THE COLD AIR tightened my face as I stepped out onto the flight pad. I popped up the collar of my bomber jacket and tugged at the edges of my leather gloves. The air fogged up in front of me as I hurried the kids into the cockpit of the blimp and then followed them in, and struggled to seal the hatch tight.
I swore at the memory of Abe Feldman’s name, that bloody mechanic had promised to fix the seal of my hatch for six months before he died. Blimp accident. Fifteen people I know have died in various blimp accidents over the last two years but I’ll be damned if those fascists in Downing Street are going to ban the nation’s favourite mode of transport.
I checked the mirrors to see if the wife had untied the blimp from the side of the house and we were off, the blimp slowly thundered off down the street towards the school. Mrs Horowitz waved as she came along in the opposite direction in her oversized AirCad. I waved back, making a mock salute against my flight cap, much in the same way I have for the last fifteen years.
I turned in my seat and separated the kids who were fighting over a slinky or Rubick’s cube or something but before I could sort the problem there was a terrible grinding and shattering as I realised I had mounted Joe Grub’s roof. Insurance will pay for that, of course. As I looked out over the high-highway tens of blimps drifted across my field of vision and the pink sky. An explosion drew my attention away from the scene, I check my mirror to see that Mrs Horowitz’s blimp had gone up as she’d tried to park it in that eyesore of a garage her son had put up last July. I’d tried to get a petition going to make her take it down.
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