I returned my attention to the various machines and convinced myself that the experience was not going to be as bad as I had first thought. Seated in one of them, they had clean, comfy cockpits and when harnessed inside would feel similar to a car, and less smelly than ours at that I thought. We finished the tour and withdrew for lunch, at which point Father disappeared to join some of his cronies for a chat. My appetite was absent, but I felt compelled to get something down. Christine maintained true Berry traditions, consuming a substantial quantity of the hamper's content. I laid back and dozed off in the sunshine, until the distant crunch of footsteps on the gravel roused me to sit up in time to see Father approaching us. I smiled, describing him similar to that fictional World War One hero 'Biggles' I had read of. Wearing his helmet, with goggles perched above his brow and a large bulky jacket with sheepskin lined boots on, he looked the part in every respect.

Over his arms he carried similar outfits and beckoned us forward, offering a set to each of us. I took mine and slouched off after him mentally convincing myself again that I really wanted this, pausing to curiously consider the question, why all this accoutrement? Surely, shut up tight in one of those little machines we would roast. I plodded on. Following meticulous instructions from Father, we donned our respective suits with little difficulty, as they were several sizes too big for us. After a good deal of effort exerted on Christine's zip-fastener, it was concluded that another jacket would be needed and while that was being fetched, I would go first. As we walked past a hanger, we paused to allow an engineer to push a plane out onto the airfield. I gazed at it in disbelief, and then at the technician, whom I guessed to be a man in his mid forties. His balding head glistened with sweat from his effort. I deliberated on how it could not house many brain-cells if he entrusted his life to that heap of rubbish. The craft, if it could be called such, was the epitome of all 'Heath Robinson', that well known entrepreneur of meagre invention, would have been proud of. I estimated it to have been approaching its centenary, if it had not already done so. On its fuselage in large black letters was written, 'Tiger moth 11', which appeared to have been sketched on by a topped-up alcoholic.

Father promptly began looking around it, so out of curiosity I joined him. I prodded the fabric on the wings and twanged the wires, which I imagined held them together. They made loud 'boings!' I sniggered, conjuring up pictures in my mind of long curly springs suddenly immerging from within the beast to similar 'boings!' A stern retort from father, telling me to treat the machine with respect, almost made me wet myself, until a chilling thought began to edge into my mind. I was unable to prevent a hideous smile from breaking over my face that twitched spontaneously as I posed the innocent question, 'how will it affect us?' His answer confirmed my worst fears. This was our aircraft. This clandestine heap of rubbish masquerading as a flying machine was what I was expected to entrust my life to. The subsequent exchange between Father and the engineer might just as well have been in a foreign language. Almost in a trance I was helped up into the open cockpit. Past caring now, I allowed the preparation to continue around me; just staring vacantly ahead. The moment of profound shock over, I finally took control of my senses, at which point I realised I was sitting in the front cockpit. After a moment's deliberation, I reasoned there must be a logical explanation for the arrangement, though it eluded me at the time. I gazed down at a few dog ends and a crumpled sweet wrapper lying around my feet. A sudden movement in my rear-view mirror informed me that Dad was in position, and operating two switches located on the side of the cockpit. As he did so he uttered, 'contact!' simultaneously the technician swung the propeller. My mind became totally void of reason, and rambled from one scenario of imminent crisis to the next when I realised that the wretched thing did not even possess a starter motor. Following another 'contact' the prop rotated again; tocata! tocata! phut! again nothing. Several contacts later the prop was still motionless; I began to think there was a God.