BEING 58 millionth in line to the throne and female, I rarely feel like Prince William. But when he spoke of his amazement at having survived his first solo flight as a pilot, I thought: "Sir, I know what you are saying."
I have a private pilot's licence. Learning to fly was the most dangerous thing I ever did. No matter how much you concentrate, there's always something you forget. You just hope it's something physics can forgive.
I did my training in Florida, whe
re it's cheaper and there are fewer hills to fly into. There, I learned to operate a high-winged Cessna called November 6834 Golf. I sat my aircraft technical exam, answering questions such as: what are the four stages of the piston engine? What was more amazing, I knew the answer. Suck, squeeze, bang, blow.
I mastered radio-telephony, a curt language that allows little chatter. May Day calls are reserved for moments of imminent catastrophe; lesser emergencies require transmission of the phrase, Pan pan, pan pan. I hoped never to transmit that; laughter would follow and the situation would quickly worsen to a May Day.
My first solo wasn't far off a "Pan pan, pan pan". The venue was Runway Niner at Winterhaven airport. 34 Golf and I were a top aviation team; for two weeks we had been taking off, turning downwind, then landing again in a circuit. Of course, in the co-pilot's seat throughout had been my instructor, George, a bulwark against disaster. Now he was in the control tower, assessing my first solo. I turned on to final approach, within flap operating range. I always liked applying one stage of flap – I live my life there.
My headphones crackled.
"Your flare, remember?" said George.
"Oh. Yeah. I mean, roger."
There are many differences between fashion and aviation: this is a big one. Stylish people care about the width of a flare, pilots its height. Coming in to land, the flare is when power is cut and the nose of the craft is lifted. Ideally, the plane flies along just above the runway, gradually losing speed and altitude until its wheels come smoothly on to the tarmac.
"Now!"
I cut the engine and tipped the nose of the plane skyward. The Cessna reared, as if frightened.
"You're trailing sparks!" George barked. "Full power, flaps up, climb attitude."
"I can bring her down."
"Yeah, in how many pieces?"
The plane met the tarmac again. The contact was brief, as we bounced. And kept bouncing. On our tenth bounce, the Cessna consented to a more permanent arrangement with the terrain. I had nothing to do with it. George ran out of the tower. "You might get a repair bill for the runway." His pores had produced a flood of sweat to create a new lake in Florida.
There were other dangers learning to fly. I survived headphone hair and AvGas on my Gucci trainers. Not to mention propeller humour – flying's equivalent of locker-room jokes – which turned my complaints about the anguish inflicted by the headgear into endless routines by male pilots about how they loved a tight grip.
Oh yes. Which brings us to the male flying community. They swagger in aviator shades and you wonder if their egos will unbalance the stability of the plane. As for their conversation in the bar afterwards? "There I was, upside down in cloud", is the usual opener in this throttle tittle-tattle. Mountains muscle into flight paths, forcing cockpit heroics. Birds get caught in engines, but they're never sparrows. The near-death narrative requires the glamour of at least an eagle in the propeller.
Aside from the intense elation of having flown solo, there is one other way in which I feel like Prince William. There are so few female private pilots that when I phone the Civil Aviation Authority, they call me "sir".
Ascot gets hat-titudeSWISH! The sound of a horse's tail. And the adjective Ascot wishes to be. Except, recently, standards have been slipping. Thoroughly-unbred fillies have attended the royal races, resulting in far more than horseflesh going on show.
To prevent the classes that used to go to the dogs causing Ascot to suffer the same fate, the race authorities have issued a new dress code. Ladies should keep their figures covered and plop on to their heads a "substantial fascinator". In effect, a decorated hat.
Will bouncers be the next step? Let's hope they're given explicit guidelines. If told to bar entry to anything too leggy, with its rump on display and a mane flowing in the wind, they might stop the horses.
And the winner could be… eBayWILL the Oscars fall victim to the writers' strike? My fingers are crossed more tightly than the legs of any celebrity sitting through a long ceremony.
Sure, the lack of a big do at the Golden Globes took its toll. Actors moaned, stylists unplugged their rollers, Botox doctors emptied their syringes, carpet retailers wished they'd excluded anything red from their returns policy and the paparazzi had an early night. Cue tears in convincing acting style of an unnominated actress. For fashionistas, a cancellation of these glamour spectaculars could create a posh frock dividend. Won't actresses seek to gain something from gowns that never got off the hanger? With that hope, I keep searching for an "Almost Worn" section of dresses on eBay.
• I'm with the swingers on the controversy over an adventure play zone in Glasgow's Pollok Park. The plan is to create "Go Ape" – a wild landscape of Tarzan slides and rope ladders. And it's not just for kids! I'm making monkey noises in excitement.
Opponents may prefer more evolved pleasures but, to me, the only problem is the name. Go Ape? Given all the gingers in Scotland, it should be "Go Orang-utan".
The full article contains 988 words and appears in The Scotsman newspaper.
