This Morning, My Wife Announced We’re Expecting Our Fourth Child—And Then She Added:

That morning, my wife told me we were going to have our fourth child. She added, We cant afford to buy a house, so well have to get one from the council. Since you dont know how to be assertive, heres my plan: Ill have a child every year. If we cant get a house for being the perfect family, well get it for having the most children!

Later, at the university, I nervously opened the door labelled Administration. The room was bustling. The Head, Mr. Meddle, and his deputy, Mr. Sharp, were leading a meeting.

Its about our reputation, folks. We must outdo other universities in every sporting event Oh, theres our star right now! Hed spotted me.

I blushed, embarrassed. Im not really a star I actually wanted to talk about the council house

The new flats open next week, Mr. Sharp announced with flourish. Youre first on the list. Just a small hurdleand then youll have your housewarming.

What hurdle? I asked, breaking into a relieved grin.

A parachute jump. The competitions tomorrow.

My smile instantly faded. Jump where?

To the ground.

And why, exactly?

Dont you ever watch telly? the Head raised an eyebrow. Its all the ragefilm stars skating, pop singers on trapezes Today, its academics breaking records. Professor Oxley boxed in the ring yesterday, he gestured at a frail fellow, Oxley, on the sofa, nose swollen and three plasters on his face. Dr. Pritt took up wrestling last Saturdayhes still in intensive care Now its your turn. We divvied up the eventsparachuting fell to you.

At the mention of fell, my knees buckled.

When do I jump? I croaked.

Tomorrow. For National Bird Day, Mr. Sharp proclaimed.

I turned pleadingly to the Head. But what have I ever done to offend the birds?

He put a reassuring hand on my shoulder. As a father-of-many, youll get your home, but There are flats with balconies, some with park views, others overlooking the cement works. When allocating, well consider enthusiasm for university life

There was a pause. I popped a heart pill and asked, And what if something goes wrong? Will my family at least get a park view?

Mr. Sharp grinned, all charm. You know our policy: widows and orphans skip the queue! And dont worry, he clapped me on the back. You wont be aloneyoull have an experienced partner! He pointed to a pale, bespectacled lad quivering in the corner.

Thats the postgrad student, said Sharp. Hes due for redundancy anyway.

Id always dreaded heightseven standing on a chair to hang a picture made me dizzy. The word plane made me seasick. That night, at home, I practised by leaping off the sofa onto the floor.

Next morning, I and my death-bound companion were chauffeured in a long black minibus that looked disturbingly like a hearse. Mr. Meddle followed in his car; a crowd of thirty lecturers, doctors, and professors trundled behind us on the tram for moral support.

On arrival, Mr. Sharp greeted us, baton in hand, with a band hed ordered specially. They struck up a funeral march so heartrending that even the pilot dabbed his eyes. Three musicians joined us in the plane to play something peppy as we dropped out.

The instructor, a gentle fellow, surveyed my paunch and insisted I take a second parachute. With two packs, I resembled a double-humped camel compared to the postgrads single one.

In the air, the instructor reviewedin detailevery way a parachute could fail. Then, kissing each of us three times, he opened the hatch, glanced at me apologetically and whispered, Its time.

I silently handed him an envelope. Give this to my wife. If its a boy, she can name him after me.

The instructor tried to reassure me. Theres only fear at the startafter that, you wont feel a thing.

Go on, hero! the pilot cheered.

The band struck up Rule, Britannia! I screwed my eyes shut and jumped. When I opened them, I was halfway out the plane: my top half in the cabin, my legs dangling into oblivion. I was firmly wedged.

The instructor and postgrad pushed my head, trying to shove me through, with no luck.

Well have to soap him up, the postgrad suggested.

The instructor began to panic. Clear the hatch! Youre blocking the entire event!

How do I I shouted back.

Breathe out completely!

I gave a long Ahhhh, emptied my lungs, and tumbled into nothing. Id pulled the ripcord in the plane, so the chute caught on the undercarriage, and I hung beneath the aircraft.

The pilot tried to shake me off with loops and dives, but I clung tight.

Stop messing about and let go! the instructor yelled from above.

I wouldnt.

He half-hung out, held by the postgrads grip on his ankles, trying to reach my straps. Suddenly, the plane lurched; both instructor and postgrad fell after me. Miraculously, the instructor grabbed my jacket, with the postgrad swinging from his legs.

We now resembled a circus act mid-swing.

The band in the plane started playing Those Magnificent Men in Their Flying Machines.

The instructor screamed that the postgrad was cutting off his blood flow and hed never walk again. To help, I offered my own legs for holding, but the postgrad clung stubbornly to the instructors.

Landing a plane with three men dangling from it wasnt on the cards. The pilot circled lower and lower, trying to brush us off on the grass. But with each pass, only the postgrads shoes scraped the ground, and every time, he refused to let go, so up we soared again.

The instructor cursed his legs, swearing theyd both drop off together.

Musicians piped up with Up, Up and Away!

The fuel gauge neared empty. Someone poked a stick with a loop through the hatch, lassoed the postgrad by the legs, and thus, in reverse order, hauled us aboard: postgrad, then instructor, then half of memy legs still trailing outside. But the jig was up: the plane was landing and I had to run half a mile along the tarmac, half in and half out of the cabin.

Miraculously, no one died. Everyone cheered.

The band played their jolliest funeral march ever.

But the instructor couldnt movepostgrad was still stuck to his legs like a terrier, needing to be pried off with pliers.

When at last the instructor was upright again, we all burst out laughinghis trousers had ridden up, transforming into a pair of shorts, or so we thought. On closer inspection, it wasnt the trousershis legs had stretched under the strain, and he now looked like an ostrich.

Tomorrow, more competitions! Mr. Sharp shouted.

At that, the instructor went as white as my unopened parachute and galloped off, ostrich legs and all, to the phone. No one knows whom he called or what he said.

But they credited me with a victoryfor this event, the next, and all forthcoming, for the next decade. I even set a running record, since I ran as fast as a plane. Admittedly only my legs did, with my head still airborne, so the official time was halved. Still, it set a new record!