The Helicopter

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Have you ever wished a helicopter would fall from the sky and smash right through your flat? No, I didn’t think you would have. But that is exactly what I am wishing for as I am wandering home right now. In five minutes I want to turn the corner into my street and see emergency vehicles and a police cordon. Smoke rising in the air and the building that houses my flat squashed into smithereens.

I want news crews to arrive and start interviewing startled neighbours who will tell them that they were just enjoing their morning bowl of cereal when they heard a big snap, crackle and  pop.

“I looked out of the window and there was a helicopter sticking out of the top of the house across the road.” One of them will no doubt say.

Of course I hope none of the other residents are hurt by the crash and I hope the pilot has a miraculous escape with just a few cuts and bruises and maybe a neck brace for show. I hope the rescuers manage to salvage my iPad and at least one pair of boxer shorts. But only a helicopter crash will please me right now.

I was out of the flat at 7.30 this morning. I had a 9 am appointment at the hospital. Don’t worry there’s nothing wrong with me, just a routine check-up. It’s a forty-minute walk to the hospital, so off I went enduring the light rain and my rumbling stomach. Like a good boy I arrived in good time and reported my presence to the receptionist who instructed me to take a seat and wait. So I waited, and waited. I watched the hands of the clock tick around. I watched people who arrived after me get called forward and I watched the receptionist go for and come back from her coffee break. Eventually she asked me what I was waiting for.

“An appointment with Dr Evans,” I said.

“Oh I am sorry sir, Dr Evans is off today. She’s not feeling very well.”

So there you go, a completely wasted morning. If I get home and find my flat still standing, it will feel worse. With luck the building will be reduced to a pile a rubble with a few helicopter blades sticking out like birthday candles. What a story to tell. The wild goose chase that saved my life. I’d surely be on the front page of the Echo, photographed with the doctor who saved my life by being on the sick. I’m nearly home now and there’s not one plume of smoke to be seen. No sirens or  broadcast trucks rushing to the scene. I turn into my street. It’s deserted, no startled neighbours.

It was a wasted journey.