Green Room and Plastic Ukulele…
by Peter Hunter
'Watch it mate!' More rebuke than warning - a taxi driver’s shout - mere irritancy at having to slow down a fraction - a slight affront to the man’s pride - not a serious road hazard. But in his urgency to get out of the way he misjudged his step over the eighteen inches of water flowing along the side of the road, grey slush melting beneath tyres on the road and feet on the pavement.
He cursed his soaked shoes, as a huge splash covered his lower legs from another careless driver...
What a difference three hours made. Waking early, in the blackness of a morning - anticipating the first glimmer of dawn - until the rising glow revealed a soft crisp, six inches of snow - a 'gift' of the skies caress during the long hours of darkness. Breakfast - before a slow four-wheel drive up the slope to the lane, carefully avoiding a slip into the embracing stone sidewalls. Concentration needed - as the car crunched through virgin white for five hundred yards until reaching the main road, already cleared by early traffic going to Salisbury.
Now Hilton - his thoughts distant from crossing the busy West London road - were eight seconds from writing off an aircraft, maybe himself with it, on a fine June day, eighteen months back in a clear blue sky - far from the darkening January around him. He shivered, drawing his lapels close together as a gentle dusting of sleet heralded a shower - it would at least, freshen the air.
Rod Hilton entered the studio with mixed emotions- devoid of the enthusiasm most would experience when about to appear on television. The approach had been casual - a friend of a friend; 'Do you want to be on The Box?'
Recognising surprise on Hilton's face...
'Something 'bout people who survived air crashes…'
Sceptically, Hilton felt concern - not usually a regular viewer - despairing of endless repeats -predictable plots or implausible stories. He loathed the media, seeing only a drug pandering to popular fantasies- except to many it wasn't fantasy - the silly buggers often believed the characters were real...
The receptionist directed Hilton to the Green Room - his mind still recalling clearly the events that day a year ago... It began innocently enough - warm and sunny, a postfrontal high-.
It was rare for it to be so clear - as if he could see for ever...
Boringly facing yet another routine day - he had sat feet on desk - gazing wistfully at the sky.
It wasn't a day for the stuffy office - what he had really wanted was to fly…
Now a year later - that was not what the TV people wanted him for - not about his flying - no they wanted to hear about his crashing…
Many were desperate to appear on TV - whatever their cost in personal dignity. Hilton supposed his presence - drinking coffee in the Green Room - could be seen by some as an achievement - so what? Already regretting agreeing - he felt immersed in a game not of his choosing.
Coffee… warming his numb fingers, he was ushered from the small waiting area to the studio, joining other guests patiently awaiting the proceedings. The others, a curious mixture - anxious, devoid of spontaneous excitement - not knowing what to expect. Huddled, seeking warmth after their cold journeys, expectantly hoping for ephemeral fame of sorts…
Hilton remembered that long ago June day too well - Sue his PA, sensing his frustration, had suggested; 'you aren't really doing anything important today, why don't you skive off and fly your 'plane?'
