Feel like my mojo died Sunday, and rose again three days later. As Marcel Proust said, however, the cure for depression is a decision and from henceforth I spurn the use of software and shall steer my nemesis by weight-shift. I went through RAF recruitment in Biggin Hill with Mark Hanna, the co-owner of the Old Flying Machine Company who died at a young age in an encounter with his own wake turbulence. But all I can recall of his subsequent career ~ he got in and I didn't, despite the better aptitude tests ~ is his refusing to contemplate fly-by-wire and sticking to the F-4 Phantom instead.
I failed I suspect for not preparing an answer to the question, "Are you prepared to kill someone?" and in retrospect I should maybe have practised on him. It was and still is a stupid question to ask an eighteen-year-old, and something you only know after the fact if those who've done to are to be believed.
