The Ten-Minute Tilt

Archive

(Interview Transcript: Archive Ref 1922-B. Interviewer: Mr. Julian Halloway. Subject: Mrs. Beatrice Thorne, aged 103. Location: St. Jude's Residential Home, Gloucestershire.) Halloway: Could you describe the exact moment it began? Mrs. Thorne: It was a Tuesday. I remember because it was my mother's day for the roast. We were in the kitchen. There was no flash of light, no trumpet blast. The salt cellar simply decided it didn't want to be on the table anymore. It drifted up, quite slowly, like a bubble in a glass of champagne. Halloway: And you didn't feel any... disorientation? Mrs. Thorne: Only a slight lightness in the stomach. Like the drop of a swing. Then my mother's apron began to float. She looked at me, looked at the ceiling, and then looked at the oven. The chicken had already escaped the pan. It was a lovely bird, too. It was hovering just below the light fixture, dripping grease onto the wallpaper. Halloway: I imagine it was quite frightening. Mrs. Thorne: Frightening? No. It was an inconvenience. My mother spent the next eight minutes trying to swat the chicken back into the pan with a tea towel. She was swimming through the air, kicking her legs. She looked like a very angry beetle. Halloway: Did anyone else in the village notice? Mrs. Thorne: Oh, everyone. I looked out the window. Mr. Penhaligon, the curate, had been pruning the privet hedge. He had gone up about twelve feet. He was clutching his shears and looking quite pale. He wasn't shouting; he was just staring at his boots. He had always been a man of very little composure. Halloway: Ten minutes is a remarkably precise duration. Mrs. Thorne: It felt longer when you were trying to catch the gravy boat. When it ended, everything just... sat back down. The chicken landed right on my mother's head. The curate landed in the middle of the hedge. He spent the rest of the afternoon picking leaves out of his collar. Halloway: Do you think it changed the way the village viewed the world? Mrs. Thorne: It made us all very careful about where we left our hats. And my mother never trusted that particular brand of roasting pan again.