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.

   

Wherever I Lay My Hat........

I don’t know whether it’s nature or nurture but somewhere deep within me there’s a Romany spirit. Not in a Big Fat Gypsy Wedding kind of way, I’m not likely to buy a caravan or aggressively manhandle women in a car park; it’s more wanderlust.

One thing I’ve learnt about myself over the past few months is how easily I settle into a routine, and that makes the flighty part of my brain quite cross, and so I always have that urge to up sticks and see another part of the world.

I suppose I could have gone backpacking when I was a younger chap but it didn’t appeal. At the tender age of 17 I’d discovered beer and girls and the thought of holing up in a bivouac in a desert didn’t seem as appealing as the new world I was exploring in my own back yard. It’s also not about just visiting somewhere, but moving lock, stock and barrel somewhere for a year or two, and to really live somewhere, warts and all.

I can only guess this may have something to do with the fact that I lived in three places before the age of 12. To a young and expanding mind this sets out the stall for how you live your life, constantly on the move. That need for a change of surroundings becomes the routine.

I never really moved that far, but there was always a change of school involved, and so that created challenges in maintaining friendships and having a sense of place, but I don’t think it harmed me. If anything it made me less clingy to one location because my childhood memories were scattered around.

So, for no good reason I’ve compiled a quick assessment of Hayward Homes past and present. All the places I lived and the ups and downs. Or the downs and ups, we’ll see how it pans out.

Calbourne, Isle of Wight

Technically I didn’t live in Calbourne, I lived at a place called, according to the map, Five Houses, but Calbourne was the nearest village. There weren’t actually five houses there. There were two and one of those as I’ve mentioned before was haunted. Also, the place was overrun with spiders, woodlice and other creepy crawlies, it was a good bike ride to get to my friends’ houses and there was an Alsatian who used to come and shout at me. 

On the plus side however there were fields, and countryside, and so many places for a young lad to play. Farmers’ fields were just massive play areas and I have very fond memories of the place. Had I reached my teenage years there it would have probably driven me insane as there was nothing much to do, unless I was going to become a farmer, but that didn’t happen, which is a relief as I can’t milk a cow and the smell of manure turns my stomach, so all to the good.

Nursling, Hampshire

Technically I didn’t live in Nursling either, but again it was the nearest village. I lived on Foxes Lane. It’s not there anymore; it’s now a B&Q car park. When I did live there though it was like Calbourne but with added fun. A motorway had split Nursling in half and we were on the abandoned side. Next to our house was a steep embankment. This could only mean one thing; a length of blue string tied to a tree meant that I had a makeshift abseil rope.

Behind our house there was a patch of what we called ‘the wasteland’ where I used to play with friends. It was a fairly uneven patch of land but the tour de force was what appeared to be a large crater. Many hours were spent speculating what may have caused it, a crashed spaceship being our favourite option, and we’d go searching for the aliens that were obviously now hidden out in the nearby Industrial Estate.

There was plenty of countryside on our doorstep, and a railway track, amazing for someone who came from the Isle of Wight. I accept that there’s a railway line on the Island but not like this one. These were exciting trains that went to exotic destinations, like ‘that there London’. There were some horses in a field opposite the house who I used to feed cow parsley to (not sure if I was supposed to), and there was an abandoned road we discovered where we could cycle up and down with abandon. Also, when I got older and braver (about 10) and my parents were out, I could cycle to Redbridge station and catch a train to Southampton on my own. My parents never knew, and that’s what made it all the more exciting.

Totton, Hampshire

Totton felt amazing when I arrived there as a tender 11 year old. It was only a normal town with houses, and streets and shops but I’d never lived in one before. When I finally left, in my twenties, I realised I’d been there too long as I’d grown to hate it. Everything about it just seemed to annoy me, the miserable, ageing shopping precinct, the large Asda dominating the town centre with the same faces behind the tills that were there when I was a kid, and the lack of a decent public house, one that wasn’t filled with aggressive track-suited chavs, all meant that I still to this day slightly resent visiting it.

It did, however, have its plus points. All my friends were a stone’s throw away, it’s close to Southampton and public transport links were, in my day, good. Having a big Asda was actually quite handy, and I was always slightly impressed by Eling Quay. There’s Totton looking a bit run down and sad, but walk a couple of streets and there’s Eling with it’s boats and church, and tide mill, and pubs. It was an incongruous sight, but a very welcome one.

Leicester, Leicestershire

I loved Leicester. On the surface it’s a fairly standard East Midlands city but it became my home when I chose to go to university there in the 90s, to the point that my visits home during the holidays became less and less frequent.

I can’t pinpoint what I loved exactly, maybe it was the convenience of a city, the freedom to be away from my folks, the many wonderful pubs, the many friends I made, a lot of whom were residents of that fine city rather than my fellow students. The only reason I left was because I ended up living on my own in a grim studio flat after my degree course, flitting between temp jobs, and I realised I needed to save some money, but it was a wrench and I remained a very frequent visitor for the next couple of years.

After years of pining for Leicester I recently realised that the flame has dimmed and it’s been consigned to the back of my mind as being ‘that place I used to live’. Leicester has changed, the pubs I drank in have closed and, in some cases, bulldozed to make way for the future, and with it my memories and fondness have faded, just a little.

Sheffield, South Yorkshire

Sheffield was the city I cheated on Leicester with. I made new friends, drank in new pubs, and rode on the tram system, even once going as far as Halfway just to see what was there. Not much, as it turned out.

I’m fond of Sheffield and for some reason it felt like a thrill to live there but I’m a sucker for dramatic views, and my bedroom window in the attic of an old stone house on a hill meant I could see all across the city below and all the way up the hill on the other side. It was magnificent.

The atmosphere of the city was always great and of course Meadowhall is on your doorstep for all your retail opportunities. Myself and the present Mrs Hayward were tempted to move here after I finished my course, but she got offered a job near her home in Peterborough and so fate played a hand in my next move.

Stamford, Lincolnshire

When the (at the time) future Mrs Hayward and I first moved in together it was in a little house by Stamford railway station. In the brief 18 months or so we lived there we got married so I have a lot of fond memories of that time. I also have a memory of streaking naked around the little court of houses we lived in, so ecstatic was I that Rowetta had been voted out of The X Factor. I may have had a little bit of alcohol before venturing on this scheme and the amount of heart attacks I caused to our elderly neighbours is unrecorded.

I still love Stamford, it’s a beautiful looking town and I would move back there in a heartbeat. The only down side is the cost of houses. For the same price as our barely two bedroomed house by the station, you could buy a good sized family house in, somewhere, er, well, like…..

Bourne, Lincolnshire

Ah yes, the hometown of the present Mrs Hayward. Say what you like about it, and I often do, it’s a nice little town with a couple of decent pubs and a motor racing heritage that was celebrated the other weekend with a cavalcade of old cars being driven by the likes of Damon Hill and Sir Jackie Stewart.

There’s also nothing nicer than driving back home after a day in ‘that there London’ to the tranquillity of the countryside. I don’t have to lie in bed at night listening to lorries rumbling past or police sirens or goods trains loaded up with gravel, the most you hear in the dead of night is the occasional Owl hooting in the distance. OK, so one night a Fox was outside screeching and it scared the be’jesus out of me but that’s about it.

The slight downside is the travel. If you want to go anywhere you have to drive for half an hour before you come to a decent road, and if you want to catch a train you have to travel back in time to the 1950s as the line has now long since gone. If you want to catch a bus you can, but only on every second Tuesday, and then only if the moon is on the wane. Bourne. You’ll never leave.

So that’s it. That’s where I am. In deepest darkest rural Lincolnshire. Those itchy feet though, they’re getting itchier, and no amount of athlete’s foot spray is going to cure that. The Romany in me wants to hitch up his caravan and move on. Time to stick a pin in a map and see where I end up? Perhaps, but I suspect that if I suggest leaving Bourne to the present Mrs Hayward she might just stick a pin in me. Ouch!!

Terry and Relative Dimensions in Space

Being a long time Doctor Who fan I have often pondered what I would do if I owned a TARDIS. Notwithstanding what rooms I would have in a seemingly infinite interior I wouldn’t necessarily put a time machine to good use.

Some people would happily go back in time and explore Victorian England, having tea with Charles Dickens or heading off to the Great Exhibition. I’d probably end up in one of the many Gin houses, half cut on potentially toxic spirits and singing bawdy songs around the ‘old Joanna’.

In others hands they might steer the time travelling craft into the future a few hundred years to see what Earth will be like. Although you’ll have to bear in mind that, if these global warming disciples are right, you’ll need to take some shorts and sun cream, and maybe some flippers so you can get around East Anglia because the sea will have reclaimed the land by then. Mind you, the locals of East Anglia are ahead of the game on this count and have already evolved webbed feet for just this eventuality. 

Leave a TARDIS in my hands though and it’d be wasted on me. I don’t want to go back and see what life was like during the industrial revolution. It was grim and miserable. I’ve read about it in books. I don’t want to be standing on the beaches of Hastings in 1066 because for one thing, I’ll probably be stood in the wrong place and, secondly, if I do happen to be stood with a good view of the battle I’ll probably end up with an arrow in my eye rather than that of the intended regal recipient. 

I’d just play it safe, maybe just go back 30 years or so to a time I remember. I can wander round the Isle of Wight reminding myself of all the shops and places I used to go to when I was a kid. Actually, this is a bad example. The Isle of Wight has changed so little in 30 years I could do that now without the aid of a time machine.

Seriously though, I’d probably just swan back to 1982 and go on a pub crawl because I didn’t use to do that sort of thing when I was 8 years old, or go to the cinema to watch ET the first time around as my parents wouldn’t take me when I was a kid.

I might go further back I suppose, I could head back to 1964 to catch up on the episodes of Doctor Who that were shown but are now lost from the BBC archive. Honestly, I’d use a time machine to go back in time to watch a creaky 1960s TV show about an old man with a time machine. This marvellous contraption is wasted in my hands I tell you.

I suppose I could go back and find myself from the past to give myself some wise advice but, even though it’s just me talking to me as a child, it still seems a bit creepy. Not that I’d be prepared to listen to myself anyway, I’d still make the same mistakes.

“Seriously, listen to me, don’t get that racing bike because although it looks cool and everyone else has got one you’ll never get the hang of the gears and your chain will fall off all the time. Oh, and you shouldn’t buy those red jeans, but if you really must, don’t wear them with that yellow shirt. Oh, and don’t pick GCSE Music as an option because the girl you fancy who plays the flute doesn’t fancy you and you’ll have gone off her by the time the new school year starts”.

So it seems my best bet would be to go back a few weeks and buy that EuroMillions ticket with the winning numbers. Which, when you think about it, seems a bit pointless when I could probably get more if I just flogged the TARDIS instead.

I'm a fool to myself.