If I Had The Wings Of A Sparrow...

The last time I tapped out words for this blog, like a chimp trying to compose Hamlet, I made reference to the fact that I was about to take flight in a helicopter. I was nervous but exhilarated by the opportunity to take to the air in such a machine.

Having now done so I can tell you that it’s the only way to fly. None of this malarkey of charging at high speed down a runway in the vain hope of gaining enough momentum and lift so that a tin tube full of eager holidaymakers will be catapulted into the sky. Oh no, this was a gentle rise off the ground and away.

Equally there was no hurtling ourselves at the ground and braking like a maniac, it was a gentle touch down, like a feather dropping gracefully to the floor. The more I consider how elegant helicopter travel is I’m wondering why it hasn’t caught on and why we have opted for the flying metal bird approach.

The manoeuvrability and view is also a factor of why this is a magnificent way to travel. No peering through a tiny porthole to try and see the world below, there’s windows all around, big ones at that. If you want to turn round or fly lower it can be done very easily. The helicopter is therefore the black cab of air travel, whilst the aeroplane is the bendy bus.

My trip took me over Portsmouth, partly so that I could get a view of the place of my birth – the Isle of Wight (hereafter known as the Motherland). It was a clear day so I had a cracking view as we swept over Lee-on-Solent, up towards Portsdown Hill and then back over the Historic Dockyard.

Thankfully we didn’t suffer any bombardment from the ground as the locals below were blissfully unaware that a supporter of Southampton FC was swooping around above them like an emperor in a flying chariot.

The window of the helicopter was open and I was briefly reminded of a football chant, the sentiments of which involve dropping untold excrement upon the poor unfortunates on the ground, but as I’d reduced my solids intake to lettuce leaves and dust to ensure I was below the required flying weight I had nothing to offer in that department.

As it was, no-one weighed me from start to finish. In fact I was heartened to see passengers on earlier flights carrying much more in the way of additional baggage than I. It turns out that I may not have been the one to have eaten all the pies after all, although in my defence I would have made a substantial dent on them given the chance.

So, before I tail off onto another topic altogether, I can conclude that helicopter travel is the future. 

As I look proudly at the souvenir photo of me stood grinning next to this mighty machine with its rotor blades whirling furiously above my head, I can tick another thing off the list and pretend that I am not a middle aged man who works in an office, but I’m in fact the pilot of Airwolf.

Or I’m Noel Edmonds. One of those.

   

Chopper Hayward

Some blogs ago I wrote about how I’d compiled a ‘bucket list’ of sorts, although I’d not called it that for fear of jinxing my existence and hastening my inevitable demise. Looking through the list of 21 items I’d accumulated (so far) I realise that I’d only achieved one and a half of them. The one I did complete and have repeated several times since is to drink Sloe Gin. Let’s face it, that wasn’t too difficult to accomplish but who said they had to be? It was a very pleasant experience so a big tick on the list there.

The half achievement was in relation to visiting Edinburgh. Technically I have spent time in Edinburgh but mostly changing trains at Waverley station. I say mostly, there was a hectic taxi journey against time down Princes Street one day but I was too busy watching the clock to take in the sights and sounds of the Scottish capital, but that’s another story. After careful consideration I don’t feel that I’ve fully met the criteria of visiting Edinburgh so that’s still resolutely unticked.

However, this weekend I should get the opportunity to give a great big tick to a more challenging item on the list, and that is to fly in a helicopter. I say ‘should’ as there is a slight area of doubt in my mind. It’s not directly to do with the thought of plummeting out of the sky like a rock falling to earth but that also weighs heavy on my mind.

You see, helicopters like all flying transportation have a weight limit. It’s not that relevant when we’re jetting off to Torremelinos on our holidays as we fly on great big planes so no-one mentions it and no flight attendant is stood at the airport guiding hapless holidaymakers onto a set of bathroom scales prior to boarding. However, with a small helicopter carrying a handful of passengers it creates an issue if one occupant has eaten far too many of their fair share of pies and other assorted savoury pastries.

I was well aware of the weight limit of 16 stone when I booked this excursion and I can quite confidently say that I am below that weight……by a few pounds. Actually, whilst wearing nothing apart from a smile I am well under, but with the addition of the obligatory clothes and footwear the weight starts creeping on and I find myself edging ever closer to that limit.

Logic dictates that I should have nothing to worry about as I’m irrefutably under the limit as of right now but the panicky side of my brain is just worried that I’m a mere sausage roll away from being declared too fat to fly.

With that in mind I have reduced my calorie intake this week so that I may become airborne. Water, vegetables and certain fruit have become my friends; all types of carbohydrates my mortal enemy. I had a complete eye opener yesterday when I established the calories in just one slice of seeded bread (130 if you’re interested, so two Bertolli-moistened slices embracing some ham would have taken me somewhere near 400 calories). Next week I won’t care a jot about any of this but, for now, I am determined to remain well under 16 stone come hell or high water.

Failing that I may have to paint clothes on me, although that may be dangerous what with all those sharp blades twirling around. Either that or I’ll just have to ensure that my bowels are working to maximum efficiency on the day. That should lighten me up a bit. I’m told that all I need to consume is a couple of Avocadoes and several boxes of Tic Tacs and the job’s a good ‘un.

Heaven help the other passengers though. Things could get messy.  

Oddthorpe

A week ago my feet hurt. Despite following the wisdom of a certain old wives’ tale to wear two pairs of socks when undertaking a walk of any considerable length to avoid my feet rubbing against the inside of my walking boots, I was becoming increasingly aware that I was growing a blister the size and colour of a fully ripened plum on my little toe. Being a brave little soldier I carried on trekking over hills and cliff edges as I ventured unabashed towards The Needles Pleasure Park on the Isle of Wight. Never has a man been so keen to see those coloured sands.

The reason for my yomp was that I was participating in the annual Walk the Wight event, now in its 25^th year, for the third time. I didn’t feel that I had particularly trained well for this.  A wander round Nottinghamshire the other weekend was a nice little walk but it didn’t prepare me for the deceptively challenging inclines that the Isle of Wight’s topography throws up at certain points. However, I completed the thing without making my feet bleed. Having said that, I was walking a little gingerly for a couple of days and my late application of headwear meant that I resembled a man who had spent the afternoon lightly grilling his face. I’ve now entered the peeling stage which is particularly attractive. When I get up from the sofa I leave the outline of my body in skin behind me, like the residue from a disintegrating ray.

Undeterred I decided yesterday that it was just too clement to hide myself away indoors and so I retrieved my walking boots and headed out on a modest 10 mile walk to Stamford, this time applying liberal amounts of sun cream before I left the house and donning an appropriate hat.

It was glorious; a lovely day in mid-May is the ideal time for a walk. The fields are awash with fragrant yellow flowers, the birds are singing, and the paths underfoot are dry and welcoming, not slippy and squishy like they were when I was out a couple of months ago. Spring has peaked and summer is just around the corner. The whole world just seemed so alive.

Well, I say that, except there was one place on my route where time appeared to have stopped completely. This place is a small hamlet on a narrow country lane just south of Bourne. It’s called Obthorpe and I always approach it with some amusement mixed with trepidation. I’ve walked through Obthorpe on two occasions before and I’d noted that, despite signs of life, I’d never actually seen anyone there. I hadn’t even heard voices of people chatting, no keen homeowner  beavering away in their garden, no TV or radio idly burbling along in the background, no dog barking, nothing. My recollections of walking through Obthorpe was of the wind whistling through the telephone wires and the strange feeling that everyone had left suddenly.

There are cars on the drives, the occasional light on in a house, but no people. As I approached I wondered if this time it would be any different. Would I finally get to see a living, breathing resident of Obthorpe? I was almost excited as I passed the lonely sign just before the first house. I reached the first home, a small bungalow and I scanned it for signs of life. Apart from a car on the drive, there was nothing. Next door there’s a second bungalow. Another car on the drive, a window open but, again, nothing.

I continued past the larger houses, and a farm building but yet again nothing. It was a nice, sunny day for heavens sake but no-one was out in their vast gardens and no farmer could be seen, despite a tractor parked next to a barn. No farmer, no pigs, cows, horses, chickens, alpacas, nothing.

It was then that I became aware of something else that was peculiar. It was just so quiet. Apart from the aforementioned breeze there was no birdsong. I’d not noticed that before. There are trees but nothing chirping away within them. It’s May. My garden is alive with birds of all different shapes and sizes but in Obthorpe they’ve all flown the nest.

I bravely took a few photos of this ghost town before carrying on my way, looking behind me in case someone, anyone, suddenly appeared. After about a mile or two I reached the next village along, Wilsthorpe. I was immediately aware of birdsong, people in their gardens, a baby rabbit hopping about in the hedgerow and, well, just life.

I would like to think that Obthorpe isn’t as unsettling as it appears. I’m sure there must be people that live there. You may even know someone, but I suspect you don’t. Obthorpe is an enigma, a façade if you will, most likely for something sinister. I noticed this time that up a short track in the middle of Obthorpe, about half a mile away, marked with ‘Keep Out’ and ‘Private’ signs are two black barns. I’ll repeat that, black barns. Who paints their barns black, apart from some kind of comic book super villain?

Mark my words, something odd is afoot in Obthorpe. The conspiracy theory starts here. 

TerryVision

I know very little about Andy Warhol other than knowing that he was a prime mover in the world of pop art, he painted a picture of a tin of soup, and that he once said something about everyone having their fifteen minutes of fame, which, having not even bothered to look him up on Wikipedia is probably more than I know about Ladybirds for instance despite having met more of them than I have famous artists. None became good friends. Ladybirds are quite fickle and soon fly away when spooked and, like leopards, they never change their spots.

Where I’m getting to, albeit by the scenic route, is that most people have at some point had a brush with the bright lights of fame (or in some cases, notoriety). For most of us it can be quite a small and insignificant moment but for others it can be the start of a journey towards bona fide celebrity status. Our destiny is in the stars.

The most common route to fame and fortune these days is via the medium of television, however it can devour the unwary in its relentless demand for entertainment. I have had encounters with this cut-throat world on a few occasions.

Firstly, I appeared in the audience of a 1980s mid-morning talking shop called ‘The Time The Place’ along with some fellow associates of mine, when we were all about 14. The subject of the show was the perennial concern of ‘the youth of today’. Loads of kids from schools in the Southampton area were bussed in to defend ourselves to house bound and unemployed daytime television viewers across the country. Some actors from popular kids show ‘Grange Hill’ were also present, although in the flesh they appeared to be closer to middle age than their on-screen characters were.

I don’t remember much about this programme other than being intimidated by the seemingly giant pedestal cameras in use at the time and being sat in the wrong place at the end of the show as the host, the late Mike Scott, leant in to the camera to wish the great unwashed at home farewell, thereby positioning his backside about an inch away from my face. I must stress however that this was an unfortunate incident and Operation Yewtree do not need to be informed.

The second time I found myself in front of the lens was a year later whilst browsing in WHSmiths. I was approached by a camera crew and was asked to peruse the rack of Mills & Boon books, without any explanation. Being keen to please I did so, only to discover some days later that I was on the local news during their Valentines Day feature where a cheesy reporter was trying to demonstrate that even men read romantic fiction. Needless to say, I kept my head down at school for quite a while after that.

Then things went quiet for a few decades, until last Tuesday. I’d been in Manchester for work and had arrived at a chilly Oxford Road station to find that my train home was not going to arrive for another 30 minutes. As I was seeking somewhere warm to shelter I noticed a camera crew lurking about. Assuming that this was some sort of A-level media studies project (they looked so young) I paid them little attention and tried to keep out of their way.

Whilst trying to work out on my phone if there was some elaborate alternative route available to me that would mean I could board a nice warm train rather than catch my death on Northern Rail premises I was approached by one of the young fellows from the crew. He explained that they were recording a piece for The One Show, that smorgasbord of early evening celebrity chat, serious features about the likes of terminal illness, great historical moments, and the threat of terrorism to pensioners in Oldham, and lightweight pieces about dogs in hats.

On this occasion they were filming a feature following a mature gentleman called Geoff who was trying to seek new employment by handing out free coffees to commuters with his contact details on the cup.  Interested in the prospect of a free warming beverage I agreed to partake in this televisual opportunity. I pretended that Geoff and I had never met and that this was all a surprise. I then went on to tell Geoff in this fairy-tale world that I would be able to help him due to all the connections that I have within the business world.

To be honest, I do know people, some in quite senior and important jobs that help to keep the wheels of industry turning, but I’m not sure they want to be introduced to a chap who thinks that his best option for employment is to hand out coffee to random passers by on the off chance they might secure him a role as a non-executive director. Naturally I didn’t explain this to Geoff as I was cold and I wanted a coffee, which I have to say was disappointingly tepid, but that’s the artifice of television for you.

My moment in front of the camera over, I went on my way on the assumption that there were many more televisual commuters around and that this was the end of the matter. I tweeted that I’d met Geoff and used the hashtag from the coffee cup, #GiveGeoffaJob.

Fast forward a couple of days and as I was heading home from work my phone began vibrating furiously as earnest tweeters found my message and shared it with their followers. I reasoned that Geoff must have appeared on TV but that I’d sadly missed his moment.

The next morning however I got curious as to who had made the final cut so I downloaded it. Sure enough, in amongst the hapless punters on screen came a cheery soul in specs who was promising Geoff his unmitigated support on prime time television.

Assuming that as no-one I know watches The One Show I’d gotten away with it and so I went to work with no concerns. However, after being in the office about 30 seconds I quickly realised that my brief appearance had not gone unnoticed, mostly by startled colleagues who’d had their domestic situations disrupted when I showed up unexpectedly on their televisions, in high definition.

Others who wisely don’t watch The One Show (no-one ever owns up to being a regular viewer, as I discovered) have threatened to download it via the BBC iPlayer to see how I fared. Hopefully they, like TV producers across the land, will see my natural charm and charisma bursting through the screen and that the calls for future TV appearances will soon come my way.

I’m currently eyeing up the opportunity to replace Nick Hewar on the Apprentice. I think I can just about muster the wit to lurk behind some useless graduates and pull faces as they make unwise and downright stupid decisions whilst trying to sell fish or doughnuts to the people of Guildford.

In fact I may even set up my own hashtag, #GiveTerryaJobOnTheTelly. I’ll get myself down the local railway station and hand out coffees with it on, just in case I bump into a passing media mogul.

Spread the word and when fame comes calling you can say you were there at the beginning. You can say you made me who I am. Then you can slag me off to the papers.

Fame is a cruel mistress.  

Flat Out

I’ve just realised that the last time that I updated the virtual world with tales of the real world, I was sharing my anxiety of some forthcoming surgery. Following that post this blog fell silent, possibly leading the more optimistic of readers to assume that I had succumbed to my malaise and expired on the operating table. Well, from my perspective I can happily report that this was not the case, the operation went well and I am now fully recovered. However, it was not without the occasional mishap along the way.

I had ‘gone private’ thanks to a generous health scheme provided by my employer so my arrival at the hospital was all a bit of an adventure, albeit an adventure that started at 6.30am and would lead to me being cut open. The room I had been allocated was better than some hotel rooms I’d stayed in (the Days Inn near Victoria Station for a start) and I could tell that I was a long way from the National Health Service when the first thing I was handed was a gift set of toiletries. They then gave me a menu embossed in gold, which my father-in-law was particularly drawn towards when he visited.

I was also provided with a gown to pop on and told that I was up first at 8.30am, which was terrifying but also a relief at the same time. After some anxious pacing I was eventually escorted up to the operating theatre where I was ushered into a brightly lit room full of widescreen TVs. I suppose it hadn’t occurred to me that a modern operating theatre looks less like an abattoir and more like Mission Control. If I could have detached myself at that moment from the cold, hard reality that I was about to be operated upon I would have marvelled at the state of the art technology being applied just to remove my gall bladder.

My fear was that I would wake during the surgery but would be unable to move or scream, trapped in a world of pain with no way to tell my torturers that I was suffering. Rather peculiarly therefore I was determined to stay in control of my senses as the anaesthetist busied around me. However, after a few short moments of applying a mask to my face (a medical one, not one of those Guy Fawkes ones that seem popular amongst anarchists) I must have passed out.

The next thing that I was aware of was the LED clock on the wall stating that it was 10.30am. The surgeon loomed above my prone body and asked how I was feeling. In a disbelieving and a slightly slurred intonation I asked him if he’d performed the operation. He confirmed that my gall bladder and I had parted company and that they’d take me back down to my room later to enjoy all the comforts that private healthcare can offer.

In fact by the time I was wheeled back down to be reunited with the present Mrs Hayward, I was virtually sat up in the bed and singing numbers from popular West End musicals.  I felt great, absolutely splendid, on top of the world. I laughed with the surgeon when he came to visit and even asked if I could have my gall stones to take home with me. He explained that this was not considered hygienic these days and, even if I wanted to take them home and fashion them into a necklace, my gall stones had been stuck together. The operation had therefore been trickier than anticipated and he’d had to make a longer cut near my belly button. “Really?”, I enquired, “that’s just typical of me, isn’t it?” and we laughed like old friends enjoying a joke over an ale or two, albeit that I was still laughing for some 20 minutes after he’d left the room.  

My overall bonhomie extended to everyone I met that afternoon and I felt an overwhelming love for the present Mrs Hayward in particular and I spent several minutes just staring at her lovingly in a glorious haze of adoring feelings.

Now this is not to denigrate my feelings for my wife or for my fellow men and women but unbeknown to me this joy and laughter was being fuelled by a concoction of pain killers which included, but was not limited to, Tramadol. 

This elation continued unabated for a few hours before wearing off a little. It was replaced by discomfort and waves of nausea. Needless to say I was not able to partake of the fine meals being presented to me at regular intervals. My heart, or in this case my stomach, just wasn’t in it.

By the evening I began to perk up again. I picked at some chicken and rice concoction that had arrived, but found more pleasure to be gained from drinking the custard surrounding a sticky toffee pudding.  The food looked so splendid that I felt bad about leaving it but my insides had been altered and weren’t completely ready for anything of substance. After a long day observing my various states of health the present Mrs Hayward headed home and I decided that I would chill out in front of ‘Strictly Come Dancing’ on the impossibly large TV in the room and perhaps even have a bit of a doze.

By about 8.30pm the sequins and twirling had ended and I idly flicked through the channels, finally alighting upon an episode of ‘Dad’s Army’. Whilst sleepily regarding the hilarious antics of the Home Guard from Warmington-on-Sea I suddenly got prompted into movement by a familiar and unwelcome sensation from my stomach.

I’d been urged by the nurses to get out of bed when I could and I felt that this was probably one of those moments. I delicately pulled myself off the bed and over to the bathroom as another bout of sickness seemed inevitable. When I realised that, instead of being stood by the sink and staring at my pale face in the mirror, I was actually lying flat on my back staring at the ceiling I realised that something had gone awry.

I had somehow fallen backwards but I had no memory of doing so. I was just there. After a few moments of enjoying a cool draught on the back of my head I looked around me. My body was laid about two-thirds of the way into the bathroom with my head and shoulders still within the bedroom. Fortunately it didn’t appear that I’d struck anything on the way down but the little bag that was attached to me by a tube into the side of my abdomen to capture any nasty seepage had come away and was now some distance away from me. There was blood, but not too much.

I couldn’t seem to move so laid prone for a while before finding I could sort of get up on my elbows, and so I tried to drag my weakened carcass back to the bed, with only minimal success. At that moment a young lady arrived with a mug of Horlicks. She seemed surprised to see me on the floor and decided that it was probably an opportune moment to seek some assistance from someone who was medically trained. I was not in a position to argue.

Within moments my room was full of nurses and doctors. A tall gentleman appeared and hauled me up from the floor and back on to the bed. The bag was reattached and they left me alone, but I was now subject to regular blood pressure checks as mine had apparently gone through the roof for no discernible reason.

My sleep was not entirely satisfying that night. I couldn’t get comfortable, especially as I could only really lie on my back, and I was being visited every couple of hours for medical tests of one form or another. The hours passed slowly and I was therefore glad to see the sunlight start to emerge from the cover of darkness.

At around 8am I was visited by a chirpy lady with some breakfast and tea. I sat myself up and was ready to tuck into the Corn Flakes she had brought when I became aware of some dampness on the right hand side of my tummy. I cautiously investigated and found I was leaking a little blood out of one of my wounds near the bag. No matter I thought, I’ll ping the bell in a minute after I’ve had myself a welcome cup of tea. As I was pouring and the reassuring smell of English Breakfast tea hit my nostrils I realised that the dampness had now spread. I looked again and was slightly startled to find that I was now sat in a substantial puddle of my own blood. I decided that help may be needed.

I rang the bell and after a few minutes the nurse, a charming young lady called Laura, arrived and calmly investigated. Again, much like the night before, my room was soon filled with what seemed like the entire medical staff from the hospital as they tried in vain to staunch the flow. I heard mutterings of ‘blood transfusion’ but I remained calm as towels from the bathroom were being deployed.

Eventually the Consultant was called in to investigate the blood bath. He surmised that my fall had caused the bag’s tube to pierce a blood vessel. He said that this was probably just skin blood that had been forming overnight and, instead of staunching it, the blood should be encouraged to flow forth. He pressed on my wound and the blood poured from my side like a raging red river.

Once he was satisfied that as much blood that was going to emerge had emerged he sewed me back up, but told me that my abdomen would now swell up and that I will most likely have a fair bit of bruising. There was however a veiled threat that if things didn’t go as he expected that more surgery would be necessary so for the rest of the Sunday I was nil by mouth and I wouldn’t be going home as expected.

For the next 36 hours I was poked, prodded, stabbed and generally manhandled, mostly by a German fellow calling himself ‘Doctor Bob’ who I wasn’t convinced had any kind of medical training whatsoever, until they eventually released me back into the wild on the Monday evening. My stomach and right hip did indeed swell up to the point that the only clothes I had that fitted me were my pyjamas, which I lived in for about a week. The bruising was spectacular and featured more colours than the famous sands of Alum Bay on the Isle of Wight.

For the following few weeks I found that I could only sleep on my back, which is surprisingly uncomfortable for prolonged periods, and my mobility was much reduced. A kindly soul had lent me some DVDs to watch during my convalescence. They comprised mostly of the Alien films. Given the gore I had recently experienced I figured they would be an easy watch. The only problem I had was that our DVD player is on the bottom shelf of the TV unit and I couldn’t get to it. More to the point, if I’d had to get down on the floor to load the DVD I would have had to stay there for the rest of the day and that would not be a satisfactory way to view any classic movie.

I was however on hand to receive Christmas presents that the present Mrs Hayward had ordered, even if it took me 10 minutes to walk the short distance to the door. Throughout my recovery I frequently answered the door to our chatty Mancunian postman, although I did have to explain my appearance in pyjamas at all times of the day lest he thought I was some work shy fop who ordered parcels in a woman’s name. Following this explanation he enquired about my health on a daily basis, once to a puzzled Mrs Hayward who hadn’t realised that we’d struck up this level of camaraderie whilst she was at work.

My recovery is now complete and all is well. I am eating and drinking normally with no ill effects. My scars are minimal and if anyone asks (not that a lot of people have to witness my bare torso) I am ready with a story of how I battled a man eating shark and won.

“You think this is bad?” I tell them, “You should have seen the shark”.