Dear Ferry Eggers,
Much to my disgrace and chagrin nothing horrifically humiliating
or engrossingly embarrassing has occurred over the past two weeks since
audition-gate. (Unless of course you count the time I was fishing in my bag for
my oyster card and accidentally catapulted three sanitary towels at the bus
driver on the pull out…)
So to remedy this situation I have decided to throw myself
out of a plane. That’s right. Me. Plane. 10,000ft. Jump.
You may think this is crazy and that if I wanted cheap
thrills then I should have just chosen a different cereal brand during my
weekly shop; however, I can assure you that it is all for a very, very good
cause.
Prospect Hospice is the wonderful organisation that helped
care for my best friend’s Dad. They are kind, caring and offer comfort and
confidence to both patients and their families to help them get through the crap
that life has thrown at them. They work in a down to earth manner and, from
what my friend has told me, are a lifeline of support.
It is for them, my best friend and her dad’s memory that I
will be hurtling towards the earth strapped to a (please be a hunky man) professional
sky diver on June 16th 2013.
I will of course be pestering you all for sponsorship nearer
to the time, but before you get irritated at my continual Facebook updates and
pleas, take a moment to think that some poor sod on the ground is going to have
to witness my arse speeding towards him from a stratospheric height. For
his/her sake please sponsor me when the time comes.
Of course, since signing up to do this deed my eye has of
course been drawn to any story in the paper concerning sky-diving, parachutes
not opening and death from a great height in general. Because don’t get me
wrong, I may be writing in a cool, aloofly whimsical manner but I am in actual
fact… cacking it.
The fact I have no choice in the matter as I will be
strapped to the aforesaid (SERIOUSLY PLEASE BE A HUNKY MAN) professional is a
comfort as the option of chickening out, not that I would ever do such a thing,
is out of my hands. My shaky, cold and sweaty hands.
On a serious note (a rare occasion for me I know) I don’t
think I could ever chicken out of this, in the same vain that I sprinted the
last section of the Race for Life even though my lungs were on FIRE, because if
these cherished family members can go through such pain and such trauma then,
at the end of the day, we really have no excuse.
So June 16th 2013. Me and the sky have a date.
And if you don’t hear from me again I haven’t been flattened like a pancake
over Swindon… I have run off with the (I’M NOT EVEN JOKING BE A HUNKY MAN)
professional.
‘Til next time!
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