Thinking about Uranus
Sapphire and I have just returned from a weekend in Melbourne as Love Chunks's official 'escorts.' He has to work there this coming week, so we three thought we'd spent the preceding weekend there, catching up with family and friends and eating our luggage weight in Yum Cha, chilli mud crab, Chinatown's bakery goods and brunch from the State Library's 'Mr Tulk' cafe.
Tears were shed by Sapphire when her Dad waved her goodbye. More flowed when the X-ray Security lady told her that the child-friendly craft scissors and plastic knitting needles in her carry-on 'Toy Story 2 - Jessie the Cowgirl' back pack would either have to be thrown away or checked in.
Any imminent water works were immediately dispelled by my offer to let her choose where we were going to have our dinner (at an airport, sadly, 'cos Scumbag Airlines gives its passengers nothing other than a chuck-up bag and tired hostesses telling us to prepare for our flight to "Perth, sorry, Brisbane....(giggle)....Oh, I'm really sorry...... - it's Adelaide..." Maccas it was - crummy little pink dog toy and happy meal for her, slimy old diet options tandoori roll for me.
She was amused when I accidentally pulled the dogs' eyes out of it's head (they were attached to a cord that activated its internal vibrator thingy that made it shake nervously or some such) but her eyes welled up again when we were informed over the almost-unintelligible but extremely loud speaker system that our flight was going to be delayed an hour. Calming her with threats of a) pulling her dacks down in front of Gate No 4 passengers; b) throwing her just-purchased 'Mania' magazine in the bin; and c) threatening to sing out loud in order to embarrass her, she did me proud by involving herself in people watching. She is, after a weekend in the centre of Melbourne, most attuned to spotting the weirdos, men-dressed-as-women, anyone morbidly obese or squeezed into jeans that are too tight. Bless her.
Eventually, we boarded the plane, both ignoring the safety demonstration as we buried ourselves in our respective magazines. Sapphire was squeezing her fake rubber brain (which seems a lot more 'fun' the the freebie tote bags that mags for women of my insert to attract our custom) and read out her favourite joke: "What's a footy?" "I dunno," was my absent answer. "It's the thingy that hangs off your leggie," which caused us both to strain against our seatbelts in peals of laughter. Eventually my tired eyes fell on my Scorpio prediction in 'Who' for the coming week: 'Uranus is about to open you up to all sorts of possibilities.'
I immediately turned to my daughter to have a chortle and then realised that I didn't have the energy to set about explaining the humour of it. However she had the energy to release a killer fart, which had all passengers around us immediately reaching above their heads for their air conditioner controls (and no doubt wishing that the air masks would automatically drop down). Such is life.