So I’m sat here, bruised and bleeding, my gliders a twisted heap of tubing and sailcloth, my mates have all told me to get stuffed, and my wife’s left me.

 

Not a good day.

 

It all started with a visit to a bloody clairvoyant, last week. My wife’s idea of course; “Come and see her, she’s really good. She told Ronnie all about the problems her daughter faces.”

 

Not exactly a high recommendation, Ronnie’s daughter is a well-known junkie who sponges off passers by down by the bus depot. She’s a regular feature in the local rag, as is Ronnie who’s been campaigning for better services for ‘the chemical dependant”, as she calls them, or junky scum, as I call them, for ages. “Come off it love, one or other of them is in the paper every frigging week. Crystal for getting off her tits and assaulting the cops, or Ronnie complaining that Crystal’s just misunderstood and needs better bloody services.” I took a swig of tea; “though Christ only knows what more could be done for the silly cow, every penny she scrounges off the state or off some poor sod, goes straight up her arm. She’s a bloody menace that kid, should be locked up somewhere.”

 

The wife gave a snort; “Always “Mr Bloody Compassionate” you are, aren’t you, it’s no wonder I fell in love with you.” Typical bloody woman. “Look,” I replied, “all I’m saying is that the kid isn’t helping herself, she never bloody has. She was a pain in the bum as a kid, always fighting or getting drunk or something, and as an adult she’s still the same. But of course she had to graduate to heroin didn’t she, so bloody typical, no sense of responsibility.” She gave me one of those “I give up” looks that seem to be becoming more frequent of late. “She was a good kid Neil, she just made some bad decisions, and lost control.”

 

“Lost control? Flung it to the bloody winds more like, along with her knickers.”

 

Anyway, I ended up agreeing to go see this bloody stupid psychic, who goes by the inspiring name of “Rose”, the next week. This is, of course, on the condition that if it’s flyable I’m off out of it and she can go alone. Anything to keep the missus happy, to keep her off my back, and on hers.

 

So it’s blown out that day much to my disgust, and just to keep her sweet I go along with it. We turn up at this boring suburban semi, chintzy curtains in the window, and lace bloody doilies under everything, sodding middle manager land was my first impression from outside. The door was opened by a tall and rather tasty looking bird with a fair bit of cleavage on display. Mid forties I’d have said at a guess, nice long legs, and she had the decency not to be dressed up like a fairground gypsy.

 

So she takes us into a well turned out kitchen, nice bit of decor, and sits us down at the table. “Fancy a cup of tea?” she asks, “Why? You going to read the tea leaves then?” I couldn’t help but ask back. “Not when I’m making it with tea bags.”

 

Clever sod.

 

So we sit back, enjoy the brew, not a bad drop of tea actually, and talk about nothing in particular. I’m getting a bit bored after a while, I’ve had to stop staring at Rose’s cleavage as the wife’s caught me at it once to often, and I’m beginning to shuffle in my seat and show that I’m getting impatient. “Shall we get started?” Rose asks. I’m tempted to make a smutty remark, but out of the corner of my eye I catch the missus watching me, and say nothing.

 

 

She pulls out a crystal ball from under the table, catches me sneering, and puts it away. “Ok,” she says, “let’s forgo the trappings, I’ll do you one at a time.” Again I find myself biting my tongue. So she calls the wife over to sit in a comfy chair opposite hers, and starts reeling off the usual bumph. “You have been on a long journey of late, you were sad to return. You have an unresolved issue in your life, and you are coming to the point of making a big decision. You will soon be rid of a big burden if you chose right.” And on and on, for about twenty minutes.

 

Nothing you couldn’t have worked out with an intelligent guess of course, the wife’s tan was a dead giveaway that she’d been on a journey.

 

So it’s my turn, and so I sit down opposite her. She gives me an appraising look. Then a smile flits across her face. “You are a risk taker, you have a lot of self confidence. You like heights, and have no fear of putting yourself forward. You have little tolerance of those you see as weak. You find it difficult to see other peoples views.” I was getting insulted by this point. Then she starts coming out with some real rubbish. “You will lose that which has supported you for years, you will see things from another’s point of view, you will crash physically, and you will come down to earth. You will learn that you have to give to receive. Tolerance is something that cut’s both ways. You regard friendship highly, but do not always get back what you give out. The eyes of a child will open for you.”

 

Eventually, both me and Rose seem to realise that we’ve been staring rather too closely at each other. She gives a little shudder, followed by a look I can only describe as lascivious. I was quite taken by it.

 

All the way home the wife was rabbiting on at how good Rose had been, how she had opened her eyes. Personally I thought it had been a load of old bollocks, especially when I had seen the size of the wad the wife handed over at the end of the session.

 

So back to today. I’d arranged to go out flying with the lads this weekend, and trip up into the mountains. I’d asked old Ewan for a lift, he’s always good  for a touch. For some reason the wife wouldn’t let me have the Ute this weekend. “I need it for something important”, was the most I could get out of her. Sod it. Never mind, like I say there’s always a few guys in the club who can be leaned on for a lift. I’d gone out on the grog Friday night, had my usual session with the lads at the bar. She didn’t want to go. No skin off my nose, and its always a cheaper night out without her. I’d a bottle of Bundy at home, only half drunk, I must have polished that off too when I got back, as I went out like a light as soon as my head hit the pillow.

 

I woke to he sound of someone hammering on the front door, the last thing I need when I’ve got a thumper of a hangover. Then I heard Ewan’s yell; “Yer gliders on my truck, if you’re not out in five minutes we’re off without you.”

I got downstairs pulling my clothes on as I went. Bit’s were missing from downstairs, the TV for a start, I thought I’d been burgled. Then I saw the note on the table; “I’ve left you, I’ll be back for more of my things while your out flying. Goodbye, and good riddance.”

 

Bugger, but I’m too hung-over to worry about it, and Ewan was still banging on the front door. So I grabbed my sack of stuff, and headed out. The grumpy looking sod was waiting, tapping his toe like I’d held him up deliberately. “Looks like it’s going to be blown out in any case, Neil,” he chips in with his usual negative view. “It’s never dead till I say so,” I gave him back, “I’m going to get height today, I know I am, I can feel it!” A bit of positive thinking always helps, even when your head is doing an impression of a cement mixer.

 

So we get to the site, and I rig up, and I’m the only one doing so. Couple of the other guys come up and drop large unsubtle hints that if I fly today I’m mental. Sod them, they’re only jealous of me as I’m a better pilot than they are, or ever will be. Eventually I get ready, and although it’s blowing strong I get Ewan, to hold the nose while I get into position for launch. “Not coming up today then? I ask. “Come on, a bit of gale hanging will do you good!” He gives me a “look”, a cross between pity and contempt, if he hadn’t been holding the nose I’d have slapped him for it.

 

“Listen you arrogant sod”, he eventually says, “the only reason I’m holding this kite, is that I’m the only bugger left in the club who’ll talk to you. And once you’re off the ground, you can say goodbye to that too.” I’m sure he thought it was poignant, the daft looking twit. If he thinks that bunch of losers, crap pilots, and ground hugging sissies, is a loss to me, well he’s over estimated his and their unimportance in my life.

 

He lets go, and I’m pushed hard up into the air, I’m fighting from the off. The kite is shaken like a rabbit in a terriers mouth, but I’m up to it. I’ve always been like this, flying has always been about “how hard can you go” not this dreamy, hippy, floaty, stuff Ewan is into. I’m making good gains, and it starts to smooth out once I’m a few hundred feet up. I see them looking up from below, and give them the finger, they turn and start packing up. I’ll have to see how close to home I can fly this baby then.

 

I get a few turns in a thermal, catching it as it sweeps past the hill, god I’m good. Several hard turns see me siting in an elevator heading up, there’s a nice bit of cloud developing over me. I’ve caught a boomer, a bloody big boomer too. That’ll show those over-cautious gits on the ground. “Nice one my son!” I yell at the sky.

 

I keep holding as tight a circle as I can, I can feel my arms beginning to ache on the bar, getting a pain in the ribs from throwing my weight out sideways too. I’m concentrating so hard on fighting this mother that I forget to keep my eyes on the vario. I look down and cannot suppress a yell, a mixture of excitement, and yes I will admit, fear. I’ve not been this high before, and I’ll be come hypoxic if I don’t burn off some hight.

 

I start to ease out of the circle, pulling the nose in to gain momentum. Nothing happens. I pull in harder, pushing the bar hard left and counterbalancing as much as I can against the rotation. Sod all.

 

I’m now trying every trick I’ve ever learned, and some I’ve only read about in magazines, and nothing is happening at all. It’s like I’m caught in a great big fist of air, that’s curling me up into the sky. Above me is the black and widening base of the cloud.

 

 I’m freezing, my teeth are chattering, I’ve lost most of the use of my arms, and I’ve stopped trying to fight it. The last thing I can remember is watching ice crystals forming on the bar, on my gloves, on my goggles.

 

Little crystals, how pretty they looked.

 

I’m watching Rose’s legs crossing and uncrossing, she’s got that lascivious smile on her face, but she seems to be laughing at the same time. Her, my wife, and Ewan are sharing a joke, I wonder what it is? Crystal and Ronnie are with them, Crystal looks more alive than she has for a while, she’s throwing dice on a green baize table and they are all chuckling at the results. Every time she rolls the dice I get a strange feeling of actually being in the dice, falling and rolling, falling and rolling. I try to see what she’s throwing, to see the result. But as I move forward I must have tripped as the green baize table is rushing towards me, falling and rolling.

 

I open my eyes and see the green of the hill rising and rolling towards me and scream, and scream, and scream.

 

I’m falling out of control towards the hill, upside-down, and spinning like a top. I heave the bar up to my chest, get a hand on my reserve handle and pull. It comes out with a dull “thwack”, must have saved me somewhat, but I still hit the hill hard.

 

So I’m sat here, bruised and bleeding, I think my left arm’s broken, along with a few ribs by the feel of it, but alive. The glider, my pride and joy, is obviously a write off. My mates have sodded off, and god knows how I’m going to get myself down to the nearest road. Oh, and my wife’s left me.

 

How the hell can this have happened to a nice guy like me?

Fortune presents gifts not according to the book
Fortune presents gifts not according to the book

When you expect whistles it’s flutes
When you expect flutes it’s whistles

What various paths are followed in distributing honours and possesions
She gives awards to some and penitent’s cloaks to others

When you expect whistles it’s flutes
When you expect flutes it’s whistles

Sometimes she robs the chief goatherd of his cottage and and goatpen
And to whomever she fancies the lamest goat has born two kids

When you expect whistles it’s flutes
When you expect flutes it’s whistles

Because in a village a poor lad has stolen one egg
He swings in the sun and another gets away with a thousand crimes

When you expect whistles it’s flutes
When you expect flutes it’s whistles