I'm watching a YouTube video about a doomsday prepper burying the hull of a 737 in his garden by way of a nuclear bunker, and who can blame him? But as I watch a sickening feeling comes over me and for the first time in over seven years I turn to my old flying logs: and there she is!
I resent the fact that Colin Furze ~ fellow influencer who never replies to emails ~ is at the interment and I'm not. And so I call the prepper to ask him, How could he really?
I took her to Cologne to buy her fragrance and to Rome to share pizza and fly along the shore with air traffic watching fondly. What was he thinking, committing her to her final resting place without the one who ~ above all others ~ handled her with such tenderness and finesse?
And so I call the guy. He's as upset as I am, and offers me a place come doomsday.
I can't remember who Curran was but hope he hasn't been buried in a back garden.
