IN another life we were possibly a Spitfire pilot during the Battle of Britain.
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We could just imagine sitting around playing cards at Base when the siren sounds, alerting of a pending air raid.
"Tally ho chaps, time to head to the skies and may god be with you,'' the commander orders.
Debonairly we wrap a scarf around our shoulders, give our pencil thin moustache a twirl and head off to take on Hermann Goring's Luftwaffe at the height of the Blitz. We effect a perfect take off ready to encounter the enemy as they approach the White Cliffs of Dover, humming Vera Lynn's White Cliffs of Dover as we do so. This is for King and Country. Fearlessly and with sublime skill we position our kite as the enemy nears before thundering a volley from our machine gun into the fuel tank of a Heinkel bomber.
"Take that Fritz,'' we yell in triumph as the Heinkel bursts into flames.
However, it's pandemonium with fellow brave pilots involved in ferocious dog fights with the Boche.
"Hells bells, watch that Hun at 2 o'clock,'' a fellow pilot screams through the two-way.
"See him, thanks old boy,'' we reply, deftly veering out of our opponent's range.
Then we circle yet another bomber before moving in to finish the job.
"That's the end of you Red Baron,'' we laugh, possibly getting our world wars confused.
Our deadly accuracy takes a dreadful toll on the Krauts
"Jolly good shot, say what,'' a fellow pilot says in admiration.
At last the job is done. We're were exhausted, but as ever up beat.
"I say, time to loop the loop then pop home for a cup of tea,'' we say, jovially.
So home we fly happy in the knowledge of a job well done and that Mother England was safe, at least for another day.
However, this proved to be premature elation. For out of the sun appeared a Mersher....MessCh....an enemy fighter. We were blindsided.
Despite employing brilliant evasive manoeuvres we're hit. We have to make a snap decision - bale out or go down with the ship. Defiantly we decide to go down with the ship, but in the nick of time remember we're in the RAF and not the navy.
"Time to get out of here,'' we say.
Fortune favours the brave. Our parachute opens and we splash into the English Channel, where we're picked up by a passing fishing trawler.
Hero worshiping crew members give us a feed of kippers as we make our way back to Blighty.
Eventually we return to Base, where our beloved, Doris, the daughter of the town's mayor, is waiting.
"Let's duck behind the officer's mess for a quickie,'' we say adoringly to Doris.
"Before they get me another Spitty and I have to fly again in defence of the realm.''
However, Doris spurns the romantic overtures, instead racing into the arms of a newly arrived and over dressed lieutenant, a Cary Grant-look-alike from the American air force.
Unfortunately these stories never end well.
We were thinking about all this the other day when a colleague, rapidly closing in on 50 years, informed she was going to tick off an item on her bucket list by parachuting out of a plane. We can only wish the pilot well.
This correspondent doesn't have a bucket list. We're too old. But if we did parachuting out of a plane wouldn't be there. For let's face it, once you've jumped from a doomed Spitfire and plonked in the English Channel, everything else is a bit tame.