Long, hot summer of '76, RAF West Raynham, Norfolk: nervous, spoddy, never-flown-before Air Cadet, just old enough to be allowed on annual camp, staggering out encumbered by seat-parachute to red and white Chipmunk shimmering in the haze coming off the asphalt. Been-there-done-that RAFVR Flying Officer waiting in the cockpit(probably a retired Air Marshall with a zillion hours on Hunters). "Sir Sir, please Sir can we go upside down please Sir....". We did.
Can't remember what first made me obsessed with aeroplanes, but remember going into a frenzy aged 9 when a routine visit to the local shops was transformed by the mysterious presence in the ice rink car park of a wingless Spitfire on a flatbed truck. I reached up on tiptoes and touched its wheel, and spent the rest of the day in a dream...