Sleeper – Part one.
A memoir of my last psychosis, with the love and kindness of Londoners
“She’s confused” Hamid Hussein looks up from his notes.
His two colleagues agree that I should be detained. Hamid draws the pro forma from his in-tray and, checking his watch, begins writing in the top left hand corner: 14 March 2011 05:20.
A young woman arrives in the side room and accompanies me to a sparsely furnished cell, where I sleep uninterrupted for twenty eight hours.
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Things were going wrong. For three nights I had hardly slept and by Friday I was becoming irritated with almost everyone, illustrated by a tetchy exchange with IT colleagues. Trying to counteract this tension, I booked an aromatherapy massage for Saturday lunch time but on the way back I took the wrong train and ended up in Willesden Junction – what resident of 30 years gets lost in London unless distracted? To get home I took the 220 to Scrubs Lane and walked the last stretch. I remember remarking to a random passerby as she overtook me,
“It’s nice living here isn’t it?”
Somewhat bemused, she nodded back and hastily continued.
In spite of the massage I still needed to calm myself, so adopted my usual strategy and spent the rest of the afternoon listening to instrumental music, tunes without distractions. By nine, I was hatching a plan: all that I needed to do was to get to Trafalgar Square the following day for the Mayor’s St Patrick’s Day celebrations. I dressed thoughtfully for the part: loose green linen trousers, yellow sweater with an intricate cable design and voluminous violet scarf all swathed in my black false fur coat. By ten I was packed and ready to go, I perched on the wooden tread of the staircase waiting. On my knee a large hessian shopper bearing the logo of Cornwall Libraries.
I hadn’t moved from the stairs when the gears crunched against each other and grease oozed smoothly along the pistons as they were set in motion. I felt the whole terrace, torn from its foundations, ascend into the air with the acrobatic lift of a fairground attraction. Piped carousel music lilted in the background as my house rose above Wormwood Scrubs’ dark shrubbery and over the rooftops of Shepherds Bush. This was a social experiment, which would mix populations overnight – the Westerners of W12 moving in with the shakers of Fitzrovia. A quiet revolution engineered under the power of a giant ferris wheel, a tectonic jigsaw slotting communities together at random.
Leaving the music behind, the inky sky cloudless, I spotted with delight high-flying chrysanthemums of white light, bobbing and bouncing as they jostled like penguins, only to burst and shower the city in petals – a secret, silent son et lumiere. I grew excited at the prospect of what was to come, who else had tuned in? How would I recognise them?
As day breaks I find myself back on solid ground, on the staircase. No time to waste, I clutch my bag and check I have all I need for my newly assumed role:
A storyteller on a mission, guerilla marketeer, flashmob animatrice all this and a reunion – there’s a lot to be done today.
The bag holds all the right props:
- The Complete Works of Shakespeare
- The Norton Anthology of Women’s Literature – there are only seven basic plots after all
- morale boosting testimonies
- a government report on the power of learning, if proof were needed
- two CDs including Bob Dylan’s Planet Waves with its versions of `Forever Young`
- a pair of handmade red shoes in a drawstring cotton bag
The child in me sets an extra task for the day: carrying the bag without letting it touch the ground, a subtle challenge to prove that if it’s not rough, it isn’t fun.
I tuck two faded photographs inside my t-shirt and head purposefully for the first Tube. In the half light of dawn, it is a clear, dry day, not warm but not too cold either.
It’s surprising how many people are the first train commuters on a Sunday morning. Sitting on a platform bench I devise a code to separate spies from weathermen: those secret allies and friends who help you on your way. The code is to check who avoids my gaze and who looks me in the eye; who shifts uneasily when I mirror their movements.
Once the train is underground I change tack. Instead of silent observation and blending into the background – hard to achieve in my rainbow outfit – I focus on getting noticed. I break the unspoken rule of the Tube – talking to strangers – in this case two Eastern European women sitting alongside me.
“That’s a nice handbag you have there.”
“Thank you” she responds with a weak, unconvincing smile before turning back to her friend.
Realising that persistence would not pay off in this case, I shift my attention to the young man opposite. He alternates his stance from leaning forward hands clasped, forearms on thighs, to stretching back with his arms cruciform on the empty seats either side of him. I have the sense I have unnerved him with my mirror act and am relieved when he steps off at the next station, leaving a faint vapour trail of aftershave. Mindful that friends and enemies will be on the look out for me soon, I get off a stop early and weave through the quiet streets.
I am convinced now that the breakthrough will take place soon, I am ready for the call. Today is the day we reveal ourselves across the globe. It is my job is to lead and international agents will follow suit in other capital cities until the takeover is complete.
(To be continued)