Simulated Freefall

...is what mrs househusbandnot and I did this Sunday. It kind of went like this:

SUNDAY

8.15 am

househusbandnot/mrs househusbandnot's alarm goes off. Our two heroes wake from their uneven slumber and go about their ablutions/bacon sandwiches/gossiping about the wedding they had been to the previous evening, which they left at a very civilised 11.00 pm. (We are the old people at weddings now, so don't feel the need to stay to the bitter end - one of the nice things about getting on a bit.)

9.43 am

We leave London to drive to Milton Keynes to this place where they do this simulated freefall. We are supposed to get there for 11.00 am for an 11.30 safety briefing, followed by our 12.00 freefall simulated freefall experience. We are looking forward to what will probably be an amusing half hour or so floating around in some sort of hanger like those astonauts in their gravity free training.

10.30 am

Stuck in traffic on the edge of London

11.00 am

Stuck in traffic pretty much where we were half an hour ago. We call ahead and leave a message at the freefall place to say we are running late.

11.11 am

See sign for safari park which we decide to go to if we have missed our freefall slot.

11.39 am

Arrive at huge shopping centre in Milton Keynes at the back of which they have a dry ski slope, a mountain climbing simulation rock face and this simulated freefall place. After brief discussion with receptionist as to whether or not we are too late for our slot and whether or not I exceed the weight limit for doing the simulation, we are bungled into a class room-style room where the instructor looks at us in that inimitable white South African manner of hostility and disinterest and says "You've missed the safety briefing. Are you okay to go ahead without any information".

Now I should have heard the warning bells at this point, not least of all in the voice of the charmless instructor who, in another life, would have been quite happy as an attache for tourism or something in his grand-daddy PW Botha's apartheid South Africa. But responding to the assumed peer pressure that I have always felt in any class room, I speak for mrs househusbandnot and I, and say we are fine going ahead without the safety briefing.

11.45 am

mrs househusband and I join the other eight people to get togged out in boiler suits, goggles, knee and elbow pads and helmets and ear plugs, and Michelin Man our way up to the simulation area.

11.58ish (time was becoming a bit of a blur here)

We all huddle up on a curved bench in what looked like a replica of the execution room from a John Grisham movie, complete with a technician in a glassed off control room and a glassed off viewing area for friends and family etc. It was really hot and noisy in there, especially in our boiler suits and goggles and helmets as we waited for our individual turns to be dragged into the central wind tunnel by Botha The Third for our one minute of simulated freefall fun. (This central area was about the size of a table tennis table, but round and with a precarious looking grilled metal floor through which was rushing the air or wind or whatever that was going keep us buoyant in there.)

I was about fifth in line of our party of 10, so had a chance to watch as each of the four people in front of me got man-handled around the simulation area by Botha Boy and buoyed into some form of floating by the wind rushing through the grilled floor. By the time my turn was up, I knew I was a) not going to enjoy it b) not going to relax c) and get pissed off with Botha Boy as he did hand signals at me to relax and bend my knees more. I was hauled into the round simulation area, and - as far as I can tell - and I am glad we didn't spend the extra £14.95 to get a DVD of our time in there to confirm this - I bounced around about an inch off the grill floor while Botha Boy got increasingly annoyed by my inability to float like a bird. The only bird-like movement I did do was to flip over on my back as if I had just been shot.

After what seemed either 10 or 10 hundred seconds, I was bundled out of the simulation area, and watched while this South African tosser proceeded to do an impersonation of me to illustrate what I should not have been doing in there with him. Encased in my helmet and goggles, my brain was just screaming "Alright already you *&^%. I know I fucked up. Leave me alone."

I opted out of my second go in the simulation area, and marvelled at the other people seemingly enjoying this humiliation, including mrs househusbandnot who, typically, just got on with it and was good at it.

12.45ish

Everyone (except me) had completed their two one minute sessions, and we were allowed out of the simulation/execution area, and back down to the changing rooms to struggle out of our boiler suits.

Now in another life, or a few years ago, I would have mulled over this experience and berated myself for a good week or so about my lack of ability/co-ordination/athleticism in wind, and my decision not to do my second simulation. But armed as I am now with the support of a good woman and the aching body of a 40 year old, I am glad that I didn't do the second session. And I also strongly recommend that you do not bother hauling your - or anyone else's - ass up to Milton Keynes to dress up like a Michelin Man and be bumped around on a metal grill by wind. Oh, I forgot to say. After we had all finished our sessions, Botha Boy did a five minute show off session for us where he floated around upside down and stuff. What a nobber.

We left the shopping centre and found a nice pub where we ate four for ten squids tapas and I drank two pints of cold beer which hit just about every spot that had been numbed or degraded by my brief simulated freefall experience. And we came home and pootled around our nice flat, me having safely secured that mrs househusbandnot did not think me any less of a man for failing to simulate any sort of freefall except one from corporal grace in an oversized vacuum cleaner in Milton Keynes.

Incidentally, strongly recommend the new American show Entourage which we watched on Sunday evening. It made me forget all about Botha Boy.