Flying Fortress. She’s like a gigantic Tardis; if you think she looks vast from the outside you ought to see her inner spaces: no end to them. Her larders and storerooms are inexhaustible. Her cellars are truly miraculous.
She travels the places in between, rescuing the old and the poor, the rejected, the neglected, the discarded, the unloved, the reviled unintentional migrants, the endangered species and any other lost souls she can find. The finches in the upper masts cry out Oyez! Oyez! Here be shelter! The two in the middle turrets guide the drifters. This way! This way! they say. And the two in the lower barbicans say Welcome! Welcome! Come in. Have a rest. Have a drink. Make yourselves at home.
Inside, the former cast-offs are fed and bathed with mystic bubbles and served stimulating, nourishing drinks by a battalion of dancing ferrets.
I hope to bump across her very, very soon.