CAN'T DO BETTE MIDLER REFERENCE

There's a weight that settles for the duration of a work trip. It's largely related to the unpleasant clash that happens when material wealth meets developing countries. ie. taking your laptop to Guatemala. Sometimes it feels like electrical equipment is met with a collective intake of breath, and than a race to nick it.

This being the case, it was with a sense of great relief that I found myself landing back in Mexico City. As we dropped through the ubiquitous smog, I saw a little green and white VW beatle cab - it was so familiar - and suddenly I felt safe again.

The plane was about ten metres from the tarmac, I had my usual realisation of the miracle of flight - by which planes land without crashing - and suddenly there was a scream of the engine, the nose pointed up again, and the airport was disappearing behind us.

Hmmmmmm.

A couple of options: either someone had f*cked up the landing, and needed a Take Two.... or the plane was being high-jacked by the lesser-known Central American Al-Qaida operative. Those dark horses.

You'd think if you were taking a plane-load of slightly unsettled passengers for Take Two, you'd mention it over the intercom. "Hey guys, sorry, was too busy savouring the chocolate chips in my cookie and forgot about aligning correctly. Let's try that again.'

But as the silence lengthened, and people found themselves looking around the carriage to guage their reactions, by other people's behaviour... I started wondering whether maybe I'm underestimating the power of conviction amongst Central America's terrorist population.

So, I just contented myself with a bit of reckless navel-gazing instead... in the face of my current relational difficulties (to quit, or not to quit, that is the question)

Relationships are kind of like flying, you're sky-high when everything's running to schedule. And strangely, when they end, it's never a smooth landing... there's always some sort of crash and burn.

So maybe, sometimes, as you're just about to hit the tarmac for another crash landing... you decide instead to point the nose skywards one more time. Just hoping that maybe this is the plane with wings that can keep flying, and with a fuel tank that - like a neverending packet of timtams - won't run out of aircraft fuel.

That's hope.

And what of the crash and burn, as you drag yourself burned and bleeding from the wreckage? Months and years in intensive care, that's what. Last week T looked at her watch and said 'oh my GOD. Oh GOD! I can't believe it. F's birthday was yesterday and I didn't remember. Oh WOW!' and I thought, God it's a long road to remembering to forget. Years of clawing your way back to 'before'.

As I write, I listen to J and M downstairs talking and laughing... their burns are healing nicely.

I watch my hands as they type, and they look old.