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

That morning, my wife broke the news that we were expecting our fourth child. She added with characteristic resolve, We dont have the money to buy a house, so well have to get one from the council. Youre hopeless at navigating bureaucracy, so my plan is simple: Ill give birth to one child every yearif we cant win with the quality of their father, well just win with the sheer number of children!

At work, I hesitated at the frosted glass door marked “Management.” The office was already full. Mr. Tanglewood, the principal, and his deputy, Mr. Harewood, were in the midst of a meeting.

Its a matter of our reputation, Tanglewood was saying, his voice carrying authority. We have to outdo every other institute in sports. Ahheres our secret weapon! He spotted me and gestured dramatically.

I blushed. Im afraid not much of a weapon. I’ve come about the council flat

The new flats are finished next week, Harewood announced, brimming with ceremony. Youre first on the list. A little jumping about, and its all yours.

What do you mean, jumping about? I replied, unable to hide my growing smile.

Parachuting. The competition is tomorrow.

My grin faded. Jump from where?

From a plane, obviously, Harewood replied, sorting his papers. Havent you seen the news? Everyones at it: actors on Dancing On Ice, singers on high wires, now academics breaking records. Professor Bullman boxed on telly just yesterday, he nodded at a thin, battered Bullman sitting on the sofa, his nose swollen and his face peppered with plasters. Dr. Crick wrestled last weekendhes still in hospital. Now its your turn. We divvied up the remaining sports. Parachuting landed on you.

At the word “landed,” my knees gave out from under me.

Whens the jump? I barely croaked.

Tomorrow. St Georges Day, Harewood declared, almost with pride.

I looked desperately at Tanglewood for reprieve. Do the birds really need me to perish for their holiday?

The principal stood, placed a heavy hand on my shoulder. Youll get your council flat as a responsible family man. But There are flats with balconies and without, with views of the park or with the cement works. When we allocate, we take community spirit into account.

A hush fell. I let my blood pressure pill fizz on my tongue, then tried, And if I miss the ground altogether? Or overshoot? Will the family get the park view at least?

Harewood beamed wide as a rugby field. You know our rule: Wives and orphans skip to the front of the queue! Dont fret. Youll have an experienced partner. He jabbed a finger at a ghost-pale postgrad hunched by the radiator.

Hes due for redundancy anyway, Harewood confided.

Ive always had vertigowobbly on chairs, seasick at the mention of aircraft. That night, I trained by jumping from the sofa to the carpet, again and again.

The next morning, the sacrificial postgrad and I were driven in a black stretch van that made me think of a hearse. Following behind: Tanglewoods Mercedes, and behind that, a whole convoy of staffthirty strongfrom dons to professors.

At the airfield, Harewood stood waiting, baton in hand, by the hired band. A heavy, hymn-like funeral march thundered out. Even the pilot dabbed his eyes. Three musicians clambered aboard to give us a cheery tune when, inevitably, we leapt.

Our instructor, a gentle man with the pallor of Greek tragedy, eyed my belly and immediately handed me a second parachute. Strapped up, I looked a right sighta two-humped camel next to the postgrads single.

Once airborne, the instructor ran through all the scenarios in which our parachutes might fail, then, in a rush of emotion, gave us each a kiss for luck. He lifted the hatch, gave me a mournful look, and whispered, Its time.

I silently handed him an envelope. If my wife has a son, please name him after me.

He tried to reassure me, Most people are only frightened at the start. Afterwards, you feel nothing.

Off you go, you daredevil! the pilot called out.

The band struck up Rule, Britannia! I shut my eyes and jumped, but when I opened them, half of me was inside the aircraft, the other dangling in spaceI was wedged halfway through the hatch. The instructor and postgrad pushed, but I wouldnt budge.

Shouldve used butter, the postgrad muttered.

The instructor began to panic. Clear the way! Youre holding up the whole event!

How? I yelled back.

Breathe out!

With a long Ooohhhh, I emptied my lungs, slipped free, and dropped into the void. Id pulled the cord before leaving the plane, so my parachute snared on the landing gear, leaving me swinging beneath the fuselage.

The pilot began wild aerial stunts, trying to shake me loose, but I clung on for dear life.

Stop mucking about! the instructor bellowed. Let go of the plane, now!

But I held fast. Soon the instructor himself crawled half out of the hatch to loosen me. The postgrad, gripping his ankles, lunged after him. Suddenly, the plane jolted: out they tumbledfirst the instructor, clutching my lapels, then the postgrad, fixed on his trainers legs.

It was an acrobatic calamity, the three of us swinging through the sky, like a family of circus performers taking their aerial finale. The musicians struck up Those Magnificent Men in Their Flying Machines.

The instructor hollered, Let go, lad, youve cut off my blood supply!

I, empathetic, offered the postgrad my own legs, but he refused: Yours are too bonythese are better for holding on.

We circled over the airfield, the plane dipping dramatically to encourage us to let go. The postgrad grazed the grass with his feet, but stuck tight to the instructors legs, so up we soared again.

Fuel was running low. Someone poked a pole with a rope from the hatch, snared the postgrads ankles, and hauled us uppostgrad first, then instructor, then me. As they pulled me in, I got stuck yet again: my head in the plane, legs flapping outside, but by then I couldn’t care lessthe plane was already landing. I ran half a mile, my feet skimming the runway, before being fully reeled in.

No one died. Everyone cheered. The band played their cheeriest funeral march.

Only the instructor was left immobile on the tarmacthe postgrad still clinging to his legs with a grip of iron. It took a pair of pliers to prise him off.

When freed and upright, it became clear the instructors trousers had shrunk somehow, turned into long shorts. But it was actually his legsstretched a good foot by the ordealleaving him looking rather like an ostrich.

Same again tomorrow! Harewood announced merrily.

The poor instructor paled to match my unopened parachute and waddled away straight to the phone. Whatever calls he made, I didnt careI was declared the winner, in this and any future institute sport for the next decade. They even entered my running record from running at the speed of a taxiing plane halved, since technically only my bottom half was running, my top half flying.

Still, it was a record to remember.