Just left RAF (mil content) and flying little Aztec; delayed and, during peregrinations, picked up a service guy (further mil content) who wanted to get home to where I had to pick up some oilies.
Arrived at pick-up airfield which was clearly closed but, being out in the sticks, bright moonlit night, Bas thought: 'Soddit', had a check of runway for courting couples etc, landed, dropped off grateful pro bono pax, loaded oilies and departed thinking what a fine and practical chap he was.
A month later a telephone call to my home dispelled one's presumptions and professional disaster was only avoided by copious ass-kissing. I hadn't realised that the SATCO had his home right at the airfield
