MY first plane ride was at the taxpayer’s expense. The big, fat, hairy man (my social worker) and I flew to Sydney from Kempsey airport. It was a 40 minute plane ride.
We waited at the small airport in the countryside for what seemed like hours. We waited on the plane before it moved for what seemed like hours. We watched the women wave their arms around the cabin to show us where the exits were. I paid closed attention, believing there could be 70 per cent chance I might need to use one in mid air.
The plane sped. I was dizzy. The wheels left the ground. My mind buzzed as we rose. Fantastic! I was above the clouds for the first time. From here they were flat, a large snowy world I felt I could jump out and stand on, wander alone in a plane of existence that only the climbers of a magic faraway tree could explore.
I was bored soon. I laid my head on the foldout table. And then we landed in Sydney. We were at an airport I was lost in – even at departures. We left the building and the big, fat, hairy man ordered a taxi. I was scared. Too many people. So lost. We were in a smelly cab. The big, fat, hairy man pointed out the centre point tower. We drove across the Sydney Harbour Bridge.
But we weren’t here to see the tourist sites. We were to visit a place called Coral Tree. My real family waited so we could be monitored by psychologists and told how we could improve our dysfunctional interactions.