Would you like fifteen seconds of fame, or would you avoid it? Perhaps fifteen minutes or even one of those weeks that is a long time in politics. There are many ways to achieve brief fame; it could be accidental or you could plan your life to achieve it.
You could pop in to Pret a Manger if you hear a prince happens to be visiting, like Karl Burns our regular Bournemouth Big Issue seller, who subsequently appeared on the television news… repeatedly.
But perhaps you will be unlucky and your stomach will be filmed walking by for one of those obesity items on the news. Just unfortunate that everyone you know recognises the hand knitted jumper your wife made you.
Your brief moment of fame could be multiplied many times over if it appears on every news bulletin. You didn’t even know your town was having an important by election and are totally unprepared to intelligently express your views as you only popped out in your old DIY clothes to buy another tin of paint.
‘Do you think Tom Wilko stands a chance of getting in?’
‘Not if he closes all his stores, where am going to get paint in future?’
‘Well, it seems locals have more pressing concerns than what happens in Westminster.’
How Do they pick people to interview in the street and more curiously, who are those people who get interviewed in their own homes? Do they knock on doors to surprise you or give you three hours to give the house a thorough clean and mow the lawn. No one has ever asked to interview me or anyone I know. The ‘family interview’ asking how they will cope with mortgage rises, hospital / school / shop closures has the puppy and sweet toddlers playing in the foreground. It would be far more interesting if the dog bit the presenter, the little child’s only words were poo poo and the smoke alarm went off because something was burning on the stove.
And what about the viewers? Does the husband who abandoned his wife and children last year feel guilty when he sees her describing their visits to food banks and being thrown out by the landlord as they couldn’t pay the rent?
Have you ever had a brief moment of fame or seen your neighbours on television?
I don’t make a habit of eavesdropping, well only in my capacity as a writer. Often you can’t help overhearing people on their mobile phones, in the street, on the bus, in the toile…toilet?
Usually in the Ladies only banal conversations emanate from inside cubicles.
‘Are you sure you don’t want a wee George before we go, Mummy’s going to have a wee, are you sure you don’t… Daisy are you washing your hands properly, Daisy are you still there, wait till Mummy’s finished, don’t go out… Daisy, DAISEEE?’
I know from films and TV thrillers that men have endless dramatic conversations at the urinals, threatening, exchanging important information, dealing drugs or even assassinating each other.
The other day at our local busy sports centre the Ladies had a more interesting conversation to overhear.
Surely she’s not taking her phone into the cubicle, she’s actually carrying on talking while she’s going and I can hear the other person clearly, must be on speaker.
I felt almost guilty intruding on their conversation, but I was in my cubicle first, I didn’t ask her to move in next door.
‘Oh my god Bella, are you sure, whyever would you think that?’
‘He was late home that night.’
‘Was it his darts night?’
‘Till 3am! Creeping in but woke me up anyway. I asked where he’d been and he told me not to worry and go back to sleep. As if I could, especially when I could hear him putting the washing machine on.’
‘But that still doesn’t mean he had anything to do with it.’
‘Oh what shall I do, ring that number they gave out on the news?’
‘Bella, you can’t seriously think Dave could be involved, they would have needed a chainsaw.’
‘He’s got a chainsaw.’
‘Oh, well that’s probably because he is a tree surgeon. Don’t do anything yet, you don’t actually know anything.’
I didn’t dare flush the toilet, I did not want her to know anyone was listening in to what could be an incriminating conversation. Nor did I want to miss a word.
‘Bella, have you told anyone else yet?’
‘No, of course not, I just had to tell someone, do you think I’m crazy?’
‘Yes er no… is there anything you have not told me about Dave?’
‘No, well there was that one time I got a weird phone call from his ex.’
‘As she was still alive that’s reassuring. Where are you now?’
‘Walking the dog in the park.’
‘And where’s Dave?’
‘He was asleep when I left.’
‘Not the park where they found the body parts!’
‘No, that’s still taped off and police everywhere.’
‘I suppose you could call that number anonymously… and don’t go home.’
The toilet flushed and the door banged, I did not hear any more, didn’t dare creep out till she was gone. But what should I do. Back out in reception and the café it was so busy there was no way of guessing who had been in the Ladies. How could I phone the police and say someone called Dave who lived with Bella might be the murderer?
Many of our humans take us to stay with their friends and relatives, which can be a bit of an ordeal, but mostly better than being sent ‘on a little holiday,’ their euphemism for dumping us in a boarding kennel.
It is important to beware of the pitfalls of staying in another house, but also to be understanding, remember, there are no bad humans, only badly trained humans.
After a testing journey in an overpacked car or crowded train, how you are greeted is a good indication of how the visit will pan out.
‘Oh he’s so adorable.’
I’m a girl!
‘Who’s a cutsie wootsie little puppy then.’
I’m two… and for goodness sake, aren’t there any humans around here with intelligent conversation?
But that’s better than
‘I hope he’s not allowed on the furniture.’
Where do they expect me to lie, surely not on the floor.
‘Oh good, you’ve brought his cage.’
‘It’s a crate not a cage Mother’ says your owner.
‘Well whatever it is, put it in the laundry.’
No you’re both wrong, it’s my personal safe space which I like to have placed somewhere nice.
After making an effort to enthusiastically greet your hosts it’s time to explore. If you smell something nice cooking be sure to head straight for the kitchen to show your appreciation. There will probably be tasty treats left on the edge of the work top for you.
Hosts enjoy the fun of having more than one dog to visit and soon their quiet, boring house will have turned into a happy hub bub, causing much hilarity.
‘Si..monn.. come and get your dogs out of my kitchen NOW.’
I wish I had hung onto that stair gate, it’s worse than having toddlers around… DEREK, De rekkk… can you rescue Aunt Mary’s tapestry cushions and put them in the top of our wardrobe and while you’re up there shut all the doors. Oh my god, what have they brought in from the garden, is it a dead rat? A toy squirrel? When we were children the only toys dogs had were a few sticks and a ball.’
Your host’s garden is bound to be more interesting than yours. They may have a fun paddling pool with real fish, or if they are the sort of humans who decided to have little humans as dog substitutes, there will be balls to chase and swings, slides and climbing frames for you to chase the little humans up. They will love it.
‘Mummmee, he’s bitten my football and bursted it.’
But playtime must come to an end for dinner time. If you are asked to stay in your safe space while they rather rudely eat dinner without you, be patient and stay alert for conversations such as…
‘Yes of course they can have a few leftovers, I’m not surprised they prefer roast chicken to that horrible dry stuff you give them…’
Hurrah, the host is on your side.
‘Balanced nutrition, whatever happened to marrow bone jelly and tins of chum?’
After a lovely roast dinner pop into the kitchen to see if you can help tidy up, but be careful of your manners if the dish washer is open. Strangely some humans don’t like you licking the dishwasher, even when everything inside is nice and clean.
Soon you hear the hopeful words
‘Yes okay, an evening walk in the park to get rid of their energy sounds an excellent idea, you staying here relaxing after your long drive does Not. Your mother and I are not picking up dog poo or running after escaped dogs.’
Everyone’s spirits are high as you run around and explore the local park and make new friends. Your hosts make new friends as well.
‘Oh aren’t they gorgeous, bet they’re a handful, are they yours?’
‘No they certainly are not, just visiting.’
Perhaps your humans will want to catch up with old human friends and pop into the pub on the way back. Lie quietly under the table and hopefully you will get the sort of treats you’re not allowed at home. Patience is required though as humans get so busy talking they forget about you.
‘Has he had the chop then, poor old thing, mind you not a good idea to breed from an ugly mutt like him, ha ha haa. Oh, they’re pedigrees? Here have some hot and spicy BBQ crisps Mr. Pedigree and Miss Pedigree. Not allowed crisps? Oh oh, they’ve wolfed down two packets each.’
Finally don’t forget to protect your humans from danger when visiting all these new places. A good snarl will tell that dog under the next table to stay put. When you finally get back to your hosts’ house check the garden for foxes and cats and send them running.
‘SiMOn, what Are your dogs doing out there, they’ve set off that wretched dog next door barking.’
At last it’s time for a well earned sleep in you safe space, if you can get to sleep with that overpowering scent of washing powder in the laundry.
I ignored the large envelope, some charity begging letter, it was us that needed charity. It soon disappeared beneath lunch boxes and homework books. Our tiny kitchen was always cluttered. I opened the back door and the children rushed upstairs to open all the bedroom windows. They knew the drill, at least this unseasonably warm September made it easier to air the house out from the smell of damp and mould.
It was five o’clock already, we had stopped at the swings to get some fresh air before being cooped up for the evening. Time to get on with dinner. I checked their homework books and started clearing space to cook. The colourful envelope had written in large letters across the top, DO NOT throw away, contains important information for the addressee. Definitely rubbish. I put it aside to read the more important looking letter in a white envelope from a solicitor?
I ripped it open, what on earth could it… notice our tenancy would not be renewed… my mouth went dry, I leaned against the narrow work top. We had assumed we would renew our tenancy again next month. That wasn’t the only bad news today, the announcement that the Wilko chain of stores could not be saved had been the only topic of conversation at work that morning. Hope was no longer an option for we staff.
When Mark walked through the door I could not read the expression on his face.
‘Do you want the good news or the bad news first.’
‘Bad’ I replied automatically.
‘Derek has had a heart attack.’
‘Oh that’s a shock, is he dead?’
‘Not quite, intensive care.’
I was relieved on two counts, the bad news wasn’t ours and at least Derek was not dead.
‘So what is the good news?’
‘I’m taking over his job, supervisor at last.’
‘Oh great’ I tried to sound enthusiastic, Mark’s good news cancelled out by me losing my job and of course The Letter. I grabbed it off the counter top, knocking the junk mail envelope to the floor. Dream House in big letters on the back, probably full of raffle tickets I could not afford to buy…
‘Cheer up Chelle, I heard about Wilkos, we knew it was coming, my pay rise will help till you find something else.’
I held out the dreaded white envelope but at that moment the children came rushing down the stairs and the door bell began ringing frantically.
‘I’ll go, if that’s Maggie I need the money she owes me, but I don’t need her coming in for a chat.’
I opened the door to be confronted by a young man and woman dressed very smartly.
‘Good evening, Mrs Michelle Gallager?’
‘Erm yes…’
‘We have some very good news for you.’
‘I’m sorry, I have my own beliefs and I’m trying to cook dinner.’
‘No, no we’re not bringing you news of eternal life, something much better. You have won your dream home. Did you get our letter today?’
‘Mark, Mark, bring that letter from the kitchen.’
They waved identity cards in front of me, but I was not going to let them in, this was obviously some kind of scam or trick, perhaps we were being filmed for reality TV.
It was not a scam, not as far as we could tell. Mark and I sat up after the children were in bed tapping on the iPad, checking the charity running the competition and the solicitor assigned to us. I go in for lots of competitions; I once won a family ticket to a third rate theme park and another time a year’s supply of washing powder that gave our youngest a rash. I didn’t recall the dream house, the second prize was a holiday to Bognor Regis, maybe that’s what had drawn me in. Apparently I had neglected to tick the no publicity box, but they were holding off on that for a week until we had decided what to do. What was there to decide, the house looked fabulous and right on the seashore.
‘…and we can sell it and buy our own sensible dream house where we want to live.’
I tuned back in to what Mark was saying.
‘Sell… no it’s our chance to have a new life.’
‘Chelle, we still have to eat and pay the bills and there’s my job. We’ve never been north of Watford and we know nothing about Northumberland.’
‘Room for relatives to stay, fresh air and scenery and the children can have a dog and I can get a job in a seaside café, it will be one long holiday…’
On Sunday we travelled up in a mini bus with ‘our team’ to visit the house. They looked shattered by the time we got there, excited children munching through happy meals at motorway services and talking non stop on the long drive ‘Will it have a drawbridge… and horses and a helicopter pad?’
It was a dream house, exotic looking at the front with picture windows upstairs and downstairs at the back, looking over the sea on a lovely evening. The children rushed round screaming with delight, slipping on polished floors and turning taps on in the various bathrooms. The team seemed eager to get away.
‘Now we will leave you alone for a week, it’s fully furnished as you see, bed linen and everything provided and a week’s worth of food. Don’t rush into any decisions, but we will be back next Sunday with the film crew.’
Mark and I stood on the balcony of the master bedroom looking at the stars. We could hear the children still chattering, faintly as their bedrooms were at the other end of the house.
‘I am so glad we haven’t told anybody yet Mark. Let’s enjoy this week, who cares if the children are missing school.’
‘We’ll have to watch them on that open staircase and that information brochure says to watch out for rip tides.’
The next day the sun shone on the sea and we went exploring. Glorious sand dunes and rolling heath, no sign of civilisation. I loved it.
‘Mummy, when can we go to the shops?’
‘We don’t need anything yet.’
‘But I want to go to the pet shop, you said we could have a puppy.’
‘…and you said I could have a pony.’
On Tuesday we realised there was no Broadband. On Wednesday it started raining, by Thursday most of the food had run out, our team obviously did not know how much food a family eats and we still had not found the shops. On Friday there was a power cut and the cinema sized television did not work. At least on Saturday the sun came out and we found a field of sheep and walked along the shore till we came to a fence that said Ministry of Defence Keep Out.
‘Daddy, can we go home now?’ said our youngest that evening.
On Sunday we waited anxiously for the charity team to return.
If you like aeroplanes, beach life, swimming in the sea, beach huts and sunshine …and people, you might be lucky and enjoy the perfect summer day. The Bournemouth Air Festival usually occurs after the bank holiday weekend and just before the children go back to school for the autumn term, which of course means the weather is guaranteed to suddenly improve. As the festival is held over four days, the chances of sunshine and planes actually taking off are greatly improved. It rained all of August and true to form Thursday 31st August started with torrential downpours.
In the afternoon it ‘brightened up’. Consultation of programme updates indicated nothing was flying all afternoon except the Red Arrows with a low level display at 5.30pm, so there was a mass migration to the cliff top.
The excitement was short lived as they soon flew away.
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.
Times and Tides of a Beachwriter 