Opera in the empty airport Irish Bar. Strange soundtrack for a view of a runway and a new windsock and six small propeller planes being watched by a flourescent man in a perspex box.
A yellow plane lands and five couples emerge. Balding men and cake-faced wives, laughing, maybe about the size of the plane or its resemblance to a banana. It is tiny. They could probably drive it along the road. The flourescent man strides out of his box waving a black hoop on a stick. The plane trundles away into a shed-for-planes. Hangar is not the word.
The bar gets easier on the ears and worse up the nose. In the toilet someone's been making brown thunder and someone else has tried hard to cover it up with chemicals. A bad combination to smell on an empty stomach gradually filling with six-Euro Heineken nearly-pints because it's not yet sandwich selling time, though the ingredients are surely there in the kitchen and the barmaid is surely sat there doing nothing but getting lost in the tumbling-wriggling piano-violin music and maybe wistfully recalling the events of the day someone left a bag unattended or flourescent man was late for work and in the absence of a hoop on a stick being wafted at them all the little planes got confused and scared and ended up at the McDonald's drive-thru begging for something familiar.
