The groundsman nodded at the pilot and made a rotating motion with his right arm, gesturing at the inner of the two propellers on the right wing. Slowly it began to turn. Whop…. whop... whop… whirr…. and the blades were suddenly a blur. He moved closer to the roped-off crowd and gestured likewise at the outer propeller. The pilot acknowledged, touching his forehead, an informal salute. Whop… whop… whop… whirr…. On the other side, the inner propeller seemed a little more reluctant. Whop… whop… whop… whop… pause… whop… whop… whop… Like a car engine on a chill morning, it seemed to reluctant to kick in. I could sympathise. It was knife-edge bitter in the northerly wind, notwithstanding the May sunshine. I already had my hood up, anchoring my cap in place, and was regretting I hadn’t
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