previously, he had said a tearful farewell - he was still crying - to his pretty wife, for three years.  His grant covered one flight to the University and one flight back home.  He had an allowance for books and accommodation and living expenses, but not for frivolous things like love or phone calls.

James was an only child, as was his wife.  In time, they would be allowed to have two children if they chose to.  His father was dying and was not expected to live until James returned.  He was expected to die in the next few months but there was no provision in the grant for a delay for sentimental reasons.

His English was surprising. He had never had a conversation with a native speaker before - everything he knew was from non-native-speaking teachers, books, recordings and films.  He told me he was worried about learning technical terms, new academic standards, conventions in presenting information and bizarre prescriptive formatting rules. The laboratory equipment would be unfamiliar, his bed cold and empty, the food unrecognisable, his supervisor unavailable, the weather alien, the rain relentless.

No one would meet him.  He had to make his way from the airport by bus to a train station, and then by train to the University town where some one might meet him, if he wasn't too late.

James did not murder me with his plastic fork and knife.  In fact, a few months ago I had an email from him with photos of his new baby boy, and it is not three years since that flight.