Sink or Swim

I could talk about ideas, and origins of.

I could talk about rabbits in headlights panic and inability to say, think or do anything. A male rabbit, by the way. Who you foolishly feel you have to save by taking the lead.

But I wont.

All I will say is this.

Juzzzy.

Don't ever believe his version of events.

Like you would, anyway.

I write for a local magazine. One of my regular pieces is a diary column where I get to write, well, pretty much anything I want, really.

This month, to mark the end of an era, I chose to submit a certain poem that I first wrote on this blog, entitled "Burnt-out relationship"

Apparently the magazine has since received a couple of complaints. Both from people who mentioned that while it was fine for me to pursue whatever lifestyle I pleased, did I have to broadcast it to all and sundry in a family-friendly magazine?

*sigh*

I've just noticed that someone has subscribed twice to my blog. God, I must be great!

Either that, or I'm so confusing that you need to read me twice before you understand me.

Oh dear...

So, is it wrong, do you think, that I'm sat here blogging at 9.30am, and have just looked over to the right and noticed the wine that I was drinking last night, and automatically, before I could stop myself, thought:

"Mmm. That looks nice. Shall I have a glass?"

God, I'm tired.

Funnily enough.

I've never been one for talking.

I've just never really been much good at it.

As a kid, I was chronically shy. I would have one friend at a time at school, and those days that they were on holiday, or ill, I used to dread like hell. A ruthless fist of fear would squeeze my stomach so hard and so tight that I found it hard to breathe. And I didn't dare raise my eyes up from the ground.

Breaktimes and lunchtimes on those days were horribly long.

That's what this form of shyness can be like. It's so debilitating, it's hard to explain to those who have never been affected in this way. 

People think that shyness means you feel awkward and uncomfortable about saying the things that are in your head. If only it were that simple.

It doesn't just render you incapable of saying things. It renders you incapable of even thinking them.

The truth is that you feel so self-conscious around other people that it freezes not only your mouth, but your brain too. And then you feel inadequate and stupid, because other people are saying things, and you can't even think of anything to say. Because it feels like such a big fucking deal. And the thought that you might have to say something makes you panic, and results in the inevitable.

Withdrawal.

And stubborn withdrawal at that. Nononononononono! Leave. Me. Alone.

Anything that you do say, you want it to slip under the radar. And yet, conversely, you do want people to notice. To notice that you're there, and just as valid as anyone else. Just without it being a big deal.

So you say things as quickly and as quietly as you can; grateful when people do notice, resigned to the fact that they probably won't, and dreading the possibility that they might want you to elaborate. Explain what you mean. Say more. Which you know will instantly make you squirm in an irritating fashion, and bring forth that oh-so-fucking-frustrating phrase, "I don't know."

And send you into shutdown.

You can't put much enthusiasm into your voice, even when you're really feeling it. Even when you want to really congratulate someone, or tell them that you wish them luck, or that you're proud of them, or that you love them, or say anything that you know would make them feel good. Even though that's really, really what you want to do. Because that is how you feel. You're just afraid to say it.

Why?
You don't know.
What sense does that make?
None.
You're being stupid for no reason.
What a fucking idiot you must be.

And then, as if that weren't bad enough, you find you've entered the cycle.

Because, once people get used to you being the way that you are, you've trapped yourself. You feel as though you can't change things. Because then any enthusiasm, or unusual comment, or in fact anything that you say, brings even more attention to yourself, by simple virtue of it being unusual.

Unless you've felt it for yourself, you have no idea how all-consuming this beast is. How it holds you in a vice-like grip which clutches your stomach and immobilises your lungs, clenches your jaw shut, grinds your brain to a halt and makes you feel so frightened, so frustrated, so full of hate for yourself that you always feel on edge. Seconds away from crying. Or running away. Or something else.

I've got a lot less shy as the years have gone by. In the past year or so, I've even realised how much I really do love meeting new people, and that I'm actually quite good at it now.

I think it properly started when I went to university. And I've gained a boost in confidence every time I moved. Travelling was particularly good for that.

Because each time I've been moving away from that image of me that I trapped myself into as a kid. Meeting people who didn't know the old me; who didn't know that I was shy and, in fact, were surprised to discover that I still believed that I was shy.

"You're not shy!"
What d'ya mean, I'm not shy? I AM!"

Said indignantly. Almost with some sense of perverse pride. Because it's something that feels like it's part of you, of who you are. That's me, I'm shy. That's how I am. What do you mean, I'm not? Er... what am I, then?

So yes, I'm a lot less shy than I was.

But there's one place where I've never been shy. One place where I've always felt free to be me. Whatever and whoever that meant. And that was in reading and writing.

Books were escapism for me as a kid. I know it probably was, and is, for everyone to a certain extent; but I mean properly. I far preferred it to real life, even though my life was, thanks to my wonderful family, far from bad. But books were so much easier.

I didn't want to talk, so I buried my nose in my books at all times, coming up, unwillingly, for air, food and sleep.

And then writing appeared on the scene.

I couldn't feel self-conscious when there was only me present, so that was the one time when my thoughts would flow unrestrained, and my hands were able to write, or type, as fast and as freely as they wanted. Which they did, and always have done.

Blogging has actually made me realise something else about this part of me. It's part of the reason why I can't write when people are watching me. It doesn't matter whether they're saying anything about it or not; I just can't write.

There are people out there whose voices you can hear in their writing. Because they write almost exactly how they talk.

Then there are people like me - and a few others of you out there - whose writing voices are very different from their talking voices. Whose written words their friends and family might not recognise as their own. Not just because of their content, because they're revealing secrets, but because of how they flow.

My two worlds are closer these days than they've ever been before. But they're still not the same. Maybe they never will be.

But still, blogging has taught me a few things.

For instance, I have never, ever thought of myself as someone who can be witty. Witty to me means someone who is both funny and quick. Which I have never thought that I was. Because I never have been.

But, on blog, I've realised that I can be. Yes, yes, blowing own trumpet, blah-de-blah, not saying I'm always that good at it.

But the point is, these are interactions with other people that I'm having. And I know that, were these interactions face-to-face, self-consciousness would be delaying my responses, dulling them, because being the centre of attention - or one of them - for any length of time still makes me feel strange. Awkward.

But in writing, ah, the wonderful free world of writing, I can concentrate purely on what is going on in my brain. What I'm thinking, feeling, reacting. What I'm wanting to say. And it's not, as I mentioned earlier, that I'm saying things that I would have been thinking all along. It's that I feel able to think them.

And this has made me realise something else.

I think I've always compartmentalised myself. This is what I'm like in real life, and this is what I'm like when I write.

I always knew that both versions were me.

I just never realised that it might be possible for both of us to meet.

Writing as self-expression; yes, fine, I'm good at that. Always have been. Writing as communication; no problem, I find that a lot easier than talking.

Writing as interaction. Instant interaction. Hmm. Actually it appears that yes, I can do that, too.

Which means it's not just that I can express myself better in writing because writing, unlike talking, allows you more time to think before you say things. Because I'm slow at thinking. Because I'm crap.

No. It's that I feel less self-conscious when I'm writing. Because I don't feel eyes upon me. Because I feel less shy.

So, maybe I am still pretty crap at talking. But, then again, if I'm talking through blogging, perhaps I'm not. Perhaps I talk a lot. Perhaps I'm pretty good at it.

Perhaps that's me.

Do you understand?

x

Incidently, if you made it all the long, hard, rocky, exhausting and probably really rather dull way to the end of this post, congratufuckinglations and I do apologise for making you sit through all this late-night brain-dump shite!

Many of you may remember the skydive recently undertaken to raise money for 15-year-old Amy Garton-Hughes.

Well, he may not be jumping out of a plane, but this is a trial of stamina rather than speed.

Please all offer your support to Pad...er...Landers in his fundraising campaign:

Blogging for Amy

48 posts in one day, eh? Hope you're saving some juicy stuff for the occasion...

Apparently my television is envious of my laptop.

Well, that's the only explanation I can find for the fact that whenever my wireless broadband is on, my television screen condenses the viewing by two-thirds.

Seriously. I've been experimenting and the TV works fine when the broadband is switched off, but most of the picture disappears when it's on.

Bloody attention-seeking bastard.

Press release of the day...

Smoke may not be in the air but love could be once the English smoking ban comes into force next week, a new study shows.

Flirting whilst smoking - dubbed "smirting" in Ireland when its ban came in during 2004 - is set to increase once the English ban begins. And it’s men who are most likely to be brushing up on their pulling power, according to research by leading pub group Greene King.

Research showed English men are almost three times more likely than women to use smoking areas as an opportunity to chat up the opposite sex, while women are most likely to use the outdoor areas for a girly gossip, with outside smoking areas replacing pub loos as the place to have a quiet natter.

Anyway. Cigarette, anyone?
Nick?

Ah, go on then...

1. When in doubt... choose red.

2. The most Tagalicious blogger is... a mystery to me, since I don't actually know what that means.

3. Given half a chance, I would... leap on a plane and spend the next few weeks, months, years of my life travelling around and seeing as much as I can of the beauties of the world.

4. I'd rather be... sipping a rum cocktail and eating red curry with sticky rice whilst gazing out over cerulean waters on a beach in Thailand.

5. Who knew that... the Great Pyramid of Giza is the only one of the original Seven Wonders of the World that still survives?

Has everyone been tagged yet? Well, if not: Abi, Nick, Redleader, Eggbod, Mrs F

And doesn't she know it.

The sole of my shoe is, I do believe, mere minutes away from detaching itself and leaving my foot free to explore the glorious tactile world of a Mancunian pavement.

Lumpy cigarette ends, jagged broken pieces of supposedly-ha! shatter-proof bus shelter glass and soft pools of scally-phlegm-gob will all be ready and waiting for my right foot to explore at its leisure on the way home from work, if not today, then tomorrow because I'm obviously not going to do anything so sensible as to wear another pair of shoes to work tomorrow in case my prediction comes true - these are my work shoes, after all...

I interviewed the manager of one of my little local curry houses yesterday (the one of aloo chili deeeelusciousness fame) about the one-year anniversary buffet dinner that they held last week. Which I attended. For free.

Amidst the impatient throng of people bumping each other in the search for seats, frantic waiters running around forgetting drinks orders and the calmer mid-scoff people sat in front of piled-high platters which rivalled the pictures of Nepalese mountains on the walls, the restaurant held a raffle.

The prizes for this raffle came mostly from other businesses located on the same street. A, the manager, hadn't asked for these; as soon as her neighbouring businesses discovered what was happening, they came in and volunteered to donate.

I love that about this road, which is located just around the corner from where I live. Practically all the shops, bars and restaurants are independently-owned, and everyone knows and looks out for each other. And they're such a great bunch of businesses.

There are restaurants galore - all excellent - serving Indian, Nepalese, Thai, Italian, modern British, fusion, tapas and vegetarian cuisine.

Cafes and delis sell everything, from huge Sunday morning and afternoon, ahem fry-ups with pots of strong tea, to chocolate muffins and paninis with proper Italian coffee.

A little locals / old man pub serves excellent Guinness and shows illegal footie matches on a big screen at the back. Directly opposite it, a trendy and possibly one of the most expensive pubs in the region welcomes the Cheshire set and associated wannabes for summer lounging in the massive beer garden and far-superior-to-pub-grub food in the restaurant and internet browsing by sad bloggers who take advantage of the free wireless connection whilst enjoying a pint or ten, er, two. 

Two cocktail and wine bars run happy hours which cost me many a drinker dearly once it gets past 8pm and I they can no longer be arsed to move.

My favourite wine shop of all time, which reunited me with the delights of Quinta de la Rosa post-Madeira trip last year, and which is holding my favourite wine fair of all time in a few weeks, is run by a fantastic couple of people who inspire me to learn more about the heady nectar I'm drinking as opposed to just chucking it down my gullet.

There's a little supermarket whose convenience is well-used, yet somehow hasn't managed to dampen the spirits of a couple of newsagents who have maintained their loyal local trade.

Gorgeous scents and colours flood out of the little flower shop.

My money floods out of my wallet in the little clothes boutiques shops.

A launderette, pound shop, DIY outlet and incredibly old video store do they even hire out DVDs yet, I wonder? have probably been there since the dawn of time, and show no signs of giving up the ghost any time soon.

There are also furniture stores, hairdressers, a butcher's and a baker's (thriving despite the absence of a candlestick maker), take-aways of varying descriptions and quality, an art gallery, a lovely electrician i.e. he actually does his job, a computer shop which admittedly I haven't been back to since I was looking for a strap for my laptop bag and asked the lovely man behind the counter for "a strap-on", etc, etc, etc.

And people smille, and say hello, and there's generally a cosy village feel - albeit a somewhat trendy one - to the area, even though we're part of one of the largest cities in the UK.

The point is, this is where I live. I love it.

And I'm lucky to be part of it.

... how much you can get done in a day when you don't blog.

If umbrellas were children, I'd now be in prison for abandonment, abuse and neglect.

Today saw the sad demise of the latest in a long line of RTB brollies, as it was ruthlessly whipped to within an inch of its life and brutally turned over by that notorious umbrella mugger, the Wind.

You've got to feel for this brolly. Just yesterday it was safe and secure in its hiding place at the back of the cupboard, quietly going about its business of lying motionless and being of no use to anyone, since everyone had completely forgotten it existed. (Doubtless, this was due in no small measure that RTB had in the past been known to be unfairly prejudiced against it, thanks to its unfortunate lurid green colour.)

However, thanks to the recent reckless abandonment of its more sober black brother in a city centre branch of a well-known high street bank, a frantic early morning search stripped Vile Green Brolly of its cosy hiding place and submitted it to the rough elements of a classic British summer. With devastating consequences.

And yet, amidst this raging storm of despair, a faint ray of hope emerged as, just this weekend, RTB was introduced to an individual who could perhaps break this cycle of neglect and abuse.

Super-Dooper Golf Brolly is a strapping fella, big enough to protect RTB and several bags of shopping, and with a built-in storm-resistant layer of fabric that can shrug off attacks of the most vicious Wind with enviable ease.

He stands firm in the face of abuse that would make his brothers crumble. Which, for a woman looking for dependable shelter in this cold, cruel city, could be exactly what RTB needs.

However, the sad truth is that RTB is simply too stingy to fork out the required money to secure the services of Super-Dooper Golf Brolly. Especially when she a) doesn't play golf, and b) knows that she is stil more than likely to leave him on a bus within the next fortnight. Old habits die hard, after all.

It seems somewhat ironic and unfair to RTB that she, with her wretched track record with brollies, happens to live in a city where umbrella ownership is an intrinsic part of the culture; nay, more than this, a basic necessity of human life.

But perhaps, from the umbrellas' perspective, the confirmed brolly neglector is simply getting what she deserves.

Well, it's been a great weekend. Before I write about it, however, I would like to apologise in advance for what will doubtless turn out to be a crap post.

This is because my brain happens to be melting as we speak, dribbling out of my ears and wrapping my tongue in a thick gloop rendering me incapable of speaking properly, such is the consequence of the attack of the Beast of Fatigue, whose vicious, fiery exhalations in my head are responsible for the current brain meltdown. Or something.

But anyway. Friday I had one of those lapses of concentration that lasts all day, so abandoned all pretence at work early on and headed to Nearlyscouseville for a lot more wine than is generally considered to be good for me, and the consequent ticking of another box on the questionnaire of life. Don't ask, cos I ain't saying. Well, not right now anyway.

Saturday I learnt a few things: one, my sunglasses contain a unique type of magnet that attracts rainclouds; two, it's a long drive from Wirral to Surrey, and three, Juzzzy couldn't direct his way out of a paper bag. Ok, that's slightly harsh, he could... but only after he'd traversed every single fold and crevice of it...

But anyway. That afternoon, we enjoyed the traditional English summer BBQ, munching on delicious sausages and marinated chicken breasts whilst dodging raindrops, courtesy of my two wonderful friends who were, as ever, the perfect host and hostess. It never ceases to impress me that some of my friends have actually managed to grow up. I am in awe of them. Cheers medears xx

An evening shift of venue to the local pub, where lots of stories, laughter and general merriment were shared by all. Followed by a stagger back home, where RTB somehow managed not to disgrace herself any further by passing out on the sofa, although she's really not sure how.

But anyway. Sunday was filled with delicious bacon sarnies, a healthy dose of Hollyoaks, running away motorway-bound from Big Brother, a fair drive home, a cheeky Guinness or two, an even cheekier spicy curry and some yummy wine and chocolate consumed whilst trying not to slumber on someone else's couch (an endeavour assisted in no small part by the fact that we were watching the non-scary but disturbingly gruesome film, The Hills Have Eyes. Blergh).

And so to this morning, and it has to be said that a bloody 5am start courtesy of the goddamn noisy rain which refused to let me sleep, and trying to thwart various attempts on my life by aggressive twats on the motorway, has still not managed to douse the lovely warm glow I have in my belly from the curry and the weekend as a whole.

But anyway. Hope you all had good ones too.

And now, on with the rest of the day, which I dearly hope will progress nice and speedily, since there is only one sentence that I would love to hear right now; namely, as that beloved Magic Roundabout character used to say:

"Time for bed!"

*boing*

The bad news is that my city centre shopping trips will, from now on, always be tinged with a sense of loss as the best music store chain in the country apparently went bust today.

RIP, Fopp - you will be sorely missed. Although possibly not by my bank manager.

The good news is that he's back in my life! Fedora hat, whip and all! Hurrah!

I am speaking, of course, of this guy.

And lo, as one door closes, another doth open...

Let's see what we can make of these...

a little red hot chili pepper - Mmmm, currrryyyyy...
ace - You're all aces in my book; thank you and goodnight.
be careful - Never not. Well, maybe not never...
be mine - Send me a photo of yourself, a love poem, a bottle of wine and a copy of a recent bank statement and I'll consider it.
bed ridden - Wish I were right now.
bet ur fit - I hope you're not a professional gambler.
blondie? - Methinks my avatar can answer that one.
bluddy lovely - Why thank you.
brave woman - Why?
chyna_doll - Hi hon
clever comments - *blushes*
deevine - Better than deesgusting.
definitely myleene - *sigh*
deserves looking after - Don't we all?
dont let him fuck you up - Erm... ok...
fancy a drink? - Pint of Guinness, please - it's past midday after all.
freebie monster - I want more, more, MORE!
funny - Ha-ha, or peculiar? Actually, don't answer.
gashead - Up the Rovers!
gb101 - Hi Graybags.
gently down the stream - Congratulations, you passed stage one of the nursery rhyme test; now recite Wee Willy Winkie.
gets molested by dogs - Only one (so far).
gives good advice - God, don't tell me you take it!
gorgeous - My halo has seduced you.
honey bunny - Pulp Fiction, top film.
hug - Right back atcha.
i have parsley in my teeth - *passes toothbrush*
i love it when she punishes me - Behave! *slap*
in love - Mmmmmm, chocolate...
jiggles when she giggles - Only for you, Nick.
juniper berry bush - I prefer strawberry plants.
kay - Nope.
keeps jazz magazines under his bed - Not had the sex change yet, darling.
kiss me - Mmmmwah!
lacking a d - Yes, but I've still got one left, ha!
likes to slip one in - Doesn't everyone?
lives in a fish tank - Is this some deep and meaningful reference to the fact that our lives are on display for all to see on blog? Oh, no, it's just some random crap, I see.
lovely lady x -
meno's friend - Thank you MenoMama.
myleen klaas! - Gah!
needs a good seeing to - Regularly.
nepal - One of the most beautiful places in the world.
not 30 - Older or younger? Again, don't answer.
not kay you div - Correct.
ogles soapstars boobs wearing a mojo shaped hand puppet - Ok, who installed the webcam?
poke me with your sword - *boink*
pour some sugar on me - How about some melted chocolate?
pretty woman - Not quite Julia Roberts.
sack yr boss - How, God, how??
sexy - *flutters eyelashes*
sexy bitch - *gets eyelash inelegantly stuck in eye*
skydiver - You bet, and will be again, as soon as possible
smarty - Only smarties have the answer.
stalkee - Think I've got rid... for now...
sweetheart x -
ul regret it - Click goes the fuckit switch.
very funny - Definitely peculiar.
well halo there - What an angelic comment.
witty - Debatable.
woof woof - Mojo... is that you?

One of the client liaison teams in our office is currently engaged in a ground-breaking and highly productive workplace endeavour, doubtless of pressing strategic importance to senior management and, indeed, integral to the future success of our organisation as a whole.

They are planting tomato plants into grow-bags.

And there's no turning back. I can't undo it, even though I really wish I could.

I was in a bit of a dazed state; I don't really think I knew what I was doing. But the fact remains that I did it. And I have no excuse. No-one to blame but myself.

God, I wish I hadn't done it. But here I am. And have been for some time.

I got into work for 7am.

Ugh...

Thousands of colleagues of BBC Gaza correspondent Alan Johnston are to observe a vigil today marking 100 days since he was kidnapped.

At the Glastonbury festival, on sets and in newsrooms worldwide, they will pause at 1315 GMT (1415 UK time).

Mr Johnston's parents will release 100 balloons marking the days passed since a group calling itself the Army of Islam abducted the reporter.

On Monday a deadline for his release, set by Hamas, passed without progress.

Mr Johnston was the only Western reporter permanently based in Gaza, and his abduction has triggered appeals for his release from law-makers and rights groups around the world.

BBC, today.

Whilst crossing the road during a lunchtime break, it is not advisable to walk into the side of a moving car.

*rubs elbow*

And no, I have not been drinking.

Boss: "I wish you had come to our staff meeting."

RTB: "Oh. Why?"

Boss: "Well, so that you could have told the others what our team is doing."

RTB: "The thing is, in all honesty, what with still doing everything that was in my full-time job, but now trying to fit it within part-time hours, I didn't really have the time. And I thought you'd be giving the update seeing as you head the team."

Boss: "Well I could have done, but I don't really know what we're doing at the moment."

RTB: *silence*

Boss: *silence*

RTB: *silence*

Boss: "Er, right. So anyway, I'll see you at our next meeting later on, then. Er... do we have an agenda?"

It's possibly not a good sign that I'm feeling a bit nervous about watching this tonight...

Yesterday. I shan't go into all the details [EDIT - Ok, when I said not all the details, I might have got carried away]; I'll leave that to Juzzzy, since it was more his day, after all. Well, his, and a young girl called Amy Garton-Hughes.

But I have to say something about it. So, here we go...

It wasn't exactly the best of starts.

Admittedly, waking up at 5.45am is never going to be described by me as "the best of starts", especially on a Sunday morning - and especially on a Sunday morning which followed a Saturday night of very little sleep alongside a very nervous wetting his pants, in fact - although thankfully not literally boyfriend. But, aside from that, a few things didn't quite go according to plan.

1. I could have had 20 more minutes in bed. The coach was 20 minutes late.

2. One of our party was forced to make an emergency call to her mum to ask for a lift so that she could belatedly join us at the airfield, while her (new) car lay on the side of the M6 with smoke pouring out from under the bonnet.

3. Breakfast took forever to arrive.

4. The weather was crap.

And this last factor was the big problem. Overcast skies meant no skydiving and, while we were receiving texts from friends and family all across the UK telling us how absolutely beeeyooouuuuteeeeefooool the weather was where they were, and how they were all out sunning themselves in the back garden/ park/ beer garden, that band of thick cloud which lay across the tiny patch of England where we were sat stubbornly refused to lift.

So we waited. And waited. And waited.

And waited.

The children were happy enough, occupied as they were with playing football and dodgeball and trying-to-whack-each-other-in-the-knackers ball. But the atmosphere amongst the adults, who had brought little in the way of entertainment other than sandwiches, scotch eggs and chocolate, got progressively gloomier as the day dragged on, weighed down by the heavy grey skies overhead.

Finally, at around 3pm (we'd arrived at 8am), we gave up. We knew it wasn't going to happen.

We swapped commiserations, made tentative but undeniably disappointed plans to find another day on which we'd all be free to try again, packed up all our stuff and prepared to leave.

And then it happened. Those thick clouds above us shifted... lifted... and a few hesitant rays broke through the gloom. Of hope. And we decided to give it half an hour longer.

God, I'm glad we did. Because, half an hour later, we were in the middle of a completely different day.

One where glorious blue sky cradled a hot sun; fleeces were replaced by charity T-shirts; smiles laced with anticipation, fear and bravado stretched across faces, and a butterfly storm burgeoned within stomachs across the field as the names of the first skydivers of the day were announced over the tannoid.

I loved every single second of the remainder of the day. With those flutterings of anticipation on the inside and a big silly beam on the outside, I eagerly bounced my way to the training room as soon as my name was called to get jump-suited up, harnessed up and, of course, wound up by the unquestionably unhinged tandem skydiving instructors.

Ready.

A few photos, waves and kisses, and I was on the back of a Land Rover, trundling downhill to a tiny runway and an equally tiny orange and green plane called, for reasons known only to the insane elite who go up in and jump out of it practically every day of the year, Godzilla.

Tony, my tandem instructor, keeper of the parachute and my new best friend, was lovely. Appearance-wise, he seemed more like a comfortably middle aged GP than your average adrenaline junkie, and came armed with a mental catalogue of Jokes Your Father Would Tell. He was a delightful gentleman; a part-time physiotherapist and part-time skydive instructor. And a full-time nutter.

There was plenty of banter on the way up, taking the piss out of loose straps on my harness. And, yet again, I was treated to that increasingly familiar phrase: "Don't you look like Myleene Klass?" I really should think about launching that second career as a celebrity double. All of which, although it relaxed me, also fired up the anticipation in my nerve endings, bubbling me up to boiling point. Like I needed it.

At 14,000 feet above the earth, the plane door slid open with a gasp. The air outside roared.

Two professional skydivers leapt, whooping, into oblivion. My fellow amateur and his tandem instructor rolled over to the edge, leaned forward and were gone.

I pulled my leg over the side of the little bench we were sat on, slid over to the edge and dangled my feet out of a fecking plane as it flew through the air.

My legs were tucked underneath the plane, being blown to one side as the greedy wind grabbed at me. My hands clutched my shoulder harness. My head went back onto Tony's shoulder and I looked upwards into the blue and white sky. I was petrified.

"Oh. Good. Godddddddddd!!"

And we were gone.

Legs up high behind, back arched, head back, we tumbled all the way over and for a split second I saw the plane that we had just left. What the f***?? I was upside down in the middle of the sky, plummeting towards earth at 140 mph, with nothing between me and certain death but a whole load of thin air and a probable lunatic carrying a packaged-up piece of fabric strapped to my back.

We completed our somersault and I faced the horizon, watching and gasping as it rose and rose and rose. Miraculously, the sensation of falling stopped almost immediately, and I felt instead as though I were suspended in the middle of the sky, held there by a whipping wind which pressed up against my entire body.

Like I was flying.

And I whooped.

Because it was fucking fantastic!!!

Tony tapped my shoulders and I flung my arms out wide, embracing the wildness of the moment, back still arched, spinning around and around and around. The noise of the wind mingled with that of my blood as it roared madly in my popping ears. And I whooped again, and again, and again.

Another tap from Tony, and I brought my arms back in. Felt a tug. Heard a wooomph. And then I felt as though my whole body were being lifted upwards into the air as the parachute thank-Christ-fully did its job.

And, in a split second, the mad rush of noise and wind and adrenaline was replaced by total, utter peace.

There we were, floating in the middle of a gloriously clear sky, encased in calm tranquillity while our giddy blood still pumped its way excitedly through our bodies. I drew a deep breath and held it for a moment. Exhaled forcefully; a noisy sigh of wonder.

Tony made a few adjustments to the harness to make it more comfortable and pointed out some landmarks along the coastline; from Blackpool Tower to the Wirral peninsular, and the blue, misty hills of Wales beyond. Still giddy with adrenaline, I marvelled, exclaimed, laughed and babbled... then finally paused in wonder and drank it all in. All those sights; all that space; all this beauty.

Two gloved hands appeared in front of me and Tony handed me the loops of the canopy steering straps before letting go, waving his arms in front of me as he declared with glee: "You're driving!" I laughed and, as he instructed, pulled down on the left strap as hard as I could. Our feet slowly lifted up and to the right as we started to bank around and around and around, gaining speed until we were swirling, twirling, shooting around in the air. And I whooped again. You just had to.

God, it was great.

A few more graceful, stomach-spinning twirls and loops, and then Tony was back in control as we floated ever closer towards the earth. I lifted my legs up as we swung around and over the landing field and then down, down, down, sliding into the grass with a rush, feeling the earth beneath greet us in a far more pleasant way than we deserved, considering that we had just completely defied its laws of gravity.

"Thank you!" I gasped, as I threw my head back and gazed up into the seemingly infinite expanse of the sky which we had just left.

"Entirely my pleasure," said Tony. "The question is, will you be coming back?"

Oh.
YES.

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