The odd gust of noxious ash is just what fraught individuals need to pause and assume a broader perspective
Cower, filthy mortals, the ash cloud cometh. We have been forced to stall our Easyjet-set lifestyles because of the effluence of the Icelandic volcano, which has selfishly belched out some more grit. Does it have no care for the fact that we have literary festivals and subtextually fraught family reunions to get to?
If we lived in a different age, we would be crouched over in abject terror, instead of standing about complaining pompously in regional airports. Clearly the ash cloud would be (a) a symbol of the chagrin of the gods, they that govern all human fate and (b) the pithy precursor to some dreadful apocalypse, during which (c) the portal between all the dimensions would open and all manner of Norse hell-beasts would emerge from the lower realm to toast us in their fires, baste us in their wrath and then eat us like human teriyaki.
In this age of cruel empirical data, in which the gods cannot be blamed for much, impotent human fury is always amusing to watch. Search as we might, there's no conspiracy or politics behind the ash cloud. It affects everyone in the region. Fate has smeared the sky with its gritty caprice and we shake our puny fists, which probably makes Mother Nature laugh. Gaia is probably a bit cheesed off with us. She probably wishes we'd go away to wreck some other planet. The extreme weather, tornadoes and freak floods are our eco-karma and we've got to eat it.
I'm in favour of a bit of enforced waiting, actually. It's a little bit "Zen And The Art of Air Rage". The odd gust of noxious ash is just what fraught individuals need, to pause, assume a broader perspective and contemplate the infinite variety of the Ryanair departure board of life.