Friday night used to mean a red-eye. Now it means this.

At 23:30 I would have been in the cockpit somewhere over the Atlantic, drinking coffee from a thermos and watching the instruments. Tonight I'm sitting on my porch listening to a neighbour's dog bark at nothing, and it struck me that I don't miss the flying half as much as I miss the quiet that only exists at altitude. The strangest thing about retirement is discovering how loud the ground is.