77 hours of Supanova; Day one (friday) - Part 1

The annoying part was that Emma had a cold or flu of some sort, so friday morning had no sloppy pashes goodbye. I barely survive cons in the best of times, i didn't need to be struck down by anything that increased my normal levels of nose running and flem hocking. It was a peck on the cheek and a shake of the hands and into the taxi.
It was the driver's first pick up and he was chirpy, he laughed at his own jokes more than anything else and (like emma) it was quite infectious.

"Which way would you like me to go? South road or Marion?"
"Maybe Marion, but what would you suggest?"
"hehehehe how lucky do you feel? hehehehehe I always ask. Lucky lucky lucky"

We chatted traffic and proposed road changes, he used to live down the road for me so we talked property and the changes around the neighbourhood.
And i was at the airport. We seemed to slice through peak hour traffic.
"You very lucky! Hehehehehehe"
"Nah you the lucky one chief"

Line up for boarding pass. Line up for security. Line up to board. And sit.

Sit next to the rather large head shaved biker guy and his skinny sun dried wife.
he read some sort of "Men are from Mars, Women are from venus" books and stole my half of the arm rest. I read Jeffery Brown's "mini sulk" and got smacked on the back of the head everytime the drinks cart went past.

It was a smooth flight.

I got to admit I love walking on the tarmac. Sure it nice at the larger airports that the plane directly connects with the terminal. But walking down those stairs, under the wing, in the fresh petrol soaked air - it makes me feel like a rock star. That all crashed when a i heard a mutter "oh no one told me about stairs", looking over an oldish woman was struggling with a heavy bag. If i was a rock star i would have walked on by or asked if she has access to twin daughters or prescription medicine. Instead I ended up carrying her bag. Even though she carried nothing, she was still stumbling everywhere and slurring; "what's your name sweetie?" "aren't you a nice boy". I would have to stop every ten paces so she would catch up. When we finally made it to the terminal, the woman, a very world wearried 50 year old burst into tears and flew into the arms of a much younger fellow, also in tears. And i just stood there, holding her bag, afraid to ruin the moment.

At this point, a tap on the shoulder heralds younger Weber. after a bunch of 'hey mans' and other manly greetings, Weber started moving off, whilst i stood there holding the bag. They were still both bawling their eyes out, so i had no recourse but to tip toe over and gently drop the bag at her feet and slink away.

"who was that?"
"I have no idea"

(tommorrow - introducing weber, what i ate and setting up)
(and whilst i'm sticking here at blogger, i'll make this as close to a live journal experience as possible; so expect poetry)