More flight deck conversations.

Gertie is on her way to Greece with a cargo of telecommunications equipment and a full complement of passengers headed for a folk dance festival. Carolyn's managed to sell the same flight twice: there's every possibility of jam for tea.

Douglas finishes the post-takeoff checks, balances the fuel and settles back in his seat.

'So, Martin: don't waste time wondering whether I'm prying, because I will tell you right now that is exactly what I'm doing - how on earth did you persuade Carolyn to pay you?'

Martin pauses for a moment.

'I - er - well -'

'Oh come on, Martin, it's not exactly classified information - after all, Carolyn did pay for an evening out for us to celebrate. Which, I must admit, surprised me even more than the fact that she'd agreed to pay you in the first place. So how did you manage it?'

'I - asked her.'

'Martin, there must be more to it than that! You've asked her before, and she's always refused. What was different this time?'

'I - er - I threatened to walk out.'

'And that was all it took?'

'And then we negotiated, and - well, here I am.'

'And then you negotiated. And you won. Good God. Martin Crieff, you're a changed man.'

Martin blushes.

'Yes, well - perhaps about time.'

'Indeed it is, Captain. And what do you intend to spend your new-found wealth on?'

Martin's determined not to tell Douglas too much - after all, it's none of Douglas's business how much Martin earns - and he certainly hasn't told Douglas about his plan. Which he keeps adding to. Especially since he's taken a long, critical look at the contents of his wardrobe and decided that some new clothes are long overdue. Nothing expensive - just some new clothes. New as in not-from-Oxfam. And clothes that actually fit, not hang off his sparse frame. It's going to be quite some time before he reaches anything like an acceptable weight for his height, so he might as well try to look as if he's not some kid wearing an elder brother's castoffs.

Icarus Removals will just have to keep going a bit longer.

'Well, Rhiannon graduates in a fortnight, so I need a suit - don't want to show her up - and I want to buy her something as a graduation present, and take her out for a meal afterwards, make it a celebration, and then I thought we'd go away for a few days, a long weekend somewhere romantic – Paris perhaps – that's where you're supposed to go, isn't it?'

'Good grief, Martin, you're really smitten, aren't you?'

'Yes, I really am, Douglas. Anything wrong with that?'

'Oh, don't be so defensive all the time, Martin! Nothing wrong with that at all.'

'Anyway, First Officer Richardson, your turn for a flight deck announcement.'

'You know, Martin, you're getting much better at changing the subject.'

-o0o-

'Coffee, chaps. And biscuits. And I think these might be scones. Or possibly not.'

'Arthur, somehow I doubt this bodes well. How can you only thinkthat those are scones - either they are or they aren't, surely?'

'Well, Mum found them in the galley cupboard, Douglas, and said - '

'Take the advice of your First Officer, Captain - don't try to eat one. Don't risk it. You can't fly a plane if you've just broken your jaw. Arthur: scones are, as I recall, supposed to be light and fluffy little edible tea-time treats. This one fails on all counts. I can't actually break it open. How long have they been in the galley cupboard?'

'I don't know, Douglas. But Mum said -'

Martin bangs a scone on the control panel. It makes a hard, heavy sound. Somewhat like a brick. A light flickers on: he hits the panel with the scone again and the light goes off. He inspects the scone. Other than the fact that something - possibly a sultana - has fallen out, there's no perceptible damage. On the plus side, there's no noticeable damage to the control panel, either.

'Let me guess - she said that anything would do for her pilots?'

'Something like that, Skip! But it did say 'fresh baked' on the wrapper!'

'Yes, Arthur, but when was it fresh baked? What was the sell-by date?'

'She - she wouldn't let me see that, Skip.'

'You know, Martin, I think I've seen this scone before. This scone and I are almost on first name terms. It qualified for Frequent Flyer privileges when I was with Air England. And after it retired from a life of international jet-setting, it supplemented its pension by working as a wheel chock.'

Martin opens the intercom.

'Carolyn, what the hell are you trying to do to us this time?'

-o0o-

'How's Rhiannon? Apart from about to graduate?'

'She's very well, thank you, Douglas. In a bit of a funny mood this morning, though. A bit sort of - clingy.'

He'd tried to slip out of bed without disturbing her - it was so early when he'd had to leave - but she'd woken. She hadn't slept very well - she never seems to sleep very well the night before he flies anywhere. She'd held him tight and told him to take care - she always does - and he could have sworn that she was tearful. He'll phone her as soon as he can after Gertie touches down - he always does - and tell her about the scones - make her laugh. Wonder why she was tearful though? Hormones, perhaps?

Sometimes he wishes he knew a bit more about women.

'Not a bad sign, Martin. Shows that she misses you. It's when they don't cling to you when you leave that you have to worry. Especially if they have a new-found interest in T'ai Chi. She'll be pleased to see you when you get back.'

'More than just pleased,Douglas. As soon as I walk in, she always suggests we - '

'Too much information, Martin! Far, far too much information. Now, what shall we bet the squidgy cheese on today?'

'So who's changing the subject now? I was about to say she always suggests we have a quiet night in with a takeaway, a bottle of wine and a DVD.'

-o0o-

'Football team names that appear in the title of films.'

'Oh Douglas, you know I don't know anything about football!'

'Ah, yes; Nottingham United's greatest supporter. If not their only supporter. I'd almost forgotten that. "Dances With Wolves." '

'Aargh - "Fame Is The Spur"?'

'Spurs, Martin, not Spur. No point there. "Murder On The Orient Express".'

'I think you must sit up all night dreaming up these games. And the answers.'

'Oh my Captain, however did you guess my guilty secret? Not all night, though.'

'"On The Town"? I mean, come on - there must be loads of football teams called Somewhere Town.'

'Name one.'

'Er - Nottingham?'

'Oh Martin. It's Nottingham Forest! And I shall now claim "Forest Gump" - another point to me.'

'Er - Manchester - no, erm - Luton - no - '

'Can I presume the Emmanthal is also mine? Leaving only the Cheddar to play for?'

'Whatever.'

'Oh Martin, don't sulk!'

-o0o-

'Still living in your attic? Like some Victorian poet wasting away in a garret? Not thought of moving?'

'I've thought about it Douglas. I've thought about very little else. But I don't have any savings, and I need money for a deposit before I can get a mortgage, and that's going to take a bit of time. And then there's furniture -'

'There's an obvious answer, you know.'

'Not yet, Douglas. No need to rush into – er – things. Not quite yet.'

'I meant you could find somewhere else to rent. Somewhere a bit less squalid.'

'Hard to find somewhere more squalid.'

'Unless, of course, you're biding your time until -'

'Call up the control tower, will you?'

'I take back what I said earlier. You're so much better at changing the subject. Thessalonika Tower, this is Golf Echo Romeo Tango India -'