'Rina
The Fly
Disclaimer: This is all fiction, all made up appart from the nuns, Don't know the band, not making a penny from this.
3 weeks earlier
“The airport is filled with people this morning. It seems as if the whole world has decided that Tuesdays are a good day to travel, and all of them have to go via Gatwick. I might not ever get a shred of piece. Still, I’ll be on the plane soon enough. I said goodbye to Dad this morning, the one good thing about the early flights. At least I get to say goodbye to someone. I think I’ve read most of my travelling book already, and I’m sure I’ve forgotten to pack something, but I’ll deal with that when I get there. I can’t wait to get there and see the Liffey, see the park and walk by the sea again. Its odd to miss a place so much, when I’ve no reason to be there other than fandom and a love of mythology. The faces here are my own, at least. The sights I see will form my memories. New ones, in a whole new world now. Still I wish she’d seen it. I wish I’d got to take her to Trinity college, I wish I’d got to take her round Dalkey town, I wish she’d had the chance to walk up the hill and look out over the bay and see the headland. I wonder what she’d think of the music. Too loud probably. Ohp, the neon board is telling me its time to parade to gate 17 in an orderly fashion. Lets just hope there aren’t any singing Nuns this time.”
Cramming her diary back into her badly packed bag, Red makes her way to the gate, a smile playing around her lips. The aeroplane ahead of her is the one which will take her to sanctuary. The past few months have been too much and despite the efforts of those around her, she needs to be away from all of it, the memories, the days of tears and nights crying. Going back to a place where she has only ever been happy seems like the best idea she has ever had. Flying into the worst year of her life can only be balanced by flying out of it, she concludes, showing her passport and boarding pass to the blue and yellow low budget flight crew. Filled with one too many cups of black coffee, she settles into her usual pattern of chatting to the unfortunate passenger next to her, and flitting through the tunes in her I-pod.
The flight is a steady one, up across Britain and smoothly banking over the sea to the strains of “A Sort of Homecoming”, which, in many ways this flight truly is. There are no delays disembarking, no long wait at baggage re-claim for Red is travelling super light, which is always heavier than she allows for, and she hauls her rucksack onto the bus and out across the motorway, through the suburbs and faster, round bends and corners, past the shinty field and into the bit which is instantly Dublin. Past the church, down the high street and then wrestling with the bag, staggering off the bus with all the forced politeness that the situation demands.
While Red settles down to her new home for the week, our attentions fall on other permanent residents of Dublin. In a dusty, grimy, corner of the city a recording studio hums with the noise of great work being done. Cups of tea are made, buttons are pressed and all the technical, boring work that goes into making music sound great is occurring in a studied and methodical way. This would be all the noise in the studio, were it not for a crunching noise from the far corner of the sofa. The noise of wood being chewed is quite distinct, and would normally resort in a rodent hunt, were the source not so obvious. A pencil, being held in a squared off, large pale hand is being chewed relentlessly for want of any further inspiration to its owner. For the seventh time this afternoon, Edge looks pointedly at Bono, and for the first time today, he passes him a mug of tea, accompanied by orders to go home, walk the dogs, let off some steam tonight and for godssakes leave that lyric line alone for the rest of the week. So ordered, Bono concedes a temporary defeat, recklessly downs his hot mug of tea and bounds down the stairs, a child let out early from a long English lesson and full of enthusiasm for anything other than the piece of paper which remains crumpled in the shape of his hands on the studio coffee table. Unspoken as it may be, the acknowledgement of mutual concern between Edge and Adam grows louder as Bono’s exit whistle filters up through the stairwell. He’s faking it, eyebrows agree.
“Two steps, turn, turn, out to the car, press and” “what am I going to do with my evening?”
3 weeks earlier
“The airport is filled with people this morning. It seems as if the whole world has decided that Tuesdays are a good day to travel, and all of them have to go via Gatwick. I might not ever get a shred of piece. Still, I’ll be on the plane soon enough. I said goodbye to Dad this morning, the one good thing about the early flights. At least I get to say goodbye to someone. I think I’ve read most of my travelling book already, and I’m sure I’ve forgotten to pack something, but I’ll deal with that when I get there. I can’t wait to get there and see the Liffey, see the park and walk by the sea again. Its odd to miss a place so much, when I’ve no reason to be there other than fandom and a love of mythology. The faces here are my own, at least. The sights I see will form my memories. New ones, in a whole new world now. Still I wish she’d seen it. I wish I’d got to take her to Trinity college, I wish I’d got to take her round Dalkey town, I wish she’d had the chance to walk up the hill and look out over the bay and see the headland. I wonder what she’d think of the music. Too loud probably. Ohp, the neon board is telling me its time to parade to gate 17 in an orderly fashion. Lets just hope there aren’t any singing Nuns this time.”
Cramming her diary back into her badly packed bag, Red makes her way to the gate, a smile playing around her lips. The aeroplane ahead of her is the one which will take her to sanctuary. The past few months have been too much and despite the efforts of those around her, she needs to be away from all of it, the memories, the days of tears and nights crying. Going back to a place where she has only ever been happy seems like the best idea she has ever had. Flying into the worst year of her life can only be balanced by flying out of it, she concludes, showing her passport and boarding pass to the blue and yellow low budget flight crew. Filled with one too many cups of black coffee, she settles into her usual pattern of chatting to the unfortunate passenger next to her, and flitting through the tunes in her I-pod.
The flight is a steady one, up across Britain and smoothly banking over the sea to the strains of “A Sort of Homecoming”, which, in many ways this flight truly is. There are no delays disembarking, no long wait at baggage re-claim for Red is travelling super light, which is always heavier than she allows for, and she hauls her rucksack onto the bus and out across the motorway, through the suburbs and faster, round bends and corners, past the shinty field and into the bit which is instantly Dublin. Past the church, down the high street and then wrestling with the bag, staggering off the bus with all the forced politeness that the situation demands.
While Red settles down to her new home for the week, our attentions fall on other permanent residents of Dublin. In a dusty, grimy, corner of the city a recording studio hums with the noise of great work being done. Cups of tea are made, buttons are pressed and all the technical, boring work that goes into making music sound great is occurring in a studied and methodical way. This would be all the noise in the studio, were it not for a crunching noise from the far corner of the sofa. The noise of wood being chewed is quite distinct, and would normally resort in a rodent hunt, were the source not so obvious. A pencil, being held in a squared off, large pale hand is being chewed relentlessly for want of any further inspiration to its owner. For the seventh time this afternoon, Edge looks pointedly at Bono, and for the first time today, he passes him a mug of tea, accompanied by orders to go home, walk the dogs, let off some steam tonight and for godssakes leave that lyric line alone for the rest of the week. So ordered, Bono concedes a temporary defeat, recklessly downs his hot mug of tea and bounds down the stairs, a child let out early from a long English lesson and full of enthusiasm for anything other than the piece of paper which remains crumpled in the shape of his hands on the studio coffee table. Unspoken as it may be, the acknowledgement of mutual concern between Edge and Adam grows louder as Bono’s exit whistle filters up through the stairwell. He’s faking it, eyebrows agree.
“Two steps, turn, turn, out to the car, press and” “what am I going to do with my evening?”
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