I believe I fly, I believe I can… Well, I used to be able to fly, without wings, without an aeroplane. Honest! I used to fly around our sitting room back at my childhood home. I’d stand on the back of the settee, hold my arms out and whoosh… I’d be off, gliding around the room at little below ceiling height. And a few years later, I began to fly outside. Free as a bird. Up over the treetops, over the ocean, higher than the mountains. Weeeeee – it was fun. No, I’m not a bird.
And, no, I’m not mad.
This habit continued for many years. It was a nice feeling. A sense of freedom. Escape. And oh so remember doing it, so I couldn’t have been dreaming. You don’t remember dreams, least not as far back as forty to fifty years, do you? Come on, hands up. Who amongst you can seriously say they can remember their dreams? Okay, may be the odd one or two; perhaps last night’s or that particularly weird one you had last month, after all that turkey and port. Dreams are normally gone and forgotten by morning.
So, what was it that caused me to be able to fly? Fairy dust, like Rudolf? Magic mushrooms, like the hippies in the Swinging Sixties? Waccy baccy? Well, no, none of these things, although close. And it only occurred to me not so very long ago why I could fly. Why it was real. Why it happened.
You see, I was always a sickly child. Had chronic asthma since a baby and plagued with tonsillitis for years until they were removed, suffered with a grumbling appendix until that was whipped out – I won’t continue the list or else I’ll sound like that loony old biddy next door, always rattling on about aches and pains to Mrs Miggins over the fence.
The secret to being able to perform such acrobatic aerodynamics was that for all those years I was on a cocktail of drugs. On such a mixture of medicines and steroids it’s a wonder I am anywhere near as sane as I am. Least, I think I’m sane. If you’re reading this you’ll probably be convinced by now I’m not. No, being able to soar like an eagle and flying without wings were certainly not dreams. They were out-and-out hallucinations. Not so much loop-de-loop as loop-de-flipping loopy.
I think it was all the stuff they were giving me to treat the asthma. Back then, back in the 1950s, Ventolin didn’t exist. That didn’t come on the scene until 1968, so goodness knows what they pumped into me. Mine is caused by physical activity, even walking can bring it on. My condition got so bad I readily volunteered to became a willing guinea pig, anxious to try anything to be rid of it. Nothing worked. Never did, never has. If my mother realised at the time that these fanciful excursions around the living room I was enjoying were happening, I know she would have banned any further drug testing on me. And there came a time in the mid 1970s when we did finally call a halt to any more trials. I still suffer with it, that and several other conditions I have to live with, with but it is controlled. I know my limits, and flying isn’t one of them. The sad thing is, now I know I can’t really fly, I’ve never had that experience again.
A shame really. I would dearly love to fly away from cold, rain and snow sodden England. Now, where would I go, I wonder…?