Triffids Beard 2 - The Bearded Triffid

Monomania
Phoenixine Ninety-Eight, October 1997
It has been an odd month. I had a disturbing encounter with an aeroplane; the only books I have read
have all been by the same author; I violated the laws of probability; and my cat's gone bald.
It all started when the Dominion sent me the new Patricia Cornwell novel for review. I'd never read any
of her books before, though I'd seen her sprawling all over the thriller shelves and I had realised that she
was a popular and prolific writer. I read the novel (Unnatural Exposure) in a sitting. It was so good that
I simply didn't want to let go. When I finished it I realised that I wanted more and I wanted it now.
Nothing else would do; no other writer could scratch my literary itch. So I immediately went out and
bought every Patricia Cornwell book on the shelves which turned out to be all of them since they remain
constantly in print.
Then I had to go to Wellington on business -- here was a heaven-sent opportunity to spend my evenings
catching up on Patricia Cornwell. I decided to forego the usual social whirl that generally marks my visits
to the capital, and I packed a suitcase full of Patricia Cornwell.
About half way to Wellington the pilot announced chirpily that the airport was closed because of the
weather. Nothing had been able to land for the last hour or so and the visibility was getting worse.
"But we've got plenty of fuel," he said cheerfully, "so we'll circle a bit in case it clears up. If the worst
happens, we might have to divert to Palmerston North."
We began our descent and the cloud cover rolled in, thicker and thicker, no sign of any airport, just solid
mist. Then, with no warning at all, the engines roared out at full throttle and we shot up into the bright
blue sky above the clouds again.
"Sorry about that," said the pilot. "It's still a bit thick on the ground. I think I'll try again; from the North
this time, there might be better visibility. And anyway we are a four engine jet with lots of power. We can
get MUCH closer to the ground before we have to abort than other types of planes can."
I could hear the "so there, yah boo sucks!" tone in his voice. Obviously other types of planes were for
wimps -- real pilots flew British Aerospace Whisper Jets.
By this time I had begun to realise that we had an obsessive-compulsive in the driver's seat. His job
description said that the plane had to land at Wellington and land at Wellington it damn well would! A little
thing like the weather was not going to be allowed to interfere with the proper running of the universe.
Besides, the crew were all Wellington based (they had told us that on take off) and doubtless they
wanted to get home. Diverting to Palmerston North was not in their plans. It would spoil their day. They'd
miss their favourite show on the TV.
The plane droned on, obviously lining up for an approach from the North (we'd come in from the South
last time, across the strait). Then we began our descent again and the view outside the window became
solid, thick and grey once more.
The pressure in my eardrums told me that we were going down and down, but still there was no break
in the clouds, no sign of any land at all, just solid unending grey.
Then suddenly the ground appeared, almost immediately beneath our wingtips -- we were so low I'll
swear I could have jumped out and run alongside the plane! I could almost count the blades of grass
bordering the runway. We swooped in and touched down to a perfect landing within seconds of the
ground appearing. Everybody applauded wildly.
"Welcome to Wellington," said the cabin chief drily. "I bet the competition couldn't have done that."