Jet

Once away from Trolls and their spawn, life improves. This last weekend was busy, what with it being Easter, spring, and sunny. Everyone in the world (or so it seemed) wanted some of the sweet weather we’ve been having.

Apart from the fact that there’s little/no money to be made driving, it can be fun. The influx of northerners for the weekend included some regulars who arrive via private jet. For me, that means hanging around the airport. Being swanky jet-setters, they naturally don’t arrive with the riff-raff at the regular terminal, rather they go to what are known as Fixed Base Operators. FBOs service the non-airline parts of aviation, which activity includes maintaining mini-terminals for folks arriving red-carpet-wise.

It’s all quite relaxed. I arrive early at the FBO with the limo, walk in, and tell the nice lady at the desk the tail number – or aircraft registration – of my customers’ plane. She gives me a piece of yellow paper to stick on the dash, and then remotely opens the security gate and voilĂ ! I’m on the apron.

Coz I kinda like planes, I deliberately go early to watch the activity, and it’s always fun. There are rich old guys in their sweet personal twins, dopey old guys clearly lost, taxiing around aimlessly, enthusiastic students and their too-cool instructors, and all kinds of fancy jets for the rich folks. If you like aviation, it’s neat.

When my particular rich folks arrive, you wait for the word from the ground guys, reverse up to the jet’s door, welcome the people, load their bags, and head back through the security gate to their beach house. Everyone’s happy. It’s Easter, it’s a weekend off, and they’re at the beach, and we’re all (including me) in a good mood.

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