Don’t bother to sit down, there is no point in getting comfortable as you are bound to have forgotten something and will have to get up again.
Whether you have sat down purposefully in your snug office to get on with some super creativity or are settling down with dinner on your lap tray to watch your favourite programme, you will have forgotten something.
Ready for a nice cup of tea/coffee or a cooling beer? Planning to look at the newspaper, check your emails or watch TV? You will forget a pen for the crossword, your phone or the TV remote. Conversely you may sit down prepared for every eventuality then realise your drink is still sitting in the kitchen.
Here is a helpful list of items you may need before sitting down for a tea break or a cosy evening with Netflix. Select according to your interests, hobbies, age and health.
Smart phone, house phone, iPad, TV remote, knitting, tablets ( the sort you swallow ) , glass of water for said tablets, wheat bag heated in the microwave for your neck or any sore body part, ice pack for knee or any injured body part, cutlery for your dinner, beanbag tray for your dinner, notepad and pen in case inspiration strikes, hankies/tissues if you have a streaming cold, throw for snuggling under…
But don’t think you can relax, even if you have checked the list. Do you need to let the dog in, feed the cat? Have you closed the curtains/blinds? In the northern hemisphere days are drawing in and ten minutes after you settle down passers by will see a brightly lit tableau of you lounging on your sofa. I know this because I love to see front rooms lit up and have a peep at people’s décor and what they are up to.
Even when you are organised and comfortable there are events beyond your control, like your Amazon delivery arriving…
Charlotte Charlington had never heard of Hambourne, but an unknown riverside town in middle England appealed to her for her new life and she hoped it would inspire her novel about Lottie Lincoln. She had no idea of Hambourne’s strange history or that she might end up in a novel herself.
Charlotte soon found the High Energy Studio at the Hambourne Leisure Centre, though some of the people going in didn’t look as if they had any energy. The Zumbournetics class with Holly promised low impact, Pilates inspired, static circuits for all the community. ‘Bring your baby or your Zimmer frame.’
While Charlotte was still job hunting she thought she should make the most of her free time and any opportunity to get to know the locals. It took courage for her to walk into a room full of strangers. Young women in leotards with babies strapped to their chests and old chaps with walking sticks each positioned themselves by a chair. An older woman motioned Charlotte to an empty chair beside her, then led the way to a walk in cupboard where they collected an assortment of gear; long stretchy bands, mini dumbbells, squishy balls and foam blocks.
‘First time? It’s great fun.’
Charlotte had hoped to remain anonymous in the busy class, but Holly made a beeline for her.
‘Any problems?’
Not any that Holly could sort out she thought to herself, but smiled and said. ‘Well I have no idea what I’m supposed to do, but apart from that…’
As Holly went off to fiddle with the temperamental music equipment the other lady leaned in to whisper ‘They have to be careful with health problems, especially after Dennis keeled over last month.’
‘Oh dear, dose she work us that hard, was he okay?’
‘No, stone dead. That’s why we’re fund raising for a defibrillator.’
Charlotte hoped here would be no deaths in class today, though it did give her another idea for a Lottie Lincoln case. People don’t just drop dead in a low impact exercise class, there must be a more sinister explanation.
The music blared out.
‘Marching on the spot, shoulders back, shoulder blades in your pockets, deep breath in as you raise your arms… now zip up from your pubic bone to your chin and exhale… open up that pelvis… step forward… Lottie, right foot, right foot darling not left’
Charlotte felt a hot flush coming on as she realised Holly was talking to her. She was having enough trouble working out whether she was supposed to be inhaling or exhaling.
‘Okay take up your bands… Charlie, pink band for beginners not the black. Margaret, under your knee not over…
Pick up your babies or your dumbbells. No Eddy, sit this one out. Easy option shoulder height, harder option reach right up…’
Charlotte thought the real Lottie in her book would be good at this, as well as being an ex army PE instructor, a fact she had just thought of, she also had a very sharp brain.
‘Okay take a drink break. Charlotte, where’s your water?’
Charlotte had assumed there would be a water dispenser.
‘You must have a bottle of water with you and drink at least a litre during the class. If you get dehydrated you will get cramp…’
A whole litre! Charlotte was relieved when they started to cool down, but she had enjoyed bouncing around to the music and realised her mind had been emptied of complicated thoughts. She felt suddenly lost when the class came to an end. Rehydration with a cup of coffee was in order and cake if they had any in the café.
Holly appeared at her side. ‘Well done, are you coming on Thursday?’
‘Twice a week? Oh yes.’
That would be something else to fill her week up. It was harder than she had imagined, living on her own in a town where she knew no one, going from a busy job and busy life to being an unemployed writer. She sat by herself at a table, nearby the young mothers and two young dads from the class were clustered together. Others must have rushed off to their busy lives.
‘Oh chocolate cake, wish I could indulge.’
The woman who had helped her in the class appeared by her table.
‘Shall I join you.’
‘Oh yes’ said Charlotte, pathetically glad, like a new girl at school.
‘Jenny, I’ve been coming for years. Are you new in Hambourne?’
‘Yes, since a couple of weeks ago.’
‘What brought you here?’
She groaned inwardly, that was the trouble with friendly people, they were naturally curious.
‘Oh er a change, getting away from it all.’
‘On your own?’
‘Yes, my daughter thinks I’m mad to move so far without a job to go to.’
‘Where did you work?’
‘At the airport.’
‘Which airport?’
The question took Charlotte by surprise, but of course she was a long way from London now.
‘Heathrow.’
‘Oh how glamourous and exciting,’
Her job wasn’t at all exciting and certainly not glamorous, but she realised she did miss it. However, she had no intention of revealing her actual job or much about her life.
‘There is a great buzz working there, but tell me about Hambourne, I literally stuck a pin in a map of England, got on a train and loved what I saw.’
‘It is indeed a lovely place, I left and came back again. Of course it is rather a strange town…’
You can read The Hambourne Chronicles in my collection Hallows and Heretics.
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?
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?
Many of us have been watching a new BBC Sunday evening drama, Ten Pound Poms, prompting friends to ask how it compared with my family’s experience. The brief answer is completely different and I have found myself being irritated by some aspects of the series, not enough to stop me watching it though! In the drama it is the 1950s and the characters sail out to arrive in Sydney six weeks later, six seconds later for viewers. They are taken on a bus to a migrant camp, winding through bushland till some Nissan huts hove into view. My first annoyance was we had no idea how far away from Sydney they were, all it takes is for a character to say ‘blimey, a hundred miles from the city…’
Anyway, there they were with Nissan huts, dreadful looking outside ‘dunnies’ ( toilets ) and shower blocks. My running irritation is that one of the main characters, Kate the nurse, has make up more suited to modern reality shows or a girls night out. Her eyebrows are ridiculous and in the Australian heat her makeup would be running down her face, not that matron at the hospital would have allowed her to wear such makeup!
The Australians they meet are mostly awful, but so are some of the migrant characters; there are a lot of running stories packed in to this series. They seem to be in the middle of nowhere, but also near a country town, a hospital, the sea and some very swanky houses. What themes do ring true in this drama are the treatment of the Aborigines, who were not counted as humans in the census till the 1960’s and the fact that English children were sent out to Australia as orphans, but many had parents who didn’t know where they had gone.
Perth, Western Australia in the 1960’s
My family’s story is not as dramatic, for any of you who are watching the television series. It took Mum and Dad only six months from the time of applying to us all getting on a chartered migrant flight at Heathrow in October 1964. They chose Perth, Western Australia and we had a ‘sponsor’ who was a chap Dad knew ‘from the office’, the two families had never met. He met us at Perth airport at 1am and took us to the caravan he had booked for us. A week later my parents had found a house to rent. If we had needed to go to a migrant camp I’m sure my mother would not have stepped on the plane! By Christmas they had bought a house on a quarter acre block in a new suburb. Migrants were told that all houses were built on a quarter acre block, that idea didn’t last, but our house had natural bushland.
My novel Quarter Acre Block is inspired and informed by our family’s experience, but not autobiographical. It is told from the point of view of the daughter, who may have some similarities to me… and of the mother. Mum helped me with the adult experience point of view. In the rented house in an older suburb Mum said the only neighbour who talked to her was Dutch, but at our new house we quickly became friends with our new neighbours, who were dinky di Aussies from the goldfields of Kalgoorlie.
The lifestyle migrants looked forward to..
We knew little about Aborigines, I guess we assumed they were enjoying their lifestyle out in ‘the bush.’ We knew nothing about migrant children and stolen Aboriginal children being abused in orphanages.
‘In the nineteen sixties many ‘ten pound pommies’ had never left England before and most expected never to return or see loved ones again. George Palmer saw Australia as a land of opportunities for his four children, his wife longed for warmth and space and their daughter’s ambition was to swim in the sea and own a dog. For migrant children it was a big adventure, for fathers the daunting challenge of finding work and providing for their family, but for the wives the loneliness of settling in a strange place.’
Only 99 pence to download to Kindle or buy the paperback for ten pounds.
Have you been watching Ten Pound Poms, or have you or your family had experience of migrating to another country?
New like! God liked your post Eurovision Eve. You might want to go see what they’re up to! Perhaps you will like their blog as much as they liked yours. Great posts worth seeing from God:Success
What better accolade could a blogger ask for?
This was our book club book this month and it was really interesting and an enjoyable read. Apart from learning a lot about Antarctic and Arctic exploring the many human snippets were fascinating. One of the leading officers would stay up writing till 2am , though he had to rise at 5am. As well as keeping his official journal he had promised a good friend he would keep a personal journal. Writers and insomniacs will empathise. I have enough trouble packing for a week’s holiday, imagine packing supplies for four years including live bullocks… I bet they did not worry about catering for the crew’s dietary requirements and allergies. It’s also of note that many serving in the navy had gone to sea at thirteen or fourteen, no snow flakes on board…
When at last you get that Tonka truck you always longed for.
I felt a rush of air and something or someone grabbing me, hoisting me, hoisting me up as huge claws and teeth were inches from my face.
A huge horse, a rider, my teenage fantasy. I was being hauled up behind the rider. In my fantasy I was lithe and young, rescued by the handsome hero to nestle safely in his arms and cling to the horse’s mane. In reality I was a forty year old mother who had been snatched away from reality into a dystopian future.
‘Hang on tight, I can’t stop’ ordered the rider.
Hang on to what? The man was encased in leather and straps and encumbered with weapons, so was the horse. Suddenly his arm swung up then down, there was a glint of steel followed by a primeval scream. I felt something warm splatter my face; before I instinctively closed my eyes I had seen the arc of blood. If I thought being in the bunker was a nightmare I now realised why Billings said the outside was dangerous.
It was getting dark, but there were lights ahead, a sign that this was a nightmare and I would wake up in my own bed?
The lights were not a return to normality, but flaming torches lining some sort of tunnel. I clung on tight to my rescuer; it was painfully uncomfortable, but better than being eaten by a strange beast. The tunnel sloped downwards and tiled walls were just discernible in the flickering light. Tiled walls that belonged to a civilised city, but where was the city? If I had only been propelled seventy seven years into the future it made no sense. The open wild land I had glimpsed so far had no signs of buildings. Buildings become ruins, they don’t disappear; London could not have disappeared.
I heard other voices, figures emerged from the gloom. We weren’t underground, but in a huge compound. Rugged walls, more torches and a couple of leather clad people with guard dogs.
‘What sort of hunting do you call this?’
A fierce looking chap stepped forward and grabbed the reins.
‘I have no idea who or what she is, but let Mazie take her to the hospitality room and get cleaned up and then I will be the one to question her.’
Hospitality sounded encouraging and two women sat me by a fire and put a bowl of warm water by me. With no mirror I could only guess what my face looked like; the rest of me was bloodied.
‘Do you have a name?’
Did I look so strange I might have been living in the wild, not on an evening out in London with my husband?
‘Lauren, Lauren Smith. I know who I am and where I come from, but I have no idea where I am now.’
‘You’re not from the bunkers?’
I shook my head.
‘Well you are certainly not one of us.’
‘Who are you please?’
‘Hunters of course, Survivors, not like them lot underground. You’ll have to strip off, we’ll burn your clothes, you can’t have the scent of blood on you, wouldn’t stand a chance out there.’
For a moment I thought they were going to send me back ‘out there’, then I felt an hysterical giggle rise in my throat. What would I wear to the theatre if they burnt all my clothes? They put me behind an animal skin screen, poured water into a tub of sorts and handed me a bundle of rough cloth which I had no idea how to put on. Shower gel was obviously not going to be an option.
The drink was welcome as I sat on a bench and saw the bearded face of my rescuer properly for the first time. He smiled, he could have been a chap on television presenting a living in the wilds programme, just a normal man a bit rough and ready.
‘Thanks, thanks so much for rescuing me. I know you won’t believe me if I did tell you who I am and how I got here, or at least I have no idea how I got here.’
‘You look so weird I would believe anything you told me, I mean what on earth were you wearing?’
‘Tell me first what year it is.’
‘2099 of course, can you believe we’re nearly at the end of the century, the strangest century in human history.’
‘I come from 2023, London. I was in a restaurant with my husband and I went through a door and ended up in the bunker.’
‘Okay, so I don’t believe you.’
‘In the bunker a woman declared I was a prophecy come true, come from the past to take you all back to change what happened.’
‘Streuth, of course, the holy book my mother keeps locked up. I never believed all that rubbish … have you come masquerading as Lauren of London to trick some of the gullible ones?’
‘I am not a saviour, just an ordinary person, but perhaps if I meet your mother she will realise I am not a prophecy.’
‘Well here she is, hey Mother, you didn’t waste any time coming to see the stranger.’
‘Of course not, great excitement out there, I guessed you would need my help. I hope you are treating her properly.’
‘Oh yes, I am very grateful to your son for saving my life and everyone has been very hospitable.’
I thought it best to keep on the right side of a mother who might be an important person in this strange community.
‘I have waited all my life for this moment Lauren of London.’
‘No you don’t understand. I am not a saviour, just an ordinary person who can’t believe she has been transported to the future, a future that makes no sense.’
‘Of course my dear, you don’t understand yet. We have a learning journey of months, maybe years, to go on before the great return. First we will open the Holy Book together.’
I was escorted royally to a wooden hut of sorts.
‘Welcome to my home Lauren.’
Inside she slid open a sort of hatch and produced a rudimentary key to unlock a small rectangular box out of which she took a book, kissed it reverentially then handed it to me. I nearly burst out laughing. It was a paperback book, yellowed with age, but I could still discern the lurid cover and guessed it was one of those romantic fantasy novels my sister loves reading.
‘Do you have other books?’
‘Oh no, all gone and what need to do we have of books, just this precious one.’
‘Do you read it often?’
‘I can’t read, my mother used to read it to me when I was little till her eyesight failed; then she carried on telling the prophesy and I learnt it from her, even passed it on to some in the bunkers. Please read it to me.’
I looked at the cover, Door to the Future, not a very original title… by J M Scribbletide, what sort of name was that for a novelist? I perused the first page to find a publishing date, 2028. I felt a chill, this was no holy book, but it was proof that it came from beyond my time. I turned a page and started reading it to the eager woman.
‘It was just an ordinary evening out with my other half, who would have imagined that ordinary me, Lauren Smith, was about to have her life changed beyond imagining…’
Times and Tides of a Beachwriter 