Congratulations Chris Parkes. "Mr Pilot" to the rest of us!

On Friday 28^th October 2005 Chris Parkes passed his PPL.

Am I envious, of course! Would I like a brain meld, of course!

Let us raise our glasses of AVGAS to Chris Parkes. May all your skies be clear, may all your landings be smooth ones...

And thank you for sharing your pilot training journey with us through your awesome flying blog, www.ChrisParkes.com. Your humour and humility is a fine thing.

Go Chris, go!

If we were meant to fly...

I was reading the recent issue of Flight Safety magazine, delivered in the post just a few days ago, and was struck by the opening line in an article about the limitations of the human eye and dangerous visual illusions.

"If we were meant to fly..." the writer begins, we would apparently have birds' eyes which have of course evolved over millions of years to arrive at what is evidently a triumph of evolution.

Naturally this observation makes all the sense in the world. We have not evolved for flight...as yet. However, we have used our puny human brains to provide any number of aids and reduce the risk of having the 'wrong' eyes so that we can fly as safely as possible.

But no, we do not have eagle eyes, or even garden variety pidgeon eyes. Or for that matter, fly's eyes (which would probably be perfect for helicopter pilots).

What we do have are the kind of eyes that are wonderful for lumbering about, staring at this and that, and handy for running in a relatively straight line at something that is also running in a relatively straight line (like a grubby two year old heading for the mall exit, for instance).

But what grabbed me when I read it was "If we were meant to fly..." sounded like one of those reckless comments you make in a packed pub when you've had 22 glasses too many and you have forgotten that this lot would lay their life down for the team you just insulted.

Okay, yes, our eyes are not DESIGNED for flying. We have not EVOLVED for flight. I'll remember to say that next time I hop on to a packed Gold Coast to Sydney Virgin Blue plane. Won't that go down a treat...

Now, let's have a look at some birdie deficiences. Birds do not look like they are meant to do anything but fly, which is apparent every time you see one walk. They look dumb. Birds can't talk, except for one or two freaks of nature, but the rest sound like maniacal schizos who haven't had today's meds.

And another thing about birds, how come their oh so fantastic eyes lead them right into the path of PLANES!

Gold Coast Wind and Not Just The Ladies Who Do Lunch

I'm on the Gold Coast, as some of you may know, and I'm looking out the window today and it is WINDY!

And I think we have already established in other posts on this blog that I am afraid of crosswinds. (Afraid and crap at it too).

Oh and did I mention wind shear - jeez, that's enough to make you think about life insurance, the three kids, etc....

So please, please, please send me your crosswind and wind shear tips ASAP.

Or I won't go flying, no I won't!

I worship at the altar of LEGO

I have two sons and between them they have 4,000,000 pieces of Lego (oh sorry, that's how much I've paid for their Lego...) My boys - OD and his little bro - are Da Vinci style Lego geniuses and their creations quite simply just leave me gobsmacked (and let's face it thinking about what kind of nursing home can be financed by engineers).

But seriously for sheer elegance, creativity, and philipino-suburb-escheresque-bloody-complexity I am one proud parent.

However, and go with me on this, we must come to the obvious conclusion that Lego is not created by humans but delivered here by kindly aliens (who are financing their eventual take over with 1,000% mark-up on injection moulded plastic).

I know Lego is from aliens because it is perfect in every way. For evidence I give you the Star Wars range. OD, who just turned 7 got the new x-wing fighter with Yoda's hut thrown in for good measure as his major birthday present. After we pulled OD off the ceiling because he had floated up there in rapturous delight, he got down to the very serious business of tranforming 2,678 pieces of tiny plastic bricks (and other hellishly clever shapes) into a fully fledged x-wing figthter that any Jedi would kill to fly.

Daddy and OD polished it off in no time and the result? OMG it's a dream, it's a vision, it's bloody amazing and if only I could shrink down to slightly under 1 inch I could love it like a cessna. Yes, it could be my very own light aircraft and if I work really hard on learning the force I could retrieve it from swamps, fences and the like.

Please, God, make me into a Lego character!! Or at least, and it's not my dying wish, cuz I'm healthy now that I don't have the plague anymore, DOES ANYONE KNOW A LEGO ENGINEER so that I can kiss his or her feet?

Okay, failing any of the above coming true all I ask is that you, my blogger mates, email me, pigeon me, or whatever it takes as soon as you hear even a whisper that Lego is going public. Instantly I will stop bidding on more fiendishly clever Lego kits and start plowing ALL of my money into shares.

Yes!

Would you like a little plane with your car?

Hmmm, I've just read the SMH online (as Chris my wise blogger inspiration, famously of www.chrisparkes.com puts it "pinko commie tirade") and evidently a light aircraft had engine trouble during take off which resulted in it crashing through a fence and flipping over and landing (not in a plane kind of way) on a parked car.

Holy Guano Bat Boy, but I hope some poor guy wasn't minding his own business having lunch in his parked car when a bloody cessna comes flying (once again I must use this term prosaicly) through a flimsy fence barrier and spreads itself all over the front of his car.

At the end of the news item, someone helpfully adds - in a premature loser kind of way - that it was 'pilot error'. Okay, yes, we are safe in saying that no pilot INTENDS to fly through a fence when there is reported 'engine failure' but gee if the fence is there and you're going bloody fast in an aborted take-off...well, by golly END OF FENCE is all I can say.

Thank god the three fellows (with at least one now 'ex-pilot' amongst them) are all okay, and apparently the only thing wrong is wiping away the foam that was sprayed liberally all over the whole scene.

Good is foam. Bad is death. Pretty simple really.

Anyway, shall we wait and see what the investigation shows us Little Grasshopper? Or shall we jump, jump, jump to all kinds of bloody conclusions instantly?

Oh god do I want to fly!

It's Sunday today and it's been an absolutely normal Sunday - cleaning, doing stuff with the kids, checking out various news stories, emailing, ebaying, etc, etc - but with one exception: today a light aircraft buzzed the house (the neighbourhood really).

Damn it but I couldn't stop what I was doing at the time and go running outside to see who and what it was!!

But OH GOD did I want to check out the flying eye candy! What kind of plane was it, how many seats....would I have seen the whites of their eyeballs? Would I have seen the smile on their face? Would I have seen the letters?

Lucky dogs, that's all I can say.

Well, next week, cross fingers, it will be me...

Coughs are for spreading flu, not a defence mechanism!

Just like garlic worn around the neck is not intended to make you into a chick or guy magnet, coughing is not a 'defence mechanism' as I read recently. In fact, coughing is your body hijacked by zillions of paramilitary parasites who with every dusty hair-in-the-gob reflex make you spread these insidious critters far and wide.

Every cough spreads whatever illness you have at least a metre fanned out 180 degrees, plus handily spreads it wherever these hateful little guys land: on your hands, on your phone, on your kid, etc.

So I hear you asking: Flygirl have you been flying? NO! I have been helping microscopic organisms to fly! Damn it!

Okay, now pray that this weekend I am well enough to fly and not make my instructor sorry I turned up!

WALKS TO THE BEAT OF HIS OWN DRUM

Kids...

Let me tell you the story of a little boy who I shall call Walks to the Beat of His Own Drum or WTTBHOD for short. Okay, that's too long. How about just OD?

OD, a gangly little guy who's almost 7, who can do several magic tricks with the flair of a Las Vegas pro, who eats two green apples a night after dinner, and who isn't always saintly in his Pokemon dealings, did 8 naughty things while at school today.

[Cut to OD's mother sitting at her office desk and completely oblivious to OD's hectic schedule (you gotta get up early if you want to do this many naughty things in the one day, believe me).]

Most of OD's infractions were not on the "breathtakingly bad" side of the Naughty Scale but a bit past middle point to land neatly in "very bad" territory. If I was to add a colour bar at this moment, I would say we are leaving orange and veering toward red.

Here's what OD managed to get through today:

1. took old mobile phone claiming it was his show and tell item
2. show and tell is on Friday (stupid mummy should have read the flyer)
3. played with said mobile phone even when told several times by his teacher to put it away
4. mobile phone was confisicated and taken to Student Services where it will stay until mummy picks it up (after being read the riot act and sub section 4.5 regarding appropriate usage of dead mobile phones at school)
5. Attempts to use small change at tuck shop to buy nutritional chocolates when small child has already been told that he is not allowed to take part in financial transactions of this type until 2008
6. takes a special silver bag of his sister's to school
7. takes a special bracelet of his sister's to school
8. both bracelet and bag were in sister's room so these items are contraband that needed a ninja to get past her school and sports bags and other early morning rubble.

Okay, this is a full accounting of actual bad things done by OD in one day.

Now OD's timing was a real shame because today he received his first ever school award. A light green paper cut out and yes, anyone would say just a mere facsimile of a real blue ribbon with it's deep indigo folds, satiny button, neatly clipped trailing ends. But when you've waited two years, dreamed of receiving this award and sat through endless assemblies without ever hearing your name, and finally one day this gestalt blue ribbon is pinned on your uniform in front of 200 fidgeting kids, well, it as precious as an Oscar.

Naturally it is this glowing, dreamy experience that one would want to focus on when one sees one's mother at the day's end. Various notes from the teacher, and stern talkings to by the junior school principal all fade into ancient history; simply become scudding clouds on an otherwise brillant day.

OD trys hard, he really does. But of late he has specialised in being an Expert Boy. He is so boy that the other day when OD emptied his pockets out fell quintessential Boy Stuff: a tiny screw driver, a nicely shaped rock, a few paper clips, a tiny piece of driftwood shaped just like a crocodile, a twenty cent piece and a miniature aftershave tube salvaged from stuff Dad deemed unusable from last Christmas. A boy could do fairly nicely for himself with this smart collection.

Also in OD's expert boy instalment plan has been teaching himself magic tricks and amazing his family and friends with a sleight of hand so polished old guys named Morty are ringing up for classes. Not to mention, zing zing style showmanship that naturally includes a dazzling and distracting smile, perfect timing and an improbable repetoire ("how does he make that pencil looking like it's magnetised to his palm??").

OD is also pretty hand with codes: Pokemon codes, Star Wars codes, codes involving cartoonnetwork.com, etc. OD can, on any given Saturday, whip up Lego masterpieces - intricate Star Wars freighters and weird and wonderful robots of every style; stuff old Da Vinci would kill for!

But alas, OD's extracurricular activities are discovered at 3.35pm and there's a nasty scene involving a loss of afternoon tea and exile to the top bunk. To make matter's worse, OD had thrown away his beautiful paper award ribbon while racked with guilt. And in a continental tragedy, Dad's unexpected efficiency in the rubbish department meant a final and utter loss of said award.

Well, OD's in bed now. It's been an eventful day and he's stuffed. But tomorrow, well it's only 379 days until the next award, and in the meantime, each day is filled with sheer voluptuous opportunity to savour life's rewards (even if they are slimey or involve contraband from your sister's room).