It was one of those old fashioned local fete things where you write your address on a label and it gets tied to a helium filled balloon and released - the label that gets returned from the most distance wins.
Months later I was rung up one evening by someone who sounded distinctly pissed and informed that I had won the first prize. He turned out to be the pilot of a hot air balloon and my prize was a trip across cow fields, high-voltage pylons and bat sanctuaries in his hot-air propelled vehicle. I politely declined, advising him that I had a far more attractive offer having my eyelids removed with red hot pliers.
Not least of my worries was how exactly does one overcome the lack of toilet facilities in a small basket 2000 feet above the ground?
I needn't have worried on that score.
Apparently there is a thing called a wickerpeedia.