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The cheap 15 denier tights bought in Terminal 4 Boots were seriously riding up. Why did they only ever stock 'large'? How many 6 foot flight attendants pass through the terminal on any given day?

'For god's sake!' Sam surreptitiously tugged at the back of her skirt but only made matters worse by pulling the synthetic hosiery even further up her nether regions.

"Good morning Sir, 5C, half way down on your left'

It had been a full on 5 day turn around. Three return trips to Lyon, two to Gdansk and now a quickie shuttle up to Bangor for a few businessmen and lone travellers. Sam had such high hopes of her life as a flight attendant. She could vividly remember long, warm family holidays on the beach in Dorset. Picnic cream teas with scones and jam and idle hours just daydreaming in the sun. She would lie on her back and stare up at whispering vapour trails of passing planes. Too far up to hear but just the sight of them brought a flood of colour and excitement to her young heart. There was no way her family could ever afford a foreign holiday – not since Grandma moved in just before last Christmas and Dad’s redundancy coming just six weeks later.

The job wasn’t all bad. She did get to see the world, well Europe anyway – or at least bits of it that were near the airport – and the team were a friendly bunch. Her favourite passengers were the single older folk. Where once they might have been accompanied by a partner or children, maybe a friend, they were now at a time of life where they were the only ones left behind. It was a joy to make them feel special and important.

The front row consisted of just two seats. Octogenarians Gladys and Clive were both making their way to North wales to visit children. Gladys’ grey hair was swept up over the top of her head in a loose bun, strands carelessly tumbled down round the side of her face giving her the air of an aging artist or model. With arthritic thumbs slowing her progress, Gladys struggled to engage the seatbelt clasp. Sam moved to help but was beaten to it by a nimble Clive whose delighted, kind face was only too eager to help such an attractive neighbour.

“Ladies and gentlemen, if I may have your attention, I will run through the safety procedures for our flight today.”

Sam hoisted out the tatty demonstration life jacket and proceeded to chant through the usual instruction given to the disinterested passengers. She could see the front row certainly weren’t paying any attention as Clive was offering Gladys the pick from his mix of sherbet lemons and humbugs.

Touching down in a wet and wild Bangor, Sam stood at her post bidding her human cargo a fond farewell. “Thank you Miss” winked Clive as he slipped his hand into Gladys’ and walked down to the runway.

He sits upon his twisted tower of broken metal. Faded coils of fun spring from its wreathing metallic mass, memories of a forgotten time. He rules this island with its carnival of strange delights; this island of the mad.

They are drawn here; the crazed, the outcast, those society now spurned, drawn by his spirit. A home where no-one else would have them. Safe and accepted. He is a kind old man in their eyes, but to others a gruesome garish nightmare. ‘Don’t go to the island’ people would warn unknowing travellers. ‘He will curse you with his dark magic and you will never leave’.

The lost come now in the deep dark of winter, they traipse through shuttered and barred villages. The walk of the damned. The local children call it the ‘Jolly Jaunt’, the brightly coloured clothes and thick coloured makeup of the weary travellers serve only to enhance their wild appearance. The children sneak out and hide in bushes to stare. Perhaps once they would have laughed and ran to greet them in amazement. But civilisation has balked at their ways and turned young ones wonder to horror. The men now mutter to their wives or talk in hushed voices in the alehouse. Casting furtive glances at every tinkle and tap outside. The toot of a horn sends shivers down spines. Fear and hatred now drawn in equal measure with each breath.

Outside each doorstep the villagers leave some food or drink that they remember to be fitting; sometimes a cream pie or scones, ginger beer or ice cream. An offering that ensures this ragged troupe of unwelcome oddities keep tumbling onwards. They can travel through, but they are not allowed to stop. These unwanted are someone else's entertainment.

They are driven here by hatred. Haunted by the distant memory of their last clap. A longing in their sole to be accepted again, to be cheered, to be laughed at, to be loved. Some have travelled thousands of miles, their once song-filled voices silenced by animosity or indifference. Oversized shoes now threadbare and broken, spinning flowers dry of their last drop of water, black top hats faded to gray long since void of fluffy tailed life. A flight of fools, no longer needed with only one place left to go.

He greets them all. He knows the painted look on every face, each faded cloak, each broken wand. They will all find a place in his carnival.

If you listen carefully in the quiet of the night you can hear the music carried across on the wind, the playful haunting sounds of the tinkling music, the laughter, the creak of the machines whirring to life and bringing joy once more to those who once brought it to the world. Here on this island of Barry, their fairground salvation lies, one last show, one final bow.

Day in, day out had been the same for George for quite a while now. At 8.00am sharp, he would be woken up by Katie, the smiling care assistant. He opened one eye and watched as she skipped over to the window and pushed the curtains back to reveal a gloomy, black sky. No matter what the weather, Katie’s beaming face would make his empty day a bit brighter.

“Morning, George.” She spun around and placed her hands in the pockets of her blue tunic.

Katie walked over to his bed and helped him by pulling his legs around the side of the bed and reached for his slippers.

“Steady, now,” Katie quickly reached for his elbow.

“I’m okay, lovely girl.” He slowly reached for the top of his bedside table.

“I’ll pop back in a few minutes,” Katie looked over her shoulder and gave him a wink. “I’ve got a surprise for you!”

She disappeared and George was left alone. He walked over to the window and looked out onto the tiny rose garden and benches scattered around. How much longer could he stand doing this? He felt so alone now that Elizabeth had died. He was the youngest of his family; the only one left. Even all his friends were dead.

George slowly got dressed and went to the breakfast room. After having his usual pot of tea with toast and apricot jam, he thought about the day ahead. The hours seemed like an eternity and he would probably try to break the day up by walking around the garden, visiting the recreation room for a game of cards with Alfie (who always cheated), then he would take his time eating lunch with Frank and Miriam. Frank would dribble his soup and Miriam would shout at him. Frank was deaf, so Miriam would scold him repeatedly, getting louder and louder each time.

“Here you are. I’ve been looking for you,” Katie’s smile interrupted his thoughts.

She pulled up the stool next to him and moved her face close to his ear.

“We’re getting out of here, George,” she whispered. He pulled away and looked at her.

“Don’t worry, nobody will miss us.” Katie stood up and looked down at George who looked more confused than usual.

“Meet me at the bus stop at the bottom of the hill.”

George looked up at Katie and opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted.

“Don’t ask questions. Just put your best clothes on and bring your scarf and hat. It’ll be windy!”

She spun around and left the room. George was getting out!

Katie was the first to get off and she waited for George as he steadily made his way down the steps of the bus. She reached for his elbow and waited for a break in the traffic, before they walked steadily across the road. He knew exactly where she had brought him, as he’d told her enough stories about his childhood seaside trips and they would often sing, “didn’t we have a lov-e-ly time the day we went to ….” George drifted off and couldn’t believe his day would get any better.

Katie carefully manoeuvred George down the stone steps and onto the beach. She pulled the rucksack off her shoulder and let it drop onto the sand. She took out a blanket and shook it as she tried to place it down, but the wind wouldn’t allow it to fall.

George put his foot on one corner and smiled at her.

“I got you this, George.” Katie took a canvas tripod stool out of her bag and set it up ready for George to sit on.

“You’ve thought of everything, lovely girl,” George winked as he sat on the tiny triangular seat with Katie’s help.

“That bag of yours is like the Tardis!”

Katie smiled as she reached in and pulled out a plastic sandwich box.

“Have a look at this!” Katie took off the lid and put the box down onto the blanket.

George smiled, “You remembered.” He looked at the wonky scones, oozing with cream and blobs of red jam poking through.

“Tuck in, then.” Katie handed George a paper plate and paper napkin.

They both sat looking out to sea. George watched the diamond-shaped kite whip around, fighting with the wind as it flew up and up.

George was transported back to Bangor, 1938. This day couldn’t get any better.

It was another glorious Mitchell family road trip, Julie and Granddad in the front, kids buzzing in the back. Even before they hit the motorway they’d sung three times through Wrecking Ball, Julie doing a passable job of joining in despite her gritted teeth. They were on their way to an extra special last-minute gig Miley Cyrus had added to the UK leg of her Bangerz tour.

But here was the thing: Julie hadn’t actually lied. At no point had she actually used any combination of the words tickets, last minute gig, that radio contest, hooray, or I’ve won.

All she needed was to utter the first syllable of the word Bangerz and the kids were high fiving and screaming and her Dad was wearing that same dreamy smile that came to his face every time he watched the video for Wrecking Ball.

All of them dozing by the time they hit the A55. Radio off, blessed peace for an hour, and even when Dad was blinking sleepily at the sign that said Bangor he didn’t make the connection.

He said, ‘She will do it though, won’t she?’

‘Sure.’

His face was wearing its dreamy smile again.

He said, ‘If I was forty years younger, and without my gammy leg, I’d be on that beauty like a shot.’

‘Dad, please!’

‘You know what I’m like. Thirty years in the demolition industry, never even seen an X-56 Alpha wrecking ball. God, the riveting on that beauty! I tell you, she better have the X-56 on this tour, or I’ll be my own wrecking ball, via complaint letter, of course.’

She drove them down to the front and parked near the pier.

Rather more brightly than she felt, she said, ‘Cuppa?’

‘We have time?’

‘Sure.’

They left the kids dozing in the back. Julie led them down the front, checking off coffee shop names on the scrap of paper in her hand. She stopped when they reached The Hearty Pot.

‘How about this one?’

Dad held the door and she went in first. Her Uncle John was sitting near the door, another grey haired old man, the spit of her Dad. He mumbled hello through a mouthful of scone.

Her Dad jiggled the door closed and turned. He gaped at his brother.

Julie said, ‘Dad. There’s no tour. There’s just him, and you. I’ve tracked him down. Don’t you think it’s time you two made peace?’

Learning to Fly

Michael rested his head against the bus window and tried to tune out the noise of the other boys’ shouting as the bus jogged along the winding coastal road.

He focused on the graceful arcs of the seabirds’ wings, as they rose fluidly from the shore to wheel and swoop in the blue threadbare sky. The patterns they sketched in the air helped him forget the empty groaning of his belly and the too-tight pinch of his shoes. He forgot the jibes of the other boys, who had grown bored of teasing him, and he lost himself in the peace of the landscape for a time.

But it couldn’t last; it never did. Too soon the bus stopped jerkily and spilled the children out onto the seaside. Michael stepped off last, hoping not to be noticed.

The beach was deserted, except for a shabby old homeless man in a blue woollen coat scattering a bag of stale scones for the gathering seabirds. Michael saw himself in his huddled, self-protective walk.

As soon as the thought entered his head it flew straight out of another boy’s mouth:

‘Michael, didn’t know your dad lived here!”

Raucous laughter. The boys began impersonating the old man then, wobbling their chins and hunching over. Michael watched him stiffen and bow his head, ashamed, as he overheard. Michael turned to them, furious, fists clenched.

“What’s your problem? He’s not hurting anyone.”

Foolish. They didn’t hold back now but brayed about Michael and the old man living as tramps together. It wasn’t as if Michael was far away from that already. Look at those clothes! When had he last washed? Dirty tramp!

Michael simply walked off and left them then. The teacher wouldn’t notice, she had her hands full. Instead he stood at the shoreline near the old man, wanting to apologise for them, but not knowing how. He swiped angrily at the tears that sprang into his eyes.

“Don’t mind them, kid. We’re both big enough to take care of ourselves, aren’t we?” The old man said.

“Why can’t they just leave me alone? They have everything - why do I matter?”

“If they’ve nothing better to do than pick holes in other people then I’d rather be you than them.”

The old man stood beside him and they looked out together over the sea until Michael heard his teacher’s voice calling him and he knew he had to go back to the battleground.

“Thanks” Michael said. The old man nodded, still staring across the water.

Later, as his classmates ran around the museum gift shop, Michael stood, as always, by himself. He didn’t have money for toys. He shoved his cold hands deep inside his tatty pockets and shivered.

His fingers closed around something that hadn’t been there before. He drew out a single pound coin, coated in squashed breadcrumbs and blue fluff. Michael stared at it as he felt something slowly rise up to wheel and swoop inside his threadbare chest.