A giant Dachshund and a miniature doll.
Your last chance to grab a skeleton as this shop goes into administration.
when you can’t remember where you put the ironing board…
Butterflies For Buddleias need your help to save innocent Buddleias in gaol.
Fed up with puppies and kittens? Post your favourite fly pictures on social media.
What if I had stayed? I felt guilty just having that thought after what I have put my family through. I feel no guilt about my brief stay in 2099, that was beyond my control and I would never have chosen to leave my home and family to venture into the unknown future.
As I sat down for another attempt at writing my official report I felt a surprising emotional pull to those few weeks in that very different world. The memories were coming back to me more vividly as the weeks passed and the initial shock and trauma began to wear off. The quiet life in our ‘safe house’, a magnificent country mansion, was making my real life in a 2023 London suburb ever more remote.
The clear skies, wonderfully fresh air and sheer abundance of nature were what many urbanites dream of, though probably not the primitive, dangerous life of The Hunters in 2099. I couldn’t help yearning a little for the comforting scent of roasting spits and the simple life they led, completely at one with their environment, the only life they knew.
I wanted to explain this in my report, I had not typed a single word yet. By 2099 London and presumably the rest of planet Earth, had returned to nature and yet it was not as it should be. Human interference in every part of life for more than a century had resulted in nature recreating itself into a form that terrified the Bunker People, who cowered in the remains of subterranean London.
My status as the mythical Lauren of London meant that I was protected from the dangers that lay outside The Hunter’s large camp. I had persuaded them once to let me go out with the women, children and old men gathering wild fruits. That wasn’t sexist, there were women hunters as well, the tough ones, though every woman was pretty tough. I surmised that anyone with a family predisposition to poor health had not survived the catastrophic breakdown of society. Truly survival of the fittest, these hunters had survived against the odds, plunged back into a prehistoric life without the generations of folk lore to guide them.
The computer screen remained blank and I could hear my boys fighting just outside the library window, I wondered where their father was. I hadn’t got my old life back yet, but after much negotiating my family had been allowed to come and stay here during the school holidays. My poor husband was subject to counselling and scrutiny, sworn to secrecy and his phone confiscated, but the last thing he wanted was to talk to the press after they had treated him as a murder suspect when I was missing. The staff here had persuaded him to listen properly to what I had to say, but he was not totally convinced. He promised to support me if I wanted to admit I was a part of some terrible hoax.
Our sons believed me. When you are five and seven everything in the world is new and amazing. For youngsters obsessed with dinosaurs and fantasy in films and books, it was easy to believe their mother had been transported to the future and back again. They were mainly interested in the strange creatures that grazed and hunted over the grasslands and woods that had spread out from natural parklands and gardens. Amazing creatures have always inhabited the earth and even in our own time if you met an elephant for the first time you would be terrified. Now add in the selective breeding that had gone on for centuries and the more recent legal and illegal tampering with DNA; even a non-scientist like me could guess what had gone wrong when infrastructure broke down and animals made a bid for freedom from farms, zoos, safari parks and laboratories.
The hunters could not understand this evolution, they just knew what to hunt for food and which creatures to escape from and scare off with their burning torches and thunderous drums.
My sons suddenly came rushing up to the desk.
‘Mummy, Mummy tell us about the wild cat again and the giant bison and the huge ram that ran you all over and why did you have to go and lose your phone so you couldn’t take any pictures?’
‘A tabby cat bigger than a lion, with teeth like a sabre toothed tiger attacked me. The hunter on a strong stallion rescued me and we galloped safely away, but I dropped my handbag…’
That was as close as I could get to describing the most terrifying moment of my life, I did not want to give them nightmares, but during the day they lapped up the stories.
‘And what happened when you were picking fruit?’
‘We all stayed close together, the hunters on horseback circled around us all the time with their flaming torches and loud drums, the fierce camp guard dogs warned them as soon as they caught a scent of dangerous animals, even before they came into sight. The dogs started barking in a frenzy and suddenly a ram bigger than a bull came charging towards us. He was not interested in attacking people, he had just seen another ram trying to round up his sheep, like we saw on that farm visit, but these sheep were as big as cows.’
‘What did the ram look like Mummy?’
‘He had curling horns as large as roller coasters and he wanted to attack the other ram, we just happened to be in the way. We crowded together, the fruit gatherers knew what to do and pulled me with them down into a dip, hiding in a prickly thicket. The hunters circled us out of the way and the ram thundered past, trampling a dog and knocking a hunter off his horse.’
‘Was the hunter okay?’
‘Yes’ I lied, shuddering at the memory.
‘Why didn’t they kill the ram?’
‘The spears they had found in the ruins of the Tower of London would never penetrate his mega thick fleece.’
I wasn’t sure where the hunters got their weapons from, passed down from their fathers they said, so this seemed a likely explanation. As I looked at the mixture of fear and delight on the boys faces I was so thankful I had survived to come back to them. No, I would not have wanted to stay.
What could be nicer than a garden in summer?
And an invitation to a garden party on a sunny morning.
Until it starts raining…
But what would a traditional summer garden party be without torrential rain and thunder!
But two books found a new home.
Lies, all lies. Secrets and Lies? No, if I had any secrets I wouldn’t have needed to make up all those lies to sound more interesting on Facebook and WordPress. Today I looked back at the first post on my new blog, Millennium Me.
‘Born as the new millennium started I owe it to the world, to history, to set the design for Twenty First Century Woman. Now in 2016 I know the world is at my feet.’
Okay, so I was born in 1978, nobody could tell from my avatar. It had started as a joke on Facebook where everyone was presenting their oh so fabulous or exciting lives. How do we know any of it is true?
I clicked onto my second blog post.
‘When I left school I vowed never to sit at a desk again. The jungle would be my office, orangutans my colleagues, the desert my holiday breaks.’
My desk job was only meant to last a few months till I had enough money to start my adventures, but every time I thought of leaving I would get one of those persistent colds I’m a martyr to.
2018 and my blog was really taking off.
‘Who would have believed I would celebrate my eighteenth birthday on top of Mount Kilimanjaro, especially after losing my right leg to bone cancer.’
I spent my fortieth birthday quietly, my knee was playing up again so I went to Toby Carvery with Joan from the office, she was glad to have a break from looking after her mother.
2019, romance was in the air and I had more followers than ever.
‘February 14th 2019 – When Your Parents Disapprove of Your Lover.
We were married in a tribal ceremony; just because it was not a recognised marriage in Britain or the catholic church, who cares. We were made for each other, for life, me and my Zulu Warrior.’
2020 and the world wide pandemic found me isolated in KwaZulu Land, truly isolated…
‘I can hardly bear to write that the love of my life has been brutally murdered by an Xhosa warrior.’
I spent all the various lockdowns working from home, one of the handy things about an office job. I had to kill off the Zulu warrior as I have never been further south than the Isle of Wight and I don’t know a lot about Zulus. I was also beginning to get quite a few South African followers and they might have started to get suspicious.
In 2021 I trekked north across the African continent.
‘I spent my twenty first birthday with a Bedouin tribe, never imagining I would find love again. But it was not to be. I was not prepared to share him with his other three wives and I set my goal for the oceans.’
In 2021 I decided after all that lock down business that I needed a holiday, explore some of my own country before venturing abroad. I would have been more adventurous, but I thought taking Joan to Scotland on a coach trip would do her good after the death of her mother.
‘My first blog post for 2022 finds me out on the ocean wide and the oceans are wider than I ever dreamed. Despite having just completed ten rounds of chemotherapy after the return of my cancer, I was determined to take up my place on the round the world yacht race using only seventeenth century navigation techniques. Luckily the other three crew members are experienced.’
The Poole to Cherbourg trip did me a world of good. I loved the open seas and I wasn’t seasick at all during the four and a half hour trip. A chap even chatted me up, but there wasn’t time for a shipboard romance as I had to keep an eye on Joan with her dodgy hip.
In 2023 I have been pondering whether I should wind up this blog. I am beginning to run out of ideas, Liedeas I call them. Revealing that I had just realised I was a Lesbian, or perhaps bisexual had not been a good idea. I received some nasty comments from certain extreme religious groups and also from the LGBTQIA+ community. I think I may have got some of the initials wrong, or at least the right initials, but not necessarily in the right order.
Perhaps I should go out with a bang, reveal the lies, how I fooled all of you…
I usually get lost inside hospitals, but this week I got lost trying to get into a hospital.
I originally opted to have my cancer treatment at Poole hospital because my two local bus companies, three bus choices, all stopped at the main entrance. Since the sudden demise of Yellow Buses ( that’s another story for a bus blog ) my one local frequent bus service stops there. I was additionally relieved to have avoided Royal Bournemouth Hospital when the building work began…
Our three local hospitals now come under University Hospitals Dorset NHS Foundation Trust. Whether this rebranding prompted the building frenzy and swapping round of departments between hospitals or followed the new ideas who can guess. Most patients just want to know which hospital they are supposed to be going to and which door they have to go in.
The original two storey unimposing building was white with blue roofs and recent improvements made it easy to get from the ‘bus hub’ to the main entrance. The main entrance led to a light atrium where the stairs, a café, toilets, information desk, buggy rides, chemist and free taxi phone could all be found. If you stuck to the main corridor that led the length of the hospital, all was well. Of course if you left the main corridor you could easily get lost, you know the scenario…
‘When you come out of the Ladies I’ll be sitting here…’
‘Okay.’
‘Oh dear, I can’t see any seats, let alone a waiting husband…’
I once went out the wrong exit and ended up in the Toby Carvery car park instead of at the bus stops.
The main entrance has now disappeared completely in the building works.
Caner treatment and ongoing medication can lead to other problems, so a recent hospital appointment led to me going off in several directions. Already existing joint problems can be made worse, especially hands for some reason, with perhaps residual nerve damage. At least having bunches of bananas for hands doesn’t stop me writing. The nurse suggested visiting my GP about steroid injections, but he suggested an Xray first.
It has been a long time since I had a face to face with my GP. The wonders of modern technology; he sent my prescription for Ibuprofen gel straight to the chemist and pinged the phone number for X-ray department to my phone. When I rang up I had a choice of Christchurch or Bournemouth; Christchurch not easily accessible by bus, I can at least walk to Bournemouth. The walk is probably an hour, ‘cross country’ past my sports’ centre and then eight lanes of traffic to cross. Not a hike to be taken if the weather is bad or on a very hot sweaty day if you have to strip off for an examination, but a hand X-ray would be fine.
There was a map with the hospital letter and on the phone the receptionist had given me directions from the bus hub… but the reality didn’t make sense. If I had just been told not to go near the hospital, but ‘stay on the road and walk for miles until you find a hole in the hedge’ it would have made sense. I hoped for a bus to arrive and disgorge staff or confident patients I could follow, but the only humans around were waiting for a bus. A board showing departments revealed I needed The West Wing. There was a gate in a fence that said To the West Wing. I opened it, but another sign said No Access to Pedestrians. There did not seem to be any way to get near the hospital. I found signs that pointed to the West Wing and back out of the hospital …and back home? Eventually I realised there were signs at intervals along the hedge and at last a gap… I finally found my way between hoardings and confused motorists to the entrance at the far end of the hospital. Then I walked that long corridor almost back to the main entrance where the X-ray department lies.
GETTING INTO THE HOSPITAL WAS NOT GOING TO BE EASY
Luckily I had planned to arrive early and relax at the coffee shop, no coffee but at least I was in time for my appointment and I was seen straight away. A cheerful young woman took me down the usual maze of corridors, confidently opened one of those doors with skull and crossbones warning of radiation… and quickly backed out saying ‘whoops, sorry’. Obviously that room was occupied and she then found an empty one. It had occurred to me I might have to take my eternity ring off… I never take it off and it won’t come off…
‘Can you just take your ring off.’
‘Well I could run it under this cold tap.’
‘When did you last take it off?’
‘Probably over twenty years ago when I had my carpal tunnel done.’
‘Oh dear, I’ll ask my colleague… try using the sanitiser to make it slippery.’
That didn’t work, more consultation, then she came back and said she would just write in the notes about the ring. I would imagine that on an Xray it’s pretty obvious if the skeleton is wearing a ring… all went well after that. For some reason I had imagined putting my hand between two photographic plates, like a sandwich maker, but the rays came from above.
‘Can you find your way out?’
‘Yes, er maybe…’
‘Just follow the red dots on the floor.’
What a simple but effective idea. When I looked at my watch I had spent a very short time actually in X-ray.
Mellow yellow? You would be far from mellow if you suffered from Xanthophobia, fear of the colour yellow. Xanthophobia from Greek xanthos, yellow .
If you could prove your condition you could opt out of work and many life situations. If we are to be an inclusive society we would need to take drastic action to help sufferers.
There may be a good reason for fearing yellow; which came first, the yellow warning signs or the danger?
In the work place even a cleaning job would be out of the question with those yellow plastic boards warning of wet floors. The police are no longer the Boys in Blue, but the Girls and Boys in yellow. High Viz jackets are standard wear for many jobs now and yellow tabards are worn by everyone from stewards at events ‘Look at me, I’m important and I’m not afraid of yellow’ down to school outings.
Even if you have obtained exemption from work, yellow lurks everywhere. Roadworks going on outside your house? All the council vehicles will be bright yellow. Going on holiday or a day trip? You are sure to come across a yellow bus or even an amphibious vehicle.
You will certainly not be safe in the garden, the Xanthophobic will pray for a cloudy day so the gazanias don’t open up and mow the lawn every day before the dandelions get a chance to pop up and attract those awful bees with their furry yellow stripes. Turning our lawns to meadows must be a nightmare for the Xanthophobic community.
Check before you visit your friends who have been decorating, what colour schemes have they chosen? It seems there is more to choosing paint than we imagined.
‘For all its decorating potential, yellow should be used with due consideration and care. Yellow primary action is to trigger emotional responses,’ says Karen Haller, colour psychology specialist. It has an impact on the nervous system. As a result, yellow is the strongest colour in psychological terms.
While yellow is a colour to use with caution, decorating with yellow has a relatively long wavelength and is emotionally stimulating, making us feel confident, positive and optimistic. but the wrong tone of yellow can lead to feelings of irritation, nervousness and depression.’
If you are Xanthophobic better not come round my house. But Xanthophobics would not be reading this as my website is yellow. I don’t know when it became my favourite colour. In the late seventies it was orange and brown, later it was pink. I’m not sure how I settled on yellow.
How does such a phobia start? Perhaps early exposure to Mr. Men books, the constant company of Mr. Happy and Mr. Tickle…
Do you have a favourite colour or a colour you cannot abide?
Cummings led a very nervous Doctor Chowdry down the long corridor to what the boss liked to call the cabinet room. Used often for important but select gatherings, today’s could prove to be the most important meeting ever held there. A few royals, several iconic television commentators, a few scientists, two highly respected journalists and a young documentary maker. No world leaders or government ministers, but that was for the best if they were to have a serious discussion.
Doctor Chowdry himself had no idea who the men and women were, but seated round the long table, the men in suits and the ladies in professional attire, they looked impressive. The man from 2099 should feel he was being taken seriously.
The doctor was overwhelmed as he entered the room, he had his wish to meet important people, but his mouth felt so dry he wondered if he would be able to utter a word. In the bunker, since his father had died, he was top dog, but now he felt himself shrink. One older man stood up and walked over to him.
‘How very good to meet you at last. I hope Mr. Cumings has been taking good care of you and your stay here has been comfortable. Now we have many questions to ask you, as you would expect, but our only aim is to help you; if what you tell us is true. Now Mr. Cummings will first brief us on his investigations, so please sit down.’
‘Uh, hmm, well medically speaking, if we had all been better prepared, Doctor Chowdry and Miss Belinda Biggins would have been put immediately into isolation. As travellers from the future they would have no immunity to our colds, flu’, Covid etc… you get the picture. No one from the bunker has access to immunisation, but medical tests show these two people have immunity to a lot of diseases. Chowdry himself states that his people do get ill, most recover, a few don’t. Perhaps we can assume that survivors of the apparently horrific years of the middle of the Twenty First century are just that, survival of the fittest. DNA tests so far reveal no genetic defects that could make them susceptible to certain cancers or diseases.’
‘Can we get to the nitty gritty Cummings, two young people in good health, who speak English, what proof have you got they come from the future? Have they shown you the time machine?’
‘They have not had the chance, we brought them straight here for their own safety, but I can tell you that forensic examination of the Ladies toilets at the London Wetherspoon where Mrs Lauren Smith disappeared and where Mrs Smith, Miss Billings and the doctor claim to have appeared eighteen days later, revealed nothing unusual at all, let alone a time portal.’
Agitated, Doctor Chowdry stood up to defend himself.
‘As none of you understand what a portal is, how can you be so certain. Of course it does not have a physical construction you would understand, it can’t be seen or detected if it is not in your time at that moment. My paternal grandfather constructed it when that building was empty and derelict, but before London was destroyed. Like other underground constructions it survived to become part of our bunker. Nobody in the bunker came across it accidentally like poor Mrs Smith on her side, though twice we have had people go missing; we assumed they had stayed outside past the sirens and come to a nasty end, or foolishly decided to join the Hunters. How my grandfather designed it I have no idea, he only told me the secret when he was dying, he had never even told my father. He told me enough to work out how to go through it, but not how to get back again.’
‘How very convenient’ muttered a woman at the other end of the table.
‘I don’t need or want to go back; I am here to warn people to save themselves, what sort of future do you want for your grandchildren?’
The man who had first spoken to him stood up. ‘People have been arguing about time travel for a very long time, can one change the future, if we manage to save civilisation would you still exist?’
‘Who knows, yes if my grandparents still met and my parents still met in happier times…’
The journalist leaned forward ‘What year was your grandfather born?’
‘2004’
‘So all we have to do is find him and DNA would prove you were his grandson.’
‘Obviously we have thought of that’ retorted Cummings, ‘but there are a lot of Chowdrys around, especially if you include spelling variations. He would only be nineteen at the moment, Doctor Chowdry knew him as a doctor, a grandfather. But in our time he is not a doctor and couldn’t have invented his time portal already, because the building is not yet derelict. Now, we have narrowed down our list to Londoners born with that name in 2004, but our doctor here doesn’t know for sure where he was born and when he ended up living in London.‘
A young woman spoke for the first time. ‘Just supposing time travel was true, everything we have been told is true, is it ethical to introduce a teenager to his grandson? Would it change his future, did he invent a time machine because he met someone from the future? If he heard all we have learned would he decide on a different career, science, politics try to save the world?’
‘Yes, yes I must meet him’ shouted Chowdry. ‘He was such an intelligent man, he would understand me and I could help him.’
‘So he is old enough right now to see the problems of the world that gradually will lead to total disaster, but he obviously did no more than anyone else about it, could not understand the full implications. Does that mean he will never meet you?’
Cummings stood and gripped the table ‘Not in the present future, but if we introduce them perhaps it will never happen… old grandson and young grandfather, we must find him, they must meet…’
Few words needed, but anyone having visitors for the weekend will know the importance of the weather, especially if dogs and children are involved, but the good news is… smart phones still work even if you drop them in the sea and swimming in the sea was the most popular activity.
SATURDAY
SUNDAY
A day in August in pictures…
Times and Tides of a Beachwriter 