The flight back home left mid-morning from the major city airport they always chose, in order for it to be direct, as Paul preferred to not have any changes, but because of recent political sanctions from many countries, and the need to avoid flying over a large amount of land mass, the flight time had increased from the normal eleven hours, to a total of fourteen, and so, whilst it was still direct, neither of them relished that much time in the air, Paul because of his fear of flying, and his wife because of that too, knowing that every bump, any minor shake, dip, or little wobble, would have him clenching his wrists, gripping the armrests and unable to speak or open his eyes for at least fifteen minutes after even the gentlest of turbulence had passed.

For her part, Zoe loved flying, the opportunity to sit in a comfy enough chair for a period of time, no guilt to feel about not being more active, no gym to go to, no yoga classes on board obviously, and so relaxing in front of a screen packed with dozens of movies, TV series, a few daft on-board games, and the delivery of three meals, and the free-flow wine to the seat was a perfect way to spend fourteen hours, as long as her husband managed to contain his nerves, these nerves impervious to the number of times he’d flown before, or the statistical knowledge he had about flight safety, the multitude of empirical data, all meaning nothing as soon as the first bit of mild mid-air shaking came.

The flight was at 9am and because of the time difference with the UK would arrive in London at 5pm at Heathrow, which was 11pm in the time zone they were in, so they would be able to get to the hotel and sleep off the flight as soon as they got there, ready to move on to their friends the next day, who they hadn’t seen since their previous diplomatic posting on the other side of the world, where they’d worked together for five years, and loved it, until almost two years ago when they came to the posting they were in now in a much colder part of the world, and so meeting up with Sandy and Malcolm would be a great reminder of life in warmer climes, and they knew they’d have a wonderful, albeit different from how it used to be, first weekend back home, catching up with their old pals.

As usual check in and security was efficient and within half an hour of arriving at the airport they were through and at the departure gate areas with their carry-on bags in tow and closer to three hours than two remaining before take-off, so they decided to find a place for breakfast, and if time after to browse the shops and perhaps get an additional gift for Sandy and Mal, some single malt for him, perhaps a Japanese brand, that obviously couldn’t be opened that weekend, and a fancy style accessory for Sandy, ideally something purple, this being her favourite colour, but first a bite to eat, and then a quick walkaround the airport retail offerings.

They went to the usual place they ate, the breakfast options being the best, much as the lunch and dinner options were when they took flights at other times of day, and after a couple of minutes looking through the menu Zoe ordered avocado toast, making sure there was no butter and that they removed the poached egg, and Paul, allowing the airport meal to be a treat before the long flight, broke their recently agreed commitment to veganism and ordered an omelette, asking for them to just keep the vegetables in, not include the listed cheese, as some form of concession to their plant-based eating resolution, allowing one ingredient to break the rule rather than two, mumbling something about a couple of eggs not really being a health issue anyway, and murmuring the words ‘free range’.

As they waited for their staple freshly squeezed orange juices to arrive, they didn’t speak, but looked out into the airport, watching people walk towards their gates, some rushing, overtaking other passengers, with their wheeled small cases whizzing behind them, whilst others, also clearly with ample time, meandered around, stopped to look at the same menu where Paul and Zoe were dining, but made faces about the prices, and moved on, perhaps in search of an over-priced, but still much cheaper fast food alternative elsewhere in the airport, which made Paul smirk slightly when these never really potential customers scurried off.

‘Come on, Paul. It is expensive here to be fair.’

‘Not for us it’s not.’

‘That’s a little mean though. When we first met the best we could have done is share a box of fries from one of those places, and then get on our budget airline. And, we’re not quite as well off nowadays anyway.’

‘I know, I know. Sorry, you’re right, of course. The good old days when we’d have some fries and a beer to share.’

‘Yes, I suppose so, or perhaps it was the bad old days! I think we agree a fresh juice is preferable.’

‘Of course. Anyway, did you pack my flying socks?’

‘No, you know where you keep them. Are they in your carry-on or check-in bags?’

‘Wait, I thought you mentioned you packed them.’

‘I didn’t mention them once. I packed my stuff, then we did the usual run through what we might have forgotten. You didn’t mention your flying socks once. I assumed you’d packed them.’

‘No, I didn’t! Good grief, this is nightmare. You know I can’t fly without them.’

‘Paul, check your carry-on then. For crying out loud, it’s a bloody pair of old socks.’

Despite the thirty years of regular flying, the hundreds of flights he’d taken, Paul had never got used to it, never managed to allow all the knowledge he had accumulated about flight safety enter his mind enough to calm his nerves, and even meeting pilots, and other aviation experts, who’d emphatically promoted the extreme unlikelihood of serious accidents, the data such as a aircraft using 85% of its mechanisms on take-off, no extra ones during cruising, and 15% on landing, meaning any technical issues would likely occur in the first ten minutes of flight, just meant nothing to Paul, as did the reams of statistics ensuring the absence of crashes, and the fact that they chose the most reputable airlines with the highest safety records, often at extra cost, all meant nothing as soon as there was a the merest of mid-air movement during a flight.

Instead Paul, ironically, given his diplomatic role was in the science field, though not as senior as it had been in previous postings, had turned to superstition to assuage his nerves, his flying socks, which he’d owned for close to two decades, being the necessary accoutrement for all his flights, those pair of socks, navy blue, with a white airplane motif repeated all over them, long since riddled with holes, making them unwearable, continued to be a travel essential for him, no longer putting them on due to their age and disrepair, but rolled into a tight ball they’d been in, unused on his feet, not requiring a wash for over twelve years, but a vital, needed, indispensable item of packed luggage, as somehow their presence on all his flights, in Paul’s psyche, protected him from any actual danger.

Their breakfasts arrived, but rather than tuck into his omelette he told Zoe to eat her toast, whilst he rifled through the contents of his carry-on, fully opened out on the banquette seating, removing each item, his spare underwear, laptop, removed from its slipcase, the couple of books he took on board, always unlikely to read due his need to close his eyes during any inclement weather, a couple of t-shirts, spare trousers, one smart pair of shoes, and a few small toiletry items, and two pairs of fresh socks, new, hole-less, clean, and not with planes on them, and therefore not his flying socks.

‘I don’t know what I’m going to do.’

‘Paul, I get it, but you know the socks don’t make a difference, don’t you?’

‘Yes, of course I know that, but you also know how I am. I don’t know what do.’

‘Look, eat your breakfast first, before it goes completely cold, and perhaps we can look around the shops. Who knows? Maybe somewhere sells socks with planes on. Would a new pair do the trick?’

‘There’s no harm in looking I suppose. I don’t know for sure they’re not in my check-in luggage anyway, but I’d feel much better knowing there were at least some socks with planes on in our bags for sure, if possible.’

‘Okay, eat your omelette and let’s go and see what we can find.’

Ordinarily Paul was the first to finish eating any meals they had, Zoe being a much more delicate eater, carefully slicing her food, enjoying each morsel, whilst Paul wolfed his food, generally using his fork to break up his meals, only using a knife when the fork couldn’t manage it, and each subsequent bite entering his mouth whilst his previous bite was yet unswallowed, meaning he consumed most meals in a third of the time Zoe did, but this morning he barely touched his omelette, his worry overtaking his appetite Zoe could tell, even though he attempted to brush off his unwillingness to finish it as some nonsense about feeling bad he wasn’t sticking to their new dietary regime, turning her usual mild disgust at his eating to restrained impatience at his mendacity and reluctance to eat.

‘Are you going to finish your omelette?’

‘No, you’re right. I shouldn’t really be eating eggs.’

‘It’s an airport treat, right? Are you not hungry?’

‘You know, look, I’m just, well it’s my nerves to be honest. I feel a little sick.’

‘Okay, let’s go and browse the shops to try and find you some replacement socks?’

They went through a few of the stores, the first three, with their small selection of socks, selling, at best, some diamond patterned, striped, or dotted socks, but nothing with any kind of images on, and certainly not approaching anything related to flying whatsoever, but then they came across a new shop, selling only socks, a purely sock shop, with shelves, and revolving stands full of themed socks, which they decided to divide between them, being sure there must be something that would appease Paul’s fear, and could be taken on board with him.

Each rack and shelf was themed for the most part, from selected animals, foods, Paul being unamused when Zoe asked if he wanted the pair with fried eggs on, her hope at humour calming him wasted, then through to musical instruments ranging from guitars, to drums, to what looked like saxophones, then types of weather, an assortment of random household items including television socks, dartboard socks, and even coffee maker socks, which brought them to the section on transportation themed socks, which as they looked through the different shaped and coloured car;, yellow Volkswagen beetles, red Ferraris, green Minis, and also motorbikes, bicycles, ships, even helicopters, but seemingly none with planes, at which point Zoe went to ask at the counter.

‘Excuse me, do you have any socks with planes on?’

‘Ah, no, we’ve none left, I think. We do usually have a couple of designs, but out of stock at the moment. Sorry. We do have the ones with helicopters on.’

‘Paul, they’re out of stock, but there are the helicopter ones.’

‘Sorry, no. It has to be planes.’

‘Yes, sorry about that, he has a, well, he likes to have what he calls ‘flying socks’ with him on his flights.’

‘Zoe, there’s no need to bloody explain!’

‘We do have lots with different types of birds on if that helps, sir.’

‘No, socks with fucking birds on won’t fucking help!’

‘Paul!’

Paul stormed out of the shop, Zoe following him after apologising to the shop assistant, but he left at a pace she couldn’t match, and couldn’t see him, deciding perhaps he’d gone to other shops, searching for more possible sock replacements, thinking she could try to persuade him a t-shirt, a tie, any item with a plane embellished on it would do, even a small plane model, ubiquitous in airport shops, would be suitable enough, and so she trawled from one shop to the next, yet Paul wasn’t in any of them, and their time for boarding was approaching, he was nowhere in sight, so in the last shop she looked in she purchased the smallest sized toy plane they had, a small keyring with a biplane flown by a vintage aviator styled dog, and a chocolate bar with a Boeing jumbo jet emblazoned on its wrapper, then left, to head to the gate, hoping to see him there at least.

As she bolted towards their gate she glanced in each shop, café, and restaurant, quickly sweeping her eyes through the customers to see if Paul was amongst them, but no sign of him until she glanced into the airport’s only pub, an Irish bar named Mulligans they’d never stepped foot into, and saw his back, sitting at a bar, something he hadn’t done for over two years, and as she reached him putting her hand on his left shoulder, the barman placed a large whiskey in front of Paul, next to an already empty glass with barely melted ice inside it, and Paul beeped his card on the contactless pad without even acknowledging his wife’s presence, and before Zoe could speak, he’d taken his first sip, of his second drink, and let out an overly loud, satisfying gasp.

‘Paul!’

‘What? Exactly what?’

‘You can’t be serious. What are you doing?’

‘What does it look like I’m doing, Zoe? I’m having a fucking drink.’

‘Paul, please, the flight will be okay, please put the drink down. Come on.’

‘The flight. I’m not getting on the flight without my socks. You go. I’m fine.’

‘I’ve got some possible alternatives, please have a look.’

‘There are no alternatives! I don’t want to see any fucking alternatives. This drink is the alternative, alright?’

‘Paul, honestly, you can’t do this, you know you can’t. You’ve been doing so well. Please.’

Paul put down his drink, turned on his stool to look directly into Zoe’s eyes, and that fierceness she’d seen in his eyes many times before, but not in the last couple of dormant years, made her want to step back, but he took her hand that wasn’t holding the plastic bag, and gripped her wrist, not speaking, not blinking, his face showing he was preparing what to say, but she knew whatever he said would be definitive, unnegotiable, inflexible, he would be staying in the bar, not flying, and rather than waiting to hear one of his old diatribes, his rambling tirades, the kind of nonsense speeches that ultimately got them where they were now. Instead, she directed her thoughts to being on the plane, the comfort of the premium economy seat, the choice of wines she might have herself, the selection of films she might get though, what the booked vegan meals might be like, how his absence and the empty seat next to her would be an additional luxury, and when his mumbling had finished, and he released her, she said goodbye, and went to the gate, smiling at the memory from a few hours ago of popping a pair of old socks, with planes on them, in the bin.

Paul Kimm

(Image is of Mr. Kimm)

(We are pleased to debut Paul Kimm on the site today. It won’t be his last! Leila and DWB)

In the 1980s, I had a job working for Age Concern providing decorating services for the elderly. As long as they bought the materials, Age Concern sent me to paint or wallpaper however many rooms they wanted redecorating. Whilst a few of the people whose houses I went to barely spoke to me, the majority welcomed my company. Here are some of the stories they told me during my breaks. All of the below is true, and some of it is factual.

Mrs Goodson’s house

Mrs Goodson, 76, lived on the Easthill Estate. I was there to paint her kitchen and living room; white ceilings, magnolia walls, and all woodwork in white gloss. I did the living room first. After the first day, she insisted I didn’t bring a packed lunch as she’d feed me, and if I came earlier, would cook me a small breakfast too. So, from the second day I arrived at eight-thirty each morning, and for rest of the week, enjoyed a breakfast of two slices of white bread toast, buttered heavily, with two eggs. To show off her culinary prowess the eggs went from fried, to poached, to scrambled. They remain the tastiest I’ve ever had. For each breakfast she also insisted that I had a small 330ml bottle of Guinness with my breakfast.

It’s good for you. It’s the iron in it. Good for bones, blood, the lot. A little bottle like that, and some eggs, sets you up for the day. It’s what I’ve had for decades and I’m fit as a fiddle. It was my John who started us on it. He was seven years older than me, and only gone just last year. So, did him no harm, did him good. I get crates delivered, twenty-four in a pack lasts me for a month, at weekends I don’t bother, but during the week it’s just right. Keeps you fit. Here, let me show you.

She took me to her under stairs cupboard and opened it to show me the crate, half empty, with rows of bottles in it. Then we went back to the kitchen, and I sat down at the round table, with three chairs tucked under it. She cracked two eggs into a frying pan, and they sizzled and popped immediately, before sliding two slices of bread into the grill above the hobs.

I get them delivered. I can’t carry a box like that, but my John could, still driving he was, and could carry them up from the car. Like he never really got old, that Guinness kept him going. I never learned to drive mind you, so our Rob sold the car after, only for a few hundred pounds, as we’d had it years. John was good at looking after the car as well, had all the tools and that, he’d learned mechanics in the forces. He did that in the war too, fixing vehicles, always strong. He always said it was the Guinness, the iron in it, giving you strong bones, keeping you fit. He never was sick until the end. Never saw him once have a day off, and right until his last week he was carrying in those cases, bending over, and slotting them under the stairs. I can still bend down to get a bottle or two out myself, but it’s years since I could carry twenty-four of them like that. Tell the truth, don’t know if I ever could. Anyway, like my John, a bottle a morning keeps me fit. It’s good for you, and our Rob sometimes brings me another crate when he visits too. If you’re still here on Friday, you’ll probably meet him.

I thanked her for the breakfast, telling her how tasty the eggs were, and for the Guinness. I remember feeling very satisfied and full each morning so did some of the lighter decorating work first whilst the breakfast and drink settled. From the Tuesday to the Friday it took to finish the job she told me more about her John, his strength, and numerous skills, never becoming emotional in anyway other than a bright happiness reminiscing about him. On the last day I met her son, Rob, who was more than twice the age I was then.

You’ve done a smashing job here. Much appreciated mate. Kitchen and living room both look way smarter. It’s a good scheme they’ve got going with Age Concern. Might have to get you back to do more, if we can get me mam some more paint in. That’d be alright, wouldn’t it? The upstairs hasn’t been done for over a decade I reckon. Not since my dad got sick and couldn’t come down for years.

I assume he saw the confusion on my face, as he then told me more.

Ah, I bet me mam said nothing. She’s never spoken about it. Likes to remember him before he got ill, when he could still help around the house. I’ll say no more on it. She doesn’t want those years being the memory of him, and that’s fair enough. It’s best for her she lies to herself, and we go along with it. I’ll say nowt more on it. Thanks again mate, cracking job and may see you again.

When I left Mrs Goodson said thank you and gave me two bottles of Guinness to take with me. I don’t know if she ever got more paint. Possibly one of the other decorators got put on the job next time, but none of them ever mentioned it to me in the yard.

Mr Mason’s house

Mr Mason also lived on Easthill Estate, it being the biggest in town, and was having his living room, hallway and landing painted, a longer job because of the banister and higher ceiling in the stairwell. He would keep drinks and biscuits coming and watch me work, occasionally telling me stories of his younger life, whilst I was painting.

I’ll tell you the best story I’ve got lad. It was 1963, remember it clear as day, even though it was at night. Got arrested, didn’t I? Out of the blue it was. I was still in the army, had been for years, cos I stayed in after the war. I was in London, was driving a Land Rover. That was mostly what I did, drove about on errands for officers and that. A bunch of coppers pulled me over, and took me in. Arrested me for the bloody Great Train Robbery! Can you believe it? Remember it? Ronnie Biggs and them? They thought I was one of them because they’d escaped in Land Rovers, and there’s me in mine trawling round London, odd jobs for my gaffers, and they reckoned I was one of the robbers. Asked me questions for ages they did. Hours.

I finished a section of banister, put my brush and paint pot down, sat on a stair, and asked him what questions they had.

All sorts. It was like they’d decided. You know, like I was definitely one of the robbers. Was in my uniform and they said that was to throw them off the scent. I said to them to check the Land Rover, there was nowt in it, and they said it was probably a decoy. Bear in mind, I didn’t actually know anything about the Great Train Robbery. It wasn’t called that yet, and they weren’t telling me what had gone on, just asking me where the others were, where the money was, where I’d got the military uniform from. I didn’t know until they finally let me go, and saw the papers the next day. Eventually, they called my barracks to check. Someone came in, explained who I was, and they let me go. No apologies or nowt, like I’d wasted their time.

I bent down to get my paint and carry on with my work, but he asked me to wait a minute, so I sat down again.

Thing was, I remember it like it was last night. Never said this to my wife, but that was the most exciting night of my life. Got married, lived through the war, spent two decades in the army, but being arrested as a Great Train Robber is my greatest memory. I remember it more than anything. Every now and then it’s all I constantly think about. That’s the thing with being old, maybe the only good thing, lots of memories, so many of them, even if some of them visit you more than others.

I recall Mr Mason being quieter for the rest of the week. He was excited to tell me his story about being arrested as one of the Great Train Robbers but it was like it had exhausted him. He didn’t mention it again for the rest of the job, or share any other major memories, and by the last day he’d stopped watching me work.

Mrs Smith’s flat

Mrs Smith had a one-bedroom flat near the beach. You couldn’t see the sea from her window, but you could from the small, shared garden at the front. Mrs Smith had saved part of her pension for nine months to afford the paint for every room to be done. She was a soft voiced, but chatty lady who made me tea with milk, a drink I’ve never liked, several times a day, insisting I take a break with her, and I hadn’t the heart to tell her I didn’t like it. The twenty or so cups of tea I had in the week I was there being the most I ever drank.

I moved here after my Albert passed. I didn’t want to stay in a big house, like we had, bigger than we ever needed, so I sold it off, paid the rest of the mortgage and got this place. More than twenty years ago now. Maybe even close to thirty now. I wanted to be near the beach, and have a view of the sea if possible, but when everything was paid off there wasn’t enough for that. This place suits me though. I like it enough. Enough for me. Do I keep saying ‘enough’? Ooh, it’s a miserable word, isn’t it? Enough. Make do. Get by. That’s life though, isn’t it? Life is enough. Anyway, I’m getting all maudlin, and I’m not maudlin at all. I’m a happy person. Quite happy. Happy enough. That’s me, Paul.

Mrs Smith laughed at herself, telling me not mind her rambling, and I went back to continue the decorating. The next milky tea came just over an hour later.

Sorry about before. I don’t mean it like that. All that daft talk about ‘enough’. We had it good, me and my Albert. No kids. That wasn’t for us it turned out, so we had a nice house. No kids, and a big house. Too big for us really, but we had the money for it with no kids. We used to go on holidays abroad before others did, before it became all that popular. Cities and seasides. Seville and Marbella in Spain. Very nice. Rome and Almalfi in Italy. Very nice too. Then my favourites, Athens and the islands in Greece. Definitely the nicest. Anyway, listen to me twittering on. Am I saying ‘nice’ too much now? Deary me, I’m all ‘enoughs’ and ‘nices’ today. Those holidays were very nice though. We’d always send ourselves a postcard, addressed to our own house, with a little note about our trip, like we were writing to another Mr and Mrs Smith, so we had a memory and Albert quite liked collecting the stamps. Often they were waiting for us when we got back or arrived a little later on. I’ve still got them in an old biscuit tin somewhere. I’ll have to dig them out. I can’t remember what we wrote on them. It was a long time ago now.

The next day Mrs Smith searched the cabinets and cupboards in the room I was working in. She apologised for being in my way, even though she wasn’t. Shortly after returning to the kitchen she called me through for another tea.

I’ve found the tin of postcards. I haven’t looked at these in years. Could be ten or more, twenty even, since I’ve had a look. I thought we could look together if you like, while you have your tea.

She opened up the old square tin, the picture on its lid showing a photo of the biscuits it once contained. Inside, there was a stack of brightly coloured postcards, the paper on them looking soft to the touch. Mrs Smith took the top one, a photo of an old church with an orange tree in the foreground, and the word ‘Sevilla’ in the bottom right corner.

There you go. I mentioned we went to Seville didn’t I? Lovely orange trees everywhere. All over the city. Let’s have a look what silly message we wrote to ourselves.

She turned over the postcard, and on the back the right side had the address below the names ‘Mr and Mrs Smith’, but the left side was blank.

Oh, let me look at some more. We must have forgotten to write on this one. Ooh, one from Turin. We went to Italy more than once. Oh, no message on this one either.

Mrs Smith took out a pile in one go, turned them over, and started dealing them out on the table, each one with their address and a stamp on the right, but all the left-hand sides blank.

Well, I never! I told you yesterday we used to send ourselves a postcard, with a message. I was sure we did. Looks like I’ve gone and imagined it. So silly. It must have been to his brother Geoff, and his wife Gladys. They were Mr and Mrs Smith as well. That must be it. Silly me. I would have liked to read those messages, but Geoff and Gladys are long gone now too. I’ve no idea if they kept them. I’ve still got Albert’s writing though, on those addresses. Just not the messages. So silly of me. I was so sure about it when I told you about our little, silly postcard tradition. Now I can’t stop saying silly, can I? Oh well, it was a long time ago now, but so is yesterday nowadays for me. Everyday feels like a long time ago. Just so silly.

After that day I wasn’t invited into the kitchen as much. Mrs Smith mostly brought the mugs of tea to me. When I was painting the kitchen and the bathroom, if she wasn’t looking, I’d tip some of the tea down the sink. When the job finished, she said goodbye and asked if I might pop round sometimes for a tea and a chat. I said I would, but I never did.

Paul Kimm

(Image by CJA)