A little ripple of September 11th passed over us today. Terrorists. Planes. Explosives. Thankfully, the police stopped death raining from the skies in the next few days (according to some reports, the attack was that close) and the culprits are in custody.
Hopefully. As a London commuter there’s a little, nagging voice wondering if a few bombers are still out there, armed to the teeth and only now realising it’s far easier to blow up a train than a bloody great aircraft which X-rays you before you can board it.
I knew something was wrong when I climbed out of bed this morning: everything was too quiet. I live on the Heathrow flight path, 20 miles from the airport, and a plane thunders over my house every one minute and forty-eight seconds (I’ve timed them). This morning… I missed the rumbles, but I couldn’t quite put the lack of noise together with a problem until I turned on the TV.
Every single damn time I step outside my front door, the first thing I do is look up at the sky. There’s always a plane flying overhead. Always. Sometimes they’re so low I feel like waving to the passengers, wondering if I’d be able to see them wave back. It’s part of life; you don’t live where I live without feeling an affinity for the giant metal beasts roaring above you. I stare at them constantly, through my windows or my kitchen skylight or from the train as I travel to work. They’re always there, completing their pilgrimages to and from Heathrow, worshipping the clouds and splitting the skies with their engines.
We don’t know exactly what those bastards had planned, but it looks as though they were going to blow up six transatlantic airliners.
Possibly right over my kitchen skylight.
Would these idiots still get to Paradise to if we flew them to 20,000 feet and unceremoniously shoved them out of a baggage hold? I’d love to find out.