Right now, I don't even feel like basic paperwork, far less dashing about the clouds in the Sopwith.
However - Duty may be it's own rewards, but command is a bitter brew.
I have standards to maintain.
I will, despite the most pleasing and fragarant of destractions (who will no doubt do her commanding best to retain my presence), firmly don the flying tweeds and sully forth to the Club.
There, I shall spend the afternoon being lantern jawed and commanding with a couple of radios, biro and requisite clipboard.
Plus some shenanigans with the flights roster (launch marshal's boon, dontchyerknow) I shall have an aeroplane to fly on sunday with a working variometer.
It is, for the first time in months, looking vaguely soarable.
The soft soothing words of the beloved and her perfumed embrace will have to wait.
This Chap has a rendezvous at five thousand feet.
With a Cloud.
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