A helicopter lands in Fleet.
Rooftops are shaken, dogs bark. The conservative Tories in their conservatories emerge blinking into the evening air to find out what the bloody hell the racket is all about.
You can hear it land in the distance. Some come to the streets to go and find out where, and in the living rooms, you can imagine the people looking out and asking 'Don't they have anything better to do?' whilst Paddy or Ant or Dec or Jeremy shout on the television.
The locals are stirred. Drama seldom comes to visit Fleet, and when it does, it is treated as a carnival. Responding officers reassure the people: 'Nothing too dramatic.' Someone needs surgery. An ambulance wouldn't get him to Southampton Hospital fast enough.
Someone, somewhere, despite the official reassurances, finds this dramatic.
The generation of content-generators set to work. iPhones are held up in that familiar craning arm seen often at concerts and car crashes. They point out something of interest, something worth documenting.
'What's the ISO on that?' one camera man, holding up a lens longer than his forearm, snidely asks another. He doesn't respond. Cameras, much like other phallic objects, are cared about more by men who worry about whether or not they're using them enough.
