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http://www.chrisbee.co.uk
~ Copyright © Chris J Berry 2007 ~ |
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High Flyer
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Returning to my adolescence, many occasions had already arisen when I felt my life to be under threat. Just prior to the first move from Seal, the rest of this story relates to one light-hearted episode occurring in my mid teenage years; notably, my sixteenth birthday, and temporarily diverted me from the issues that were developing in my life. I had come to accept that the spirit within us was not subject to the affects of gravity; but that our physical bodies definitely were. Acutely aware of that fact, any event involving aeroplanes had become particularly distasteful to me. However, it was on one notable weekend, Dad, a pilot of some local repute, took it upon himself to arrange a flight for my sister and me, telling us emphatically that we would be flying with him the coming weekend. Briefly reflecting back on that boarding school episode, my intrigue over Dad's flying excepts since then had waned significantly. Now in the present, well meaning or otherwise at the time, his offer only succeeded in intensifying my morbid fear of flying. |
| On the morning of the outing, I arose from a restless night's sleep, thoughtfully pulling the curtains from across my bedroom window. I gazed longingly out on the usual tranquil scene, typical of an early Sunday morning in our village nestling on the edge of the Kent Weald. Mother had packed a huge lunch; appetites infamously large in our family. But, however, as far as I was concerned today, food was well down the list of my priorities. My sister and father, in contrast, were jubilant on the prospect of a day out at the aerodrome; Mother stating adamantly she would be keeping both her feet firmly on the ground. The intensity of her statement, at the time, fantasised scenarios in me over past events that had led her to that conclusion. |
| I gazed wistfully out of the car window as we sped off, up to our necks in blankets and that odious hamper of food polluting the car with the pungent smell of boiled egg. I pondered my misfortune, when my gaze fell upon two school chums en route to the local recreation ground; one brandishing a cricket bat swung over his shoulder, and the other tossing a ball in the air. I pressed my face obliquely against the car-window as they disappeared behind, feeling an affinity with the ball as it too would be flying through the air shortly. After the mandatory number of miles, the windows were duly wound down to expel the fumes arising from the engine compartment of our dilapidated car; hence the reason for the pile of blankets permanently stored in it. |
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| 'Biggin Hill Aerodrome' was situated approximately fifteen miles from us due east of Westerham where my father, a member of the flying club, was also a part-time flying instructor. It was another nail symbolically hammered into my coffin, as it meant he could fly at base rates. The journey was over all too quickly, and we swung in through the gates passing a huge sign announcing 'Biggin Hill Aerodrome'. Father parked up and instructed us to wait in the car while he checked us in. Mother nodded vacantly, his statement raising yet another bilious feeling in me. My sister fidgeted irritatingly next to me, unable to contain her excitement. I let my mind wander back to the numerous occasions when we had waited for Dad. Setting off for a day out, he would suddenly state he had to briefly pop into the office only to emerge two hours later. How my sister and I had cringed in the back seat as a fierce dialogue raged in the front. But no such luck today; in and out in the bat of an eye. He paced briskly toward us, grinning and rubbing his hands together enthusiastically. |
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