Mrs C does the airport

 The taxi screeched to halt outside the airport at the command of Mrs C, despite protestations of a young boy, apparently from India, who waved an illuminated wand in front of his hi vis vest. The pleading eyes of our driver who seemed to convey his hostage like predicament caused the parking attendant to retreat to a safe distance.

Mrs C barked at the driver as she withdrew from her purse half the fare showing on the meter insisting that he should have avoided the congestion they experienced on their journey. The delayed arrival was not to be blamed on Mrs C poor planning but rather the effective halving of her time in the business class lounge was directly attributed to the poor skills of the driver in avoiding peak hour traffic. I glanced at the driver, nodded , swiftly drew my wallet , making up the fare difference from my weekly allowance.

Even traveling to another suburb was daunting in the company of Mrs C. I had managed using various forms of media censorship to continue, in Mrs C’s mind, that international travel was still far too dangerous due to risks of Covid 19 for certain groups which included larger women over 50 years old. This mindset was shattered when Mrs C inadvertently changed the television channel away from the video input upon which I had been replaying recorded broadcasts from 2020. So here we were, living my nightmare, about to navigate customs and board a flight to Abu Dhabi, which despite my alternate advice, Mrs C believed was the home if her beloved Wilma and Fred. Remember Fred’s favourite catch cry … Abu Dhabi Doo ... so here we go!