IT’S not often I find myself able to empathise with a talking duck. There’s no malice; I’m not anti-fowl or anything. We just don’t really move in the same circles is all. I can’t say I’ve ever been spotted singing for bread crusts at the local pond or played Blackpool pier balanced on a man’s lap. It’s a lifestyle choice, I suppose.

But recently our circles have drawn ever closer, perhaps because I have a new-found appreciation of the terrible tyranny of gravity. Basically, my heart goes out to one fluffy, green anatidae because I wish – I really wish – I could fly.

I guess I’ve always been a bit in tune with Orville, whether consciously or not. Flying, you see, has forever been the dream. Now, I’m not talking about kicking back in a 747, travel pillow plumped, awaiting in anticipation the delivery of my next bag of peanuts. I’m talking proper flight: two seats, no drinks tray, as close to a Kryptonian passport as it’s possible to hold. The sky, the space, the freedom.

Living for 30 years as a functioning recluse was, above all, tiring. Micromanaging every interaction, hiding the interesting new twitches with which my nerves decided to shame me, constantly adding to the list of terrors; being a wreck takes all your time and no less energy. So the thought of being above it all, both literally and figuratively, was understandably worth holding on to.

Short of velcro-ing feathers to my forearms and jumping from a secluded rock face, the chances of this people-phobe learning to fly were beyond imagination. But, as I recovered, gradually weaving my life into a case less basket-shaped, the idea of flying seemed easier but no more realistic. So imagine my delight – go on, imagine it – when I was finally given the opportunity to take to the skies and call myself a pilot.

Stepping out on to the forecourt of Sywell Aerodrome then, into the perfect glow of a genuine summer morning, set my soul alight. Not only was the aesthetic worthy of a Hollywood screening, the panorama was in Technicolor. And even the fact that my long-awaited flight suit had to be turned up about a yard at the legs could not dampen that feeling of belonging. Apparently, pilot-wear only comes in cool guy sizes. But no matter, for that day I was with The Blades and life was golden.

Based in Sywell, near Northampton, The Blades are a beautiful bunch of former Red Arrows, using their incredible aerobatic skills to entertain the masses. For these guys, sky is but an extension of land; a stomping ground to stomp far from the ground. On top of that, the four-man squad, formed in 2006, are the world’s only display team-cum-airline, meaning they could take this fool skyward without a bag of peanuts in sight.

The Blades, it seems, know how to show a girl a good time. From the moment I arrived at Sywell, skipping past Cold War jets and deco signage, the course was set. Something about the atmosphere itself said that the next few hours were to be spectacular.

Meeting the actual pilots was a lesson in instant hero-worship. Mark “Cutty” Cutmore and Andy Evans: thousands of flying hours between them and the enviable ability to make a person feel secure even while strapping a parachute to their back.

To the planes.

Extra EA-300 for the aficionado; for me, simply things of absolute beauty. Clambering gracelessly across the wing to take the front seat felt almost disrespectful; I’m not quite the Victory Girl these lovelies deserved. But once in place, perched atop enough cushions to separate princess from pea, I have to admit I started to feel the part. Cock my pit and call me Captain.

I was to fly with Andy, Blade 4 and all-round darling, while Cutty, the charming team leader and Blade 1, would fly alongside, giving me the full experience of formation flying, so close to another aircraft as to smell its paintwork. Sick bag tucked indiscreetly between heart and harness and we were off, lifting from the ground like notes from a chorus.

As the Tarmac fell away so did any chance of reneging on my desire to be a pilot. Indescribable is not the word, but only because it suggests that the experience was beyond merely description. It was not. It wasn’t the flying – OK, it wasn’t just the flying – it was the sense of doing something that in some way life has always prevented you from experiencing, whether personally or in a species-wide kind of way. The girl who could not enter a shop on her own, who struggled with life at its very basis was, at last, above it all.

After a couple of loops and some breathtaking trickery to test my mettle, I was given control. Yep, of the plane.

First for some delicate turning and rising but before long flying a loop, and then another, feeling the G force as we pulled into its curve, watching the world below from an angle that only fallen angels should ever know, smoke trails behind, no, in front, hell, I’m no longer sure. The sensation was everything that I’d always imagined. No more, no less than joy itself.

The remainder of my 30-minute flight is a blur of spins and stalls, Andy continually describing the manoeuvres and visuals, checking on my wellbeing in our pre-rehearsed conversation.

How are you feeling, Paula?

100 per cent. Following a particularly lively trio of barrel rolls, I think I dropped fleetingly to 95 but, for the rest, I was all of the percent. All of them.

Barely a breath after take-off and we were coming in to land, jelly legs charged with transport duties once more.

Life, whether we like it or not, tries to limit us all in some way. Socially, physically, mentally: tying our wrists then proffering a handshake. We’re not to blame for still wanting, still trying. In fact, just the opposite. Because when life tells us we can’t fly, the best we can do, Orville, is just flap our little wings all the more.