First, a heave as the right wing dips and the intercom dings, "there's a little weather over Canberra, so we've been put in a holding pattern," and we do lazy loops in the clear blue sky before plunging down into the grey, a great wave of dark, lightning flickering off the wingtips, and are spat out right above Lake George, turbines fast but never in sync, and then we're back on hold, wing pointed to the ground and the cabin midnight or golden depending on which way we're facing, lower now, below the clouds, with the Brindies obscured by the distance, islands set against the blue, Canberra electric in front of them.