(IN THE 60'S)

''Adults towered overhead, and the smell of cigarettes hung thick in the air. There were ceiling fans and suit cases, and women in hats and fashionable dresses. On warm days there was air-conditioning, which back then, for me, was like something from outer space.
The cool air was circulated by the ceiling fans, the blades of which, only served as a reminder of the air borne greatness, yet to come.
With great urgency, we would make our way through the crowd and out through another set of doors, to a small quadrangle, enclosed by a low wire fence. Through the fence, lay the wonder of the tarmac, marked with incomprehensible yellow and white lines and numbers with secret meanings. In the distance, wind socks danced atop tall metal towers, beyond which lay the run way, and the horizon, and all else that existed in world.
We would cling expectantly to the fence, eyes fixed toward the east, the direction from which the object of our fascination would first appear.
What started as a distant, barely audible hum slowly became engine noise, ringing out from the sky like the lowest note on a gigantic celestial piano. Then, there it would be, sunlight occasionally catching those silver wings. Soon, the shape of the aircraft could be clearly seen, still at some altitude. Ever so gracefully, it would turn, its giant wings rolling in the sky, until it was in line with the runway. Ever lower and closer, until even the square windows could be seen, it would finally touch down with a threatening roar.
As the great glinting machine approached the area of tarmac that lay directly in front of us, the volume of noise became almost unbearable. The threshold of pain. I would cover my ears and breathe in the intoxicating smell of burning kerosene. Nothing else in the world smelled like a plane. ''

Andrew J Pearson c 2016