Earning my wings

I have spent the weekend with one of my beautiful granddaughters.  Vickie is an RAF cadet and she asked me if I would take her to RIAT 24 (see how quickly I have learnt the jargon!) the Royal International Air Tattoo at Fairford in Cheltenham.  Of course, I was delighted – a fifteen year old rates me highly enough to be trusted with a Very Important Weekend.

‘We’ll camp’, I said.  So did everyone else and the sites were booked up a year in advance.  But we found a Travel Lodge, bought enough snacks to last in case there is no food at a major show (!?) and set off.  Vickie had packed neatly and tidily into the correct sized case, I had my usual untidy array of bulging bags.  She unpacked, in an orderly manner, I spilt stuff on the floor.  We wandered over to the service station shops and ate our body weight in UPF and fell, exhausted, asleep.  (Not before we had watched a very strange programme about cosmetic surgery – I think my usual viewing is very conservative.)

Vickie didn’t complain when I woke up super early, put the light on and made tea.  Nor did she complain when I dithered at the roundabout and went round three times.

I know that ‘Military Precision’ is a term – but this was something else.  I have never seen anything so well organized in my life.  There was absolutely no doubt where my van was going to be parked or that I would fail to find it – the signposting was that good.  No one could get lost on the walk to the planes – or not get your bag searched, or not show your ticket.  There was absolutely no confusion.  Everyone knew their job and everyone did it – really well.  Every stall was positioned correctly and there were the right amount of toilets.  The show catalogue was professionally produced and the timetable clear.  The map was a work of art.  I felt really safe – absolutely nothing was left to chance.

Vickie knew which planes she wanted to see and which ones she wanted to watch fly.  We saw all the planes, every single one.  The displays were breathtaking.  Vickie knows her stuff and explained loads of the finer points to me.  The highlight was the Red Arrows, of course it was, and when two of them flew towards each other with what looked like a few feet between them I gasped – I could barely watch.  Vickie explained that these men (there has only ever been one female crew member) are at the absolute top of their game.  They are the best of the best.  They have to meet rigorous standards to even begin their Red Arrows training – and, Vickie said, ‘they never give up’.  She said she would remember that – I thought I might cry.  She talked a lot about being a part of this amazing organization.  About warfare and about discipline – her insights put me to shame.  She knows that to succeed she has to obey the rules.  My weekend with her showed me a strong young woman who can keep her head.

We compared the men in uniform to the young lads who drive around in noisy cars – I’ll leave you to work out the measure we used.  We laughed and we had more to eat.  We walked until I could walk no more.  Vickie looked like she could have marched all round the showground again.

She told me that she had had the best day ever and she knew now what she would talk about at my funeral.  I talk to all my grandchildren about my death and that I would like them to remember the fun we have together and not to be sad.  Vickie’s totally got this – and one day she will recall it – I hope she does it wearing the uniform of a senior RAF officer.

 

Written by Marion, hosted by Carrie