Iain fidgeted in his chair, twisting little bits of paper into powder and repeatedly adjusting the position of his drink to somewhere he was absolutely certain this time that no one could trip over it. All the while, he studiously avoided looking at the button.
“Come on then,” his mother signed. “It’s nearly time.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t. It might be terrible. What if it’s terrible? I don’t want to see it if it’s terrible. "
“It won’t be terrible. And how will you know if you don’t watch it? I thought you wanted to be on telly? We didn’t put you through RADA so that we could not watch you be on telly.”
“It’ll probably be the only time I’ll be on telly.”
“All the more reason for us to watch it,” she said as she snatched the remote from the arm of his chair and changed the channel. Iain wriggled behind his cushion at the titles started, chewing on the chintz frills.
37 minutes later, he sprang forward again, waggling a finger at the screen.
“There! Behind the till on the left! Scanning the beans! I’m on TV!”