The shock of flying into London

A mild cardiac arrest usually grips as one, in flying into London, reaches the south coast of England. Up until this point, whether having travelled from east, south or west, one is afforded a view of the brightest light blue sky and a clear view of the terrain or sea below. Clouds if present are bounded entities with amicable personality, drifting ethereally, enjoying the sun’s rays. The world over feels a delightful place to live. However this delight is quickly compromised as one approaches the doorstep of the British Isles, for no sooner does the south coast come into view than the land quickly disappears underneath a confogsion of mist and cloud. As the plane’s tranquil trajectory gives way to a rude buffeting, out of which the plane ascends enabling one to find the clouds having coalesced into a formidable mass, into a continent stretching as far as the eye can see; unlike any cloud formation you might have witnessed anywhere else, ten thousand feet above the earth. A shock envelops one’s soul, as if one had suffered immense betrayal, as if one had been taken for a ride, by clouds, who earlier affecting to be bon-viveurs with a pacific intent, serving no more purpose than an adornment to the searing blue atmosphere, have scurrilously banded togather and are now ruthlessly and mercilessly hell-bent on colonising and imposing their will on sceptered isles. Its as if whilst you were away, enjoying the sun, you completely forgot the years of oppression that Londoners and the British have endured, under the rule of the clouds. Its as if an occupying force stealthily stole into the city whilst you were out. Like an aggressive mould covering a loaf of bread, this vapourous vapid mass appears to be feeding off and digesting the land below. The position of dominance seems absolute, as if no stone has been left unturned. As you survey this mass, you are petrified by its immesnity, horrified by its thickness, its impenetrability, there is no chink in its domination. You find it hard to believe there is a life underneath this mass, that there are survivors. But there is life and there are survivors, and as the plane plunges into the cloud and then emerges to reveal the glorious metropolis, you sigh out of relief that your countrymen still abound and for the fact that you are returning to that familiar place called home, and sigh in sorrow for the fact that you, too, are returning to share that yoke of a sunless existence.

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