My First Parachute Jump

  I was, I believe, ten years old and we were three years into World War 2. My father worked for the Ministry of Aircraft Production in Millbank, London. He went to work each day by bus and then train and he dressed in the proper manner in a dark suit, with optional but minimal pinstripe, white shirt, dark tie, black shoes and a Bowler hat. On days when rain was a possibility, most days, he carried what I think was called a businessman's umbrella. This was indeed a magnificent device. It had a considerably larger diameter than a regular umbrella and had a beautifully carved wooden handle and a long stainless steel shaft coming out of the handle. This was the shaft of the intricate folding framework of the umbrella. On the end of the shaft was a fairly sharp steel point, about 4 or 5 inches long. Thus, it could become a  weapon.
  As I said, we were three years into the war so, in the previous two years, I had watched the Spitfires and Messerschmidts dog fighting overhead and had listened to the rattle of the machine guns and several times had seen pilots descending by parachute. I remember thinking, at the time, what a wonderful sense of freedom that must feel, floating down to the ground. Then, I thought of Dad's umbrella or, Pop's parachute. What a great idea! Looking back on this now, I am ashamed of myself. I knew how to calculate the area within a circle but, I guess I wasn't too good on relativity. At that time, I thought... well, the umbrella is not as big as a parachute but I am not as big as a pilot so, I'll give it a go.
  My bedroom was above the kitchen and the house has very high ceilings so, my window should be high enough above the ground for the umbrella, oops...parachute, to work properly. One day when rain was not forecast and mother had gone to the store, I got out the umbrella, carefully opened it up to check it was in good working order and closed  it again. Perfect.
  I climbed on the window sill, opened the window, opened my parachute, raised it high above my head, took a deep breath, and jumped.........
  As far as I can remember, after what seemed like an eternally long half second, the ground stopped coming up. Then, I put it in perpective and realized that I had stopped going down. So, I looked around. I was sitting on the ground in a sort of loosely assembled heap. My hands were still on the ends of my arms. My legs looked like they would be sort of straight if I could stretch them out. And, nothing hurt except my bum. The parachute looked relatively undamaged (but, remember, I said I wasn't that much good on relativity in those days).
  Then,I turned and looked toward the house and I noticed the damage. Two of my fathers tomato plants were demolished. I know he probably had forty eight more but, these two were the important ones. I needed a plan before he came home. In the meantime, I worked for about an hour in the garage and had the umbrella looking almost as good as new.
  When my father came home, this time by train and then bus, he came in and followed his usual ritual. After kissing my mother, he went upstairs, changed  into something more comfortable, had a wash and came back downstairs. If all was well with the world, I would then hear the chink of glasses as he would pour out a gin and French for himself and a gin and Italian for mother. Tonight, all  was well...so far.  But, it was dark outside. So, I thought I would be OK until Saturday morning.
  When my father came home the next evening, the ritual was going fine but then, no chinking. Instead "Tony, come here right now. Your father needs to talk to you". To cut a long story short, I tried to say that I had seen a fox chasing a rabbit the day before on the terrace. But, that story was less succesful than the parachute.
  Strangely enough, that was also my last parachute jump. And I have never mentioned this to a soul....until now.