This morning, my wife broke the news that were going to have a fourth child. She added, We cant afford to buy a house, so you need to get us a council flat. But youre hopeless at pushing for things, so heres my plan: Ill have a baby every year. If we cant impress with fatherly merit, well do it by weight of numbers!
Feeling rather deflated, I shuffled into my university and hesitantly opened the door labelled Administration. The office was bustling. Our Head, Mr. Muddle, and his deputy, Mr. Croft, were holding a meeting.
Its about our reputation, Mr. Muddle declared. We have to outperform every other university in all sporting competitions. Ah, here comes our great hope! Hed spotted me.
I turned crimson. Im not much hope, I I wanted to speak about accommodation
The estate is ready next week, Croft announced grandly. Youre top of the list. Just a quick leapand youll be set up in your new place.
A leap where? I grinned nervously.
With a parachute. Theres a competition tomorrow.
I stopped grinning.
Jump where, exactly?
To the ground.
But Why?
Dont you watch the telly? the Head tutted in surprise. Its all the rage now: actors on ice, singers doing aerial stunts in the circus Now its our turn: scholars breaking records. Professor Bull boxed yesterday, he pointed to a skinny figure with a swollen nose and several plasters on his face. Dr. Clamp did Greco-Roman wrestling on Saturdayhes recovering in hospital. Now its your turn. The remaining sports were divvied upparachuting fell to you.
At the word fell, my knees buckled.
When am I expected to jump? I croaked.
Tomorrow. Its Bird Day, said Croft cheerily.
I looked at Mr. Muddle, desperate. What on earth have birds got to do with me plummeting to my doom?
He came over and put a reassuring hand on my shoulder. Youll get the family flat, being a dad of many, but Some have balconies and some dont. Some overlook the park, others the cement factory When assigning, well weigh in participation in university events
There was a long pause. I chewed a peppermint and asked, And if I dont make it down? Or miss the ground altogether? Will my family get the park-view regardless?
Croft smiled warmly. You know the rule: widows and orphans go straight to the top of the list! Dont fret! He thumped my back. You wont be aloneyoull have a partner. He nodded towards a pale, bespectacled young lad cowering by the wall.
Thats our PhD student, said Croft, Hes on the redundancy list anyway.
Truth be told, Ive always been horrified of heights. My head spins even standing on a chair to hang a picture. The very word plane makes me seasick. That evening, desperate, I tried to practise at home: hopped a few times from the ottoman to the floor.
The next day, they bundled me and the expendable PhD student into a long black minibusit looked suspiciously like a hearse. Mr. Muddle followed in another car, and trailing him on the tram came an entire cheering squadthirty or so lecturers and professors.
We arrived to the sound of a brass bandhired by Croftblaring out a dirge. But since it was the local funeral band, the effect was a bit mucheven the pilot teared up. Three musicians crammed into the plane with us, to play some rousing tunes as we toppled out the hatch.
The instructora gentle, soft-spoken sortlooked us over with a tragic, sympathetic gaze. Sizing up my stomach, he ordered I be given an extra parachute for good measure. They loaded me like a pack mule. If the PhD looked like a single-humped camel, I was easily a double-humper.
In the air, the instructor went over every possible scenario in which the parachute could fail to open, then kissed us both on the forehead thrice. He lifted the hatch, shot me a sorrowful glance and said quietly, Its time.
Wordlessly, I handed him an envelope. For my wife. If its a boy, name him after me.
He tried to calm me, The fear only hits at firstthen, nothing at all.
On you go, brave lad! the pilot cheered.
The band struck up Rule Britannia! I squeezed my eyes shut and jumped. When I opened them, I was still partly in the planemy top half, anyway; my legs dangled outside. Id wedged myself in the hatch. The instructor and PhD tried pushing, to no avail.
We need to grease him up, suggested the PhD.
The instructor, losing his poise, barked, Clear the hatch! Youre holding up the competition!
How do I clear it? I cried.
Blow out all your air!
I exhaled a drawn-out Wooo and slipped clean through, falling into nothingness. I had pulled the cord so soon my chute snagged on the landing gear and I hung under the plane.
The pilot began spinning and banking, trying to shake me off, but I was stuck tight.
Stop mucking about! the instructor yelled. Let go of the plane!
But I was clinging for dear life.
Halfway out the hatch, the instructor tried to dislodge me, the PhD grabbing his legs to stop him falling too. Almost there, a sudden jolt pitched both of them outfirst the instructor, Clive, then the PhD student, hanging tight to his legs. By some miracle, Clive caught my jacket; the PhD clung to his socks.
We now swung under the plane in a trio, like a family of acrobats on a flying trapeze. The band below switched to Those Magnificent Men in their Flying Machines.
Clive shrieked that the PhD had cut off his circulation and his legs were going numb. To relieve him, I offered my own legsidle as they werebut my legs were thicker; the PhD refused to swap.
The plane, trailing our swinging ensemble, couldnt possibly land. Circling the airfield, it dipped sharply, giving us an opening to let go and land on the grass. But we needed to unpeel in order, starting with the PhD, who was now trailing along the ground, yet clung to Clives legs as the plane took off again.
Clive cursed his day, and his legs, wishing them well to fall off along with the PhD.
The band cranked out The Blue Danube for encouragement.
Fuel was running perilously low. Someone poked a stick with a noose out the hatch, lassoed the PhDs shoes, reeled him back in, then hauled us all to safety one by one: PhD, instructor, finally me (although half of me was still hanging outside). We landed just in time, my head inside, feet outside, dragging the length of the runway half the way home.
Miraculously, we all survivedand even managed to look elated about it.
The band played the liveliest funeral march they knew.
Only Clive, the instructor, struggled to standthe PhD student simply would not release his legs and had to be pried off with a pair of pliers. Once freed, it turned out Clives trousers had hiked up mid-flight, now looking more like long shorts. Not the trousers fault, mind: hanging under the giant bird, Clives legs had plainly stretched a good few inches; he resembled a rather shell-shocked ostrich.
Tomorrow: another round! Croft announced cheerfully.
At this, Clive turned ghost-pale, like my parachute, and galloped away on his new ostrich legs to the nearest phone box. Heaven knows who he called. But they counted my jump as a winand every round after, for the next decade at least. I even scored a record for sprinting, since my lower half covered ground at the speed of a plane. True, as my top half was still flying, they halved my time. Even so, a records a record!
