Pilots

The ear defenders were on before we got out of the car, despite the fact the flying display wasn’t due to start for another hour.

“I don’t like loud noises, do I?” my daughter said, verging on a mild shout, because her hearing was muffled.

Thanks to a friend, we’d scored some free tickets to a military pageant airshow at a local airfield.

As with all outings with a Prader-Willi Syndrome participant, grub was sorted first, with a picnic served as soon as we’d staked out our pitch behind a fence next to the grassy runway.

Then, after spending way too long cack-handedly working out how to tie an umbrella to a beach chair to provide some shade for my girl on a blazingly sunny day, we sat back to watch the planes soar overhead.

My daughter’s anxiety levels were at a low hum, with minor issues including any suspected presence of a buzzy insect within 10 feet of her, a sore eye from some wayward sun cream, and a potential but averted crisis over a change of mind about the choice of ice lolly from Calyppo to Twister.

But we piloted her. Subtle rudder changes. The odd little steering adjustment.

She sat and chatted loudly, watched the planes loop the loop, wrung her hands and fiddled with her fiddler, sipped a capuccino, had a micro nap, enquired if we’d be home for ‘normal tea time’, and grinned, a lot. 

Meanwhile my friend and I invented a new type of human cooling system (ice packs down the cleavage, henceforth to be referred to as a Tit Fridge).

All in all it was a high flying day.

Video is Goldfrapp - Pilots

Head

My daughter came home today with her head in a bag. It’s either charming or terrifying, I just haven’t decided yet. 

It was the last day of school before half term, so I was expecting her to bring home her PE kit, which only comes back for a wash during school breaks, and therefore is a) a bit whiffy and b) more wrinkled than the testicles of an elderly elephant that's spent too long in the bath.

Her brother was also weighed down with the drawstring bag/smelly trainers/shorts combo, and in addition a cardboard item which I think was supposed to be a telescope, but he insisted was a ‘fart torpedo launcher’. All fairly par for the course, to be honest.

The head took me by surprise.

“It’s my head mum. My actual head.”

“Well, when you say your actual head, that’s not quite right, because you’ve still got your actual head, this one is just a copy, sweetheart.”

“It’s not, it’s my head. My actual one.”

“Well, it looks just like your head, but you do know it’s not real, is it?’

“It is real. It’s got my glasses and everything.”

“OK. Whatever you say.” 

I decided to capitulate over the decapitation before I got a headache. An actual one.

Video is Goldfrapp - Lovely Head