OPINION - Joe Bennett: Air New Zealand's man who is an airline arrives in my inbox; spring is here

An Air New Zealand A320. "Northern Advocate" columnist Joe Bennett recently received an email from the carrier. Photo / File

Well now, look, I'm sorry. I had this column all lined up, all but written indeed, and it would have been a thing of beauty (not to mention a joy for ever) but then I got an email from THE MAN WHO IS AN AIRLINE. What choice did I have? The thing of beauty (and j.f.e.) had to be shelved. That is the nature of this column business. One has to be alive to the vital processes of the moment, alert, nose a-twitch, ears a-pricked, eyes a-peeled (howzat? Not out, and that's a warning for running on the pitch).

The thing of beauty that was all but written had to do with spring, of course. There's a wagonload of spring going on this afternoon at my place and boy was I going to give it to you good and strong and poetic - the waxy wonder of the magnolia, the buttery pendants on the kowhai, the photinia fraseri sprouting new foliage the colour of fresh lung tissue, the coxcomb temerity of the bottle brush, the spring air so sweet that you sip it, that same air cut by the startling fresh-peeled chime of the bellbird, and stirring in the limbs and the heart, yea even, I say unto you, in the leathery hearts of old men, the wordless knowledge that somehow, in defiance of all reason, imbued in the very soil of this life, there is a sense of simple hope that cannot be repressed, that is inherent in the act of being.

See? And there was plenty more where that came from, all of it very fine indeed, but you're not going to get it now - and indeed you'll probably never get it, you poor things, because a man can't go twice to the literary well with the same bucket - and you know who to blame. THE MAN WHO IS AN AIRLINE.

Did I mention the blackbird eggs? Well I can't now - see above - but I found a blackbird's nest yesterday and in it four eggs, each egg no larger than a middle fingernail and of a blue so blue it outblues blue, the blue of childhood summer skies distilled, but those eggs will have to wait now for the reason I've explained. An email.

Kia ora Joe, is how the email began, which is a reasonable start, if impertinent seeing as how I'd never met its author. But then, behold, the next eight words.

'As New Zealand's national airline, I'm very conscious….'

You can imagine my reaction. I read those words and I read them again and then I sat in that most attentive of directions, up. Never before had I been addressed by someone who claimed to be a national corporation. Ought I to feel honoured? Or worried? Was there a helpline I should ring? Postponing judgment I read on.

The author wanted to tell me what a tough time he had had of late as an airline. And just as one might expect from the author of that opening sentence he didn't shrink from hyperbolic business jargon: the year had been "incredibly (though he expected us to believe it) challenging…dealing with extraordinary operational challenges…and a series of extreme weather events" (though apparently none of the snow storms, gales and fog that the rest of us got).

But the biggest problem (sorry, the most extraordinary operational challenge) stemmed from fitting their aircraft with sentient engines. These engines (Rolls Royce Trent 1000s) have been, and I quote, "experiencing durability issues".

How exactly the engines did this experiencing is not explained but they have in consequence "placed significant pressure" (as opposed to that insignificant pressure with which we are all familiar) on the airline's "whole interconnected network" (as opposed to those partial and unconnected networks with which we are also all familiar).

But THE MAN WHO IS AN AIRLINE refuses to be downhearted. He occupies, he says, "a special place in the hearts of Kiwis", that special place where we embrace illiterate corporate executives. And going in which direction do you imagine he is committed to keeping us informed? Forward, of course.

Oh, I forgot the kereru, the wood pigeons, who've arrived around these parts with the spring, wings smacking, air whirring, the great plump smug birds launching and diving and climbing and stalling for no good reason but the joy that's in it, the sheer pulse of energy that we call spring. Now that's the stuff of a column. That's flying. But too late now. Sorry.