Life’s hard. The job’s a drag, the girl-friend’s gone, the bills are cluttering my desk and spilling over onto the keyboard, horror of horrors there’s too much hair in my comb, my briefcase is stuffed with work I promised to clear by tomorrow... What the heck. I’ll be going grey soon and what have I got to show for all that living?
Three hours later, trying not to think about where I should be, I pulled off at 2000ft into clear blue sky and just let the old girl do the work. I never could sort out where lift hides itself when it isn’t marked by a well defined cumulus. And do you know she didn’t disappoint, not like the other female I thought was in my life until last week.
Mind you she is old but so wise - the sailplane, not the girl-friend. We drifted gaining a bit here and there, while I soaked in the extraordinary quality of soaring.
It’s so addictive you wonder why it hasn’t grabbed the whole of mankind, not just the tiny, lucky elite. We didn’t really go very far but for two hours we ambled along and that peculiar peace all glider pilots will recognise seeped in and began its healing process.
The world took on a rosy hue, the pressure of the last, awful week drifted away and I began to feel human, even optimistic.
No the work didn’t get done, the girl-friend hasn’t arrived back begging to be given a new chance, and there is a suspiciously thin bit at the back of my head, but I don’t mind really. The weather forecast is good for next weekend and I’m pretty confident I’ll be getting my fix to get me through the following week.
