I love flying. I love the ritual of checking in, having a drink, heading to the gate, boarding. All that. I especially enjoy it now that I've got the hang of security regulations and don't get things confiscated anymore.
Sweeney and I spent a long weekend in Christchurch. Place of my birth, home of the best souvlakis in the world, land of dessicating nor-westers. And for the last few years, it's been where my parents live again. Which is choice, because I love them and it's great to see them so close to the best souvlakis in the world ...
It was hot and sunny and we had a great time. Lots of lovely things to do, with two of the loveliest people I know. Mum organised for Sweeney to get some special attention from Science Alive. They do this thing where you write a message and you can send it to the stars. You get a reference number and can check back from time to time to find out where in the universe your message has got to. Mum convinced them to send a message to the Moon - to his dad - and we got to climb up to the top of the building and look through the behemoth telescope they'd set up for him.
The gravitas was miles over his head, but he really liked the telescope, and running around on the roof. He climbed the stairs and ladder like a Himalayan goat. So proud.I think anyone who knows me knows that I'm totally proud of him. Although that shrivelled a little tonight, as we stood up to get off the plane at Wellington, and Sweeney looked at me and announced, loudly, "I weed!!". Everyone standing in the aisle, and from the surrounding suburbs, swivelled their heads in our direction and lo, his soaked shorts and damp seat appeared like my grimiest public nightmare. What a place for nappy failure. The nice crew at Air New Zealand made out like it happens all the time, and nobody said Ewwww.
So I'm adding to my pre-flight ritual that I must change Sweeney's nappy or take him for a toilet break, no matter what.