17
A Trip to the Airport
Sharp on the dot of two, Sukey and I, and Bunnylugs, of course, make our way down the gangplank and across to the waiting taxi. The driver is holding up a sign with ‘Roxley’ written on it. He’s an African, young and smartly dressed. He greets us with a big smile and ushers us into the taxi. It’s comfortable, clean and not too old, a Mercedes. I ask how far it is to the airport, and he tells us it’s only about twelve miles.
“Sit back and enjoy the view, madam,” he says.
It’s a lovely ride. A clear sunny afternoon. The tablecloth has disappeared now. We drive closer to the mountain and then away from it to the west, along a dual carriage road which blends into a freeway. As we approach the airport, I draw Sukey’s attention to the planes parked on the runway and i
