In a turn of events that has left even the most stoic Gaul reaching for the pastis, eleven souls have been violently reacquainted with terra firma in the south of France. A mid-air collision, they say, a tangle of limbs and nylon, a fatal embrace in the sky. The Air Accident Investigation Branch, those doughty Britons who investigate everything from a crashed jumbo jet to a bicycle that sneezed at the wrong moment, have gallantly offered their services.
'We have a man who is very good with spreadsheets,' they said, presumably by way of comfort. The French, in turn, have accepted the offer. It is what one does, after all, in this charade we call diplomacy.
Meanwhile, the families of the eleven do not have the luxury of such bureaucratic niceties. Their grief is raw, a gaping wound in the fabric of their lives. But never fear, for the AAIB is on the case.
They will deploy their finest minds, their clipboards and their unwavering ability to write reports that are utterly impenetrable. The rest of us can only watch, as the circus that is modern death plays out. The skies over France are empty today, save for the ghosts of those who fell.
And somewhere, in a hangar, a man in a high-vis jacket is taking measurements. For that, we must be grateful.
