The PLF

The art of the Parachute Landing Fall lies in throwing yourself unnaturally at the ground, and missing.

It is a feat, according to Jack, that manifests itself in the desire to do to your body what would happen should your chute fail, before it fails. Just to see what happens.

At least this is what he thought when first he signed up for the Elementary Course and spent the morning cultivating bruises and tomorrow's stiffnesses. At the time he thought he was in with the wrong crowd. Those who would, with wanton abandon, throw their head at the ground and then challenge their arses to get there first. The type who would gladly reduce a carefully planned cabbage patch, coming hot for that perfect swoop.

His view changed one day when he happened to find himself hanging precariously from the guttering of an old house. How he got to be there is another story involving a luscious damsel, a large cranially-challenged boyfriend and bad timing. He had only been there for a few seconds when, with a sigh and a squeal, he detached from the building side and plummetted toward the dark patch below which he knew to be the rose bed. 4m of rusty guttering followed shortly behind him.

As his feet hit the ground he found a miraculous feeling take over his body. Time seems to turn slow and greasy. His knees locked themselves together of their own accord, his arms tucked and he found his body slipping sideways, his head tucking in. With a woooosh he felt the earth roll round behind him across his back and he was up and running. He gave a whoop of joy as he headed purposefully down the road, feeling ten years younger. The fresh air tingled in his nostrils. Good old PLF he thought as he turned down a side street and headed for home.