Wiggins Aerodyne
Ah yes, the veil of Stygian darkness which clouds my memory rolls away and I am in another era; I can savour the heady scent of freshly-cut grass on the airfield through the open window of my room in the Mess. My loyal but incredibly stupid Batman, Pigglethwaite, has just spilt my morning tea over my reclining torso; I intend to scrutinise King's Regulations after breakfast to establish if I can have him shot.
Rising from my Dream Chariot, which I have shared this past night with the delightful Miss Lana Turner, I catch the refrain of a song on a distant wireless by a chap called Sinbad, or Sinatra, or something similar. I doubt he'll come to much. Must remind the spectacularly useless Pigglethwaite to lay out my cricket gear; having a few overs this evening with the good Burgers of Much Piddling in the Marsh, our most adjacent Teeming Metropolis & a den of vice. Ho hum, perhaps we shall strike some suitable hostelry a glancing blow & partake of a modest libation therein, once we have sated our need for the thwack of leather on willow.
Breakfast over (deuced salty kippers this morn), I am walking towards my machine, my Sidcot suit a tad warm on this glorious summer day. The morning breeze stirs her wings; she quivers like a fine horse eager for the first gallop of the day. The chaps have finished securing the Observation Basket to the ventral position; they greet me with due deference, and stand clear. All is ready...........