This is a classic and will be appreciated by those of you who insist on your non gyro fanatic wyfies flying along with you !
Hats off to T
She is still keeping her options open.'Dankie T !!!Great story and now for something completely different ...……… We nearly flew to Zimbabwe about a month ago. Are you planning to have lunch soon? Then I suggest you stop reading now and return to this mail at least 4 hours after eating. I warned you! We took off in the Gyro at 11h00 one very windy morning. I was nervous (what’s new?) and anxious because C**** wasn’t feeling well and B******* was due home from the US that Sunday and I thought that I might not see her in case we got delayed in coming back before she was leaving for school! (Breath, T****! Can you see how nervous I was?) Any way, before take-off I want to take a pill in case I feel airsick, cannot find anything but gin to knock it back with, suit up and get into the back of that damned contraption. Off we go, shaking and shuddering and climbing and falling due to the wind. Soon (over the dam) I want to die. I tell my husband: “I want to die!” He is (still) nice and patient and tells me to breathe (like what else is there to do?) and to think of other things. Yeah, right. We are still shaking, shuddering, climbing, and falling and it is made worse by the other Gyros flying above, behind, and next to us. I am watching them shake and shudder and dive and climb and I am feeling sorry for myself because I know we are doing the same thing and it is making me want to puke! So I say to my husband: “I am going to puke!” And he is (still) nice, telling me to open my visor, to breathe through my mouth, and to think of other things. I am not sure about you, but normally when I want to puke, I can hardly muscle up any pretty thoughts but of how I am hanging over the bowl PUKING? Is that so wrong? I have now started heaving and gagging. I say to my husband: “I am heaving and gagging!” He is not so very friendly anymore, as if he is thinking that I might be bored in the back of that bloody flying machine, and to make the time go by quicker, I am shoving my finger down my throat to see if I can spit! It also does not help that we are flying over patches of burnt land and small veldt fires, making it difficult to breathe! The smell from some of these fires is so putrid that I want to die and now I really need to throw up. I say to my husband: “I am throwing up!” And I proceed to throw up (well, that is actually a lie – one cannot throw up while flying at 95 miles per hour. One throws out, one throws down, one throws in and one throws out, but up, no!) At this point, I might also add that I thought it wise to have a steak and kidney pie for breakfast as we were running late and did not have time to fix anything else. My husband turns off the radio because he does not really care for the sound of someone throwing up and feels sorry for our co-travellers who are also listening to my carrying on in the back. (We are on a “chat” frequency!) And all of a sudden, he believes me! In between my hanging (with my full-faced helmet on!) over the side of the Gyro, screaming with retching and crying at the same time, he yells at me to help him find a spot to land! Now I don’t know about you, but when I am puking my liver out over the side of a Gyro, bile stinging my eyes and trying not to choke on pieces of steak and kidney and pastry, I can hardly find it in my heart to look for SOMEWHERE to LAND for F*#& SAKES!!!!!!! We are still 1-hour 50 mins from our destination. I eventually sit back, accepting that a swig of gin and a cheap pie is my last meal and proceed to every now and then chuck over the side, apologizing to my kids for choosing
** as a husband and father. We land and ** sprays me out of the bottom of the Gyro. You have never, ever, ever, believe me, seen a bigger mess. It is as if I had eaten a dozen rotten pies and drunk 5 gallons of stale gin. Oh, how terrible! Ten other Gyros are joining us, occupants wondering why my husband is scrubbing away at jackets and suits and helmets while I am lying on the ground holding my stomach and praying for God to take me, and calling my husband a dog. We fly home (I, in a wet and smelly jacket, suit and helmet, my husband in a huff, as if I had puked because I needed some attention) and land in Kruger town. We did not speak to one another for 2 days. I also have not been able to get back into the Gyro since. In fact, just reading this back to myself to check spelling, I must run!
