Corps de aeroplane

If you leave my house sometime between 6-7am on a clear-skied weekday morning, you'll get to see something quite majestic.

Walking along my road, away from the house, you hear them before you see them. Turn your head and you wont miss the first in line.

With a dull roar, this massive piece of metal passes overhead, so low you think you could just reach up and pluck it from the sky. Their bloated white bellies shine in the early morning sunlight, just their coloured tails making them different.

As this plane-shaped cut out slides across the sky, another follows straight behind it. And then another. In a long line reaching back to the horizon, they follow identical steps to a perfectly choreographed dance; the same wing dip here, an elegant arch there. All heading for home.

Thousands of people are cased in their shells, all with grainy eyes and tired legs. They're coming for business, returning from honeymoon, immigrating, and are about to begin a 'once in a lifetime' trip.

I've been up there too. Listening to the co-pilot tell me it's a beautiful day in London with a temperature of 10 degrees. Nose pressed to the window, I can see the landmarks slide by. Tower Bridge, The London Eye, the Thames snaking its way across the city. All through my own grainy eyes.

But for the moment, I'm on the outside of the window, looking up. Watching the sky dance.