The small blue aeroplane



This small blue aeroplane is one of my most precious possessions. It is a replacement for something I had as a child.

It is a micro machine, I loved them. I didn’t have many, I envied the children, mostly boys, that did have large collections. I didn’t have many, but the ones I had, I loved. I really did love them. Some changed colour with heat, I had a white sports car that changed into a purple colour when it was warm, that was one of my favourites. I also had some aeroplanes, they didn’t change colour, and the blue jet, this blue jet, was my favourite. I’d play for hours with them on my own. I used to love making dirt tracks outside for them, runways and race tracks. I’d drive them along walls and loved finding spaces for them to park, to hide. 

I’m the fourth child in our family. The baby. My two older sisters were much older, 10 years and 9 years older than me. They were grown ups in my eyes. My brother, he was three years older. And didn’t like me. He’d have preferred a younger brother, I always knew that and it didn’t matter how tom boyish I was, I was still a sister. Still a girl. And he didn’t like me. But we were stuck with each other. I don’t know why he did a lot of things, I didn’t at the time and I don’t now. But he did, he did some cruel things to me. One of the things he did was put my beloved collection of micro machines under the leg of his bed. He jumped on his bed until they were nothing but shattered pieces of plastic. They were never replaced.

I say never, one was, much later in life. This blue jet. I found it after searching the internet before Martin’s death. It was a symbolic purchase. The little jet was to be my reminder that I could be fixed. Because even before Martin’s death I was broken.

This little jet has remained in my possession but I had forgotten it, forgotten its purpose, forgotten what it symbolises. Until today, when I looked at it for the first time in a long time. I held it in my hand and I remembered. I remembered the pain of the original breaking but also the absolute joy I felt when I found this replacement and bought it. When I marvelled at it as an adult just as I had as a child. I remembered that and I let myself do it again. I marvelled at a tiny plastic toy.


This replacement aeroplane is broken, part of its wing tail is broken and lost. I thought this was appropriate. If it symbolises me, it needs to be broken and missing a piece. But it also needs to still be there, in essence, it is still a tiny blue jet, there’s no mistaking that, it’s just now there is a small piece broken and lost forever. But it’s ok. A tiny bit broken that will never be fixed, is ok. And it’s more than an aeroplane, more than a jet, it is a ‘fighter’ jet, of course.

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