Written by Gordon Aspey
10 September 2016
My first experience with space flight was during the summer of 1936, I was 3 years old. The trajectory wasn’t worthy of historical mention, measuring only 3 metres in a downward spiral. I wasn’t trying to emulate Icarus with his wax winged project (terrible lack of research on his part) or the recent admiral achievements of Mr Tim Peak. In truth, I fell out of the bedroom window and landed on my head. But I made some important observations. I discovered how sharp the senses become during a life threatening situation.
The brain encapsulates the moment in vivid detail and stores it in the memory for all time. I recall, there were birds singing, insects buzzing, the fragrance of wild flowers and the warmth of a summer evening. I remember trying to cling onto the wireless ariel to stop my fall. The wire stretched across the garden from the bedroom window to the outside privy which was covered in pink rambling rose. We had no mains water then, we were in the bucket and chuck it era. I discovered the brain is directly linked to the outer solar system that is why we see stars when the head hits a hard place. The dizzy spinning effect is the brain orbiting the solar system relaying information to the massive computer submerged in a black hole in outer space.
All thoughts and happenings since the beginning of time are sucked into this black hole and registered on this data base. What you had for breakfast on Tuesday and what you did in bed on Wednesday are registered on this mega database. In reality there is no such thing as privacy. The rotation of the earth and all the violent weather patterns are merely filtering information for the database.‘Yeah! Not many people know about that.’ The Tim Peaks of the future will need to discover how to penetrate that hole and get out again in order to find the secrets of the universe. If you want to persevere with this line of thought …that’s where we kinda started isn’t it?
Here is a picture of me recovering from my fall. Notice the white linen hat protecting my shaven head. Seventy eight years later I still have the scar and can recall the incident with crystal clarity.
In later years my space travel was more concerned with military conscription into the RAF. I had my hair ruffled in a Tiger Moth, a bone shaking trip in an Oxford sitting on a converted tea chest and an uneventful trip in an Anson. I then moved to more advanced technology with jet propulsion. This changeover was closely related to the pilot wastage figures approaching 30% on our Somerset station (War department terminology). Flying became closely related to dying. My first trip in a Meteor Mk7-to check how long it could fly before it ran out of octane fuel. The Meteor was one of the earliest aircraft without propellers; it didn’t have an ejector seat either.
The procedure for evacuating the aircraft if in difficulty was to slide back the canopy leap out head first, count to ten and pull the rip cord of your parachute. The reality as explained to me by a flying instructor, your chances of survival following this procedure are on a par with jumping off Beachy Head with a bunch of bananas. To add to my concerns the airman refuelling the aircraft told me my parachute wasn’t strapped on correctly and even if I survived the amputation of legs and testacies by the tail plane I would likely land on my head with life threatening concussion. My involvement as an unwilling volunteer was to act as ballast.
Extra fuel tanks were strapped to the undercarriage and the object of the exercise, to see how long we could remain airborne. We were in prototype territory here with suck it and see solutions. My protestations that I was ground crew and dangerous experiments were not part of my contract fell on deaf ears. ‘That’s an order airman’ was the only comment. It seems incredible that we now travel thousands of miles in tea sipping armchair luxury to all parts of the world with scarcely a second thought. We are now more concerned about holding our trousers up when asked to remove the belt. Though Malaysian passengers have good reasons for more serious concerns.
A recent experience re-kindled the memory of my space flight as a three year old out of the bedroom window. After returning home from a club meeting I remembered my eldest son had borrowed the car with front door key attached. I rang the door bell several times but nobody answered. I rattled the door knocker and shouted through the letter box but still nobody answered the door. I jammed my thumb on the door bell for a whole minute, but nobody answered the door. I was getting cross, grabbing the bass broom I hammered on the letter box but the handle fell off and still nobody answered the door. Our road is deathly quiet 11.30 at night and I didn’t think it possible my family couldn’t hear the racket I was making. I worried perhaps there had been burglars and they were bound and gagged and unable to move. Dogs barked, cats meowed, and neighbours peered behind net curtains.
Then I remembered my elderly neighbour’s door bell had a much louder chime thanks to the quirky behaviour of Wi-Fi technology. When his bell was pressed it played a rousing rendition of Elgar’s Nimrod on our bell. At first we were annoyed with this noisy intrusion until we discovered a positive advantage. His bell would be the signal that double glazing salesman or Jehovah’s witnesses were in the vicinity and we had time to dive into the broom cupboard and pretend nobody was home. Although sorely tempted with this idea his dysfunctional hearing coupled with a town criers voice articulating his disapproval decided me against this approach. Getting more desperate I remembered the ladder behind the summer house and climbing up yelled through the open bathroom fanlight window. “Is anyone at home?”or words to that effect. Hurrah! My wife appeared on the scene. ‘What on earth are you doing on the roof?’ she said. ‘I’m not cleaning the frigging windows, could you possibly blankety blank the frigging door’ I pleaded.
As I started my descent, the ladder lurched sideways. The same intensity of the senses returned as I had experienced as a 3 year old. I remember groaning um ooer-um ooer which if repeated quickly sounds like ’manure manure’ which adequately described my predicament at the time. I grabbed the plastic guttering to stop my fall but it gave way and I was clutching fresh air. I thought ‘oh-no! I’m not going to be around for breakfast.‘ When 16 stone lands on a hard place all planning goes out of the window, in a manner of speaking. I recall hitting the deck with a thud and noted the stars were bigger, brighter and more of them than I remembered from my infant experience.
This might indicate I’m closer to heaven now. ‘Oh dear! Are you alright Gordon?’ said a familiar voice as the Patio flooded with light. At that point I couldn’t speak and hoped I wouldn’t spend the remainder of my life trussed up like a Haggis with plastic tubes sprouting from every orifice. Death would definitely be more preferable. I wriggled each limb in turn and discovered, apart from cuts, abrasions and whiplash I seemed to be ok. She repeated her enquiry with a touch more urgency. ‘I’m just gathering a few mushrooms’ I wanted to say but humour didn’t seem appropriate in the circumstances. I stumbled to my feet smiled weakly and with rounded shoulders and twitching eyebrows explained to her at length how upset I was. I’m lucky to be alive!!