I like planes a lot. Not in the way some people do. I don't know the names of planes. I can recognise a Spitfire and I could probably recognise a Harrier (and I can now recognise an English Lightning because it's ridiculous and brilliant). But I like planes as much as any other adult with other interests, let's say.
I like planes enough that when I found out Tabitha's class were going on a trip to an aviation museum and needed volunteers, I was one of those volunteers. And I'm glad I did do that volunteering because I had a great time hanging out with the kids in her class again, and it was super interesting learning about planes. Especially from people who've flown those planes before.
My grandfather flew planes in the RAF and our ages were never such that I was able to talk to him about his time in the sky. That's really the case for all my grandparents, actually. Comes with the territory, being the offspring of two younger children, I suppose. I was on my way in as they were on their way out. A shame, really - at least three of them lead incredible lives, and I wish I'd been able to know them better. I've been making do with the romantic conclusions I've drawn myself with available knowledge. That's still pretty great.