Airshow

I’ll never forget the time my father took me to my first airshow. I thought it would be at our local airport, but my father explained, as we packed the boot with folding chairs and a blanket while the last stars still dusted the sky, that our airport wouldn’t cope with the heavier planes, mainly from the US, that would be on show. “What sort of planes?” I said, wide awake despite it being dawn. “I believe they’re flying a B-52 in from Guam,” he said, propping the Esky with mum’s...