As We Know It - Chapters 3, 4 and 5

Chapter 3

Sitting staring at the phone wasn’t getting any more logical. It wasn’t going to ring, the fact that she knew this with such certainty spoke volumes about the reality of the current situation. The world was over. She fingered the receiver, holding it up to her ear for the millionth time only to not hear the dialling tone once again. It was time to accept the conclusion that longing for contact  was not helping. Hamish had shuffled out of the house before they’d eaten lunch, mumbling something about his fishing rod. Since he’d left, Sarah had been sat in the hall on the carpeted floor by the phone table in the increasingly chilled air of the afternoon. She knew if she got up and did something the life and warmth would find her limbs once again but she couldn’t pick herself out of the mental funk. The hypnotic pull of a silent phone on a lovelorn English woman is too strong to be broken with will power alone. Her mind wandered aimlessly round erratic memories of the dizzy unreality of the past few days, trying to find a semblance of normality. These ramblings inevitably brought her back to Hamish and the night of the candles and the WHOOMPF noise. One of the benefits of this apocalypse seemed to be that they’d somehow managed to hold things together.

Every time she looked at him she saw the reflection of 49 candles in his eyes; the visible sagging of his shoulders as she’d broken him. She felt sick and empty thinking about it. How he was still sticking around she had no idea, she wasn’t sure she’d have been able to do the same in his shoes. Misguided chivalry, she supposed, no man in the Stewart clan would walk out on a woman in the middle of an apocalypse. Even if her recent behaviour rivalled a dung beetle for sheer depth of shittiness embraced.

“I don’t know how to fix this.” She said out loud into the still room. That was the most disconcerting thing about this Armageddon world - everything was so still. So, so still. The air seemed listless, as though every movement through it was an inconvenience. The rivers were moving, but petulantly slowly.If the trees had eyes they’d have rolled them at the breeze. Sarah had always imagined the end of the world would have bodies everywhere and decimated buildings. Where were the zombies?

It also seemed categorically unfair to have to deal with the end of an 8 year relationship as well as the end of the world. Most people are allowed to deal with heart ache without also having to attend Apocalypse Committee meetings with the rest of your half-baked village.

“Not you, Sarah Gilmore, you really know how to jump head first into a mess don’t you?” Tears took her by surprise and a lump caught the rhetorical question in her throat. She frowned back the tears and her hands twitched for the phone receiver again.

“I’m not sure you can reasonably blame the end of the world on yourself. Not even you can have that much residual guilt.” Hamish’s voice. To say it broke in on her scene would be unfair, it wrapped itself into the gaps where her thoughts weren’t. He had a lovely voice, she’d always thought that, it was just on the right side of gravelly. Like a hot chocolate, but with bits of broken up Crunchie in to keep you interested. People were always a little surprised when they first heard Hamish’s voice, he had a soft Scottish hint to his accent which became remarkably broad when he was in the company of his brothers and father. Sarah smiled despite herself remembering her introduction to Hogmanay. It was so very, very different to the stale parties she had always attended with her parents. “It won’t ring.” He continued, “It wouldn’t have rung before and it certainly isn’t going to ring now it can’t ring. It’s best you just stop staring at it.”

“I know, I know. I don’t know what I’m waiting for.” She eased her stiff joints and made to stand up.

“It’s natural to be worried about them.” He busied himself with his fishing rod so he wouldn’t have to make eye contact with her. He’d avoided it since Sunday night and was finding it made things slightly easier on his delicate mental balance. “I’m sure... I’m sure they’re fine.”

She wanted to hug him, she wanted to fling herself across the room and throw her arms around him and just make him forgive her. Just hold on and force his forgiveness out of him until he had no choice left except her. She didn’t move, her foot twitched imperceptibly, but she stayed exactly where she was feeling achy and pathetic. It was hard to seek forgiveness for something you hadn’t been blamed for.

“I know... well, I just... It would just make it a bit easier if I could speak to them.”

“They won’t have changed their minds.”

Her back frosted.

“They might have.” Her voice was too shrill and she knew it. Not an attractive tone. How long would it take him to realise that and find some other post-apocalyptic broad who didn’t have the family from hell and the voice of a rodent? She flinched; not even comfortable with unspoken disloyalty to the parents she was currently blaming for everything. “Maybe this has all been a bit of a wake up call?”

“You think the apocalypse is a modern day cure for racists?”

Sarah felt the familiar panic start to form, like plastic static on her neck and up into her hairline.

“Well, if this doesn’t work, what will?” Now she sounded childish, this was barely better than the shrew. “I just...”

“Just wanted to phone them and tell them you were going to marry me anyway?” He finally lifted his eyes to hers and let them hang there. Sarah felt like a cartoon character. Her idiot mouth gaping and her eyes panicked and strained.

“Yes.” She faltered.

“No.” He turned in a slow circle, like the death rattle of a plastic bag in the wind.

“Hamish!” Adding ‘desperate’ to her vocal range, Sarah stood up, “Hamish, wait.”

“I am.” He said, smiled briefly, and walked away.

Chapter 4

By Day 6 of the apocalypse they had pretty much all agreed that the biggest problem was the lack of death. People were starting to get fractious. Even the stalwart Christians were showing signs of noticeable anxiety about the length of time between the end of the world and the appearance of their Lord and Saviour to tell them what to to do and shepherd them to a chaise longue with a few grapes.

Mrs Hemell had written a strongly worded letter to the BBC and had been very close to sending it before Mr Baxter pointed out that the BBC probably had little to do with the whereabouts of Christ. No one was really sure whether Points of View was still running as they'd not had power since the end of time. They’d not had time either.

The missing Jesus was a cause for some concern at the first meeting of the Apocalypse Committee at the Village Hall. Iris Shoe caused violence to break out by suggesting that perhaps Jesus was just working his way down the country and that really 6 days was quite reasonable if you considered he was probably going to do the cities first.

Mr Arthur (first name also Arthur) asked her if Jesus would be visiting all the towns in size order, Mrs Shoe said that she assumed so as that’s how she would do it and the two of them were really very similar. Mr Arthur responded that both parts of that sentence were ridiculous but mainly the logistics part; he said he'd driven a lorry for 38 years and biggest cities first was the most illogical assumption possible. He said any traveller worth their salt knew you should plan your route geographically. Beryl, from the village shop, slapped him around the face for suggesting Jesus was a gypsy.

Iris countered that, if you didn't start with the biggest place, how would you know where to begin the tour? Everyone agreed that the country's extremities were no place to begin a mission of salvation - Scotland was not designed for such prestige. Iris again asserted that she felt they would be reached in due course once the Good Lord had reached them on his list. Unfortunately, Beryl's hand got away with her again when she worked out that this meant that the nearby village of Staplegrove (Norton Fitzwarren’s rival parish) would be visited first, despite the fact Norton Fitzwarren had twice beaten them at the South West Floral Village Awards between 2006 and 2009. Beryl was one among many villagers who might have to seriously rethink their religion should Jesus choose to visit Staplegrove first. Despite the differences between the two villages being barely perceptible to an outside eye. At this point Nigel decided he ought to take Beryl home as there were whisperings about Apocalypse Fever. Mr Baxter wrapped Rufus' leash firmer around his hand.

With Beryl and Nigel gone it was felt that perhaps they should put the issue of what to do until Jesus got there to one side for a few minutes in favour of more immediate practicalities. Mr Young pointed out that some of them didn't really think he was coming anyway, and even when he did turn up, there was no guarantee they'd want to go with him.

"We'll have to wait and see what he's got to offer first. Might be worth our while to barter a little bit."

The Vicar stood up at this point and declared that there would be no bartering with Jesus Christ. Mr Young said that he’d thoroughly enjoyed bartering with the Moroccan stall owners when they’d visited last year but the Vicar said it didn’t matter and that all their bartering should really have been wrapped up in prayers in Church before the apocalypse had even happened.

"But we didn't know when to expect it." Came Mr Young's sullen reply, "I was still making my mind up."

The Vicar said that the power of the Lord should be felt in your heart and soul and you shouldn't need persuading. Mr Young said that it wasn't his fault if Sky had more compelling programming than the pulpit. I think they were secretly beginning to miss Beryl.

The idea was floated that, perhaps they should split the Apocalypse Committee into a further sub-committee entitled, The Welcoming Committee and this would take full responsibility for what they would do when Jesus got there. A buffet seemed like the most logical option and so the Vicar agreed to work with Mrs Shoe and Nigel on planning a menu and looking for a suitable venue. If they could give it a lick of paint then the Village Hall would do at a push, but there was a feeling in the room that perhaps Jesus was a little more outdoorsy.

Mr Baxter had managed to fall asleep twice by the time they had all agreed on this and, as they had eaten that week's ration of Bourbons, they decided to call it a day and reconvene when Mrs Shoe and Nigel had an update for the next meeting. Mr Baxter made a hasty exit with his dog as the Welcoming Committee's conversation turned to Jesus' morally surprising lack of vegetarian persuasion. No one wanted to be caught with just hummus if Staplegrove had sprung for pigs in blankets...

Chapter 5

By day 8 the overwhelming feeling in the village was that something, anything, should be happening by now.

“Even if it was just a small angel,” Mrs Shoe could be heard saying to anyone who would listen. “It wouldn’t even have to have wings, I just don’t want to have sacrificed Duncan for no reason.”

“How are you going to know it’s an angel if it doesn’t have wings?” asked Arthur Arthur, as they settled down for the beginning of the meeting.

“It’d be all glowy wouldn’t it?” came the indignant reply.

“All glowy? All glowy??” stuttered Arthur Arthur, equally indignantly, “I have never heard such nonsense.”

“And it’d have a booming voice, wouldn’t it, Vicar?” Said Mrs Shoe eagerly. She wore the delighted look of a 6 year old answering the day’s literacy questions before her addled schoolmates.

The Vicar was sitting with his head in his hands, wondering if the placement at the Croydon Comprehensive would have been less soul destroying had he opted for that six years ago when the two offers were on the table. Somehow he’d been convinced that a rural position would be more nourishing for the soul after his years of military work. Why did people assume proximity to grass and livestock was healing? Or, perhaps it was, if you manage to find a spot without any locals in it. The Vicar shook the animosity out of his head, it was the apocalypse talking; these people were his people… though what that said about him he wasn’t quite sure.

“And ringlets,” continued Mrs Shoe unabated, “That’s how you tell apart a prophet from an angel, isn’t it Vicar? We’ve all seen the windows. Only the angels have ringlets.”

“How on earth would that work?” said Arthur Arthur,

“Don’t you mean how in heaven?” giggled Martin Young and got a frown and the threat of an old man’s backhand for his trouble.

“What do you get,” continued Arthur Arthur, “Eternal life, total absolution, a set of wings and a perm? Don’t be ridiculous, Iris.”

“I’m not being ridiculous,” protested Mrs Shoe, “I’ve seen it in the pictures.”

It was at this point that The Vicar stepped in, whether or not to prevent a fight or the complete loss of faith in his life’s work remains unclear. 

“The lack of intervention by some sort of messenger at this point is... unfortunate.” He summised, leaving his chair and pacing towards the dusty window. Sunlight tapered in through the thin glass, illuminating the chipped paint and cracking lead. There was just never enough money to fix it, that was the problem. Maybe now that the world was over they might qualify for a grant or something? A prize for being the last flock standing? That was, of course, assuming they were the last flock standing? Maybe there were other villages just like theirs? Perhaps this was just a thinning of the herd? Why were the religious constantly being compared to groups of docile animals? He wished his particular cattle were a little less uppity today. There were only so many inane questions he could handle on a Sunday morning...

“It’s unfortunate...” he continued, “but hardly the end of the world.” Nobody laughed. They would have laughed in Croydon, he thought wistfully. “It’s unfortunate,” he continued to continue, wishing no one was narrating his inner monologue so he could finally get to the end of the sentence, “It’s unfortunate, but it might mean that perhaps the Lord is testing us. Perhaps we are meant to be actively seeking our salvation and not just sitting back waiting for someone else to do all the hard work for us. Perhaps this challenge has been sent to test us.”

“But nothing has been sent, I thought that was the problem?” Said Martin Young, slyly.

“Exactly!” Chimed in Mrs Shoe, “If they’d sent something we’d know where we stood but what we’ve got is an absence of sending. It’s like the bloody, sorry Vicar, it’s like the postal strikes all over again.”

“You make a fine point, Mrs Shoe, perhaps this is a sign that we should be seeking our own route to the sorting office in the sky? Why sit idly by for the messenger to come to us? Were we not, by the grace of God, granted two legs upon which to walk?” The Vicar was warming nicely to his theme now, “Why should we lounge through these heady days assuming we are worth seeking out for the Heavenly Kingdom? Idly dreaming when we could be learning? Perhaps it is our duty to find the Lord’s word ourselves?”

There was a silence in the room as the group digested his sermon. The Vicar hoped fervently that no one had picked up on his repetition of ‘idly’, it would never have happened to Clement Freud. He scanned the faces of his congregation for signs of agreement.

Eventually Arthur Arthur cleared his throat:

“Well, we can’t all go.”

“What?”

“We can’t all go can we?”

“Where?”

“To look for this curly headed angel. What if we all disappear off looking for him and then he comes here? There’d be no one left to serve the buffet.”

“I thought the buffet was in case Jesus came?”

“What, we’re not doing any food for the angel? Seems a tad unfair if he’s come all this way.”

“Maybe we could just do some cold bits?”

“I’d just like to point out the angel might be a woman…”

“Well, woman… man… one of them ones with the smooth bits...” grumped Arthur Arthur, “If we’re all gone off on a wild goose chase then there’ll be no one here to greet our messenger of non specific gender.”

“We could leave a note?”

The Vicar decided now might be a good time to step back in before the conversation turned to which font type an angel of the Lord would most prefer. He simply didn’t have the strength to argue the case for Helvetica against a room full of people who had grown up without computers.

“Perhaps we should just send a select search team? Plan a route and send a few of our more able neighbours to scout around and see if they can’t unearth the unearthly?” He really was wasted on these people.

“I like that idea,” piped up Nigel, “That way, we cover our backs whatever happens. We look proactive if they do find anything, and we settle our minds to getting on with… whatever this is, if they don’t find anything”

And so it was agreed, they would choose some volunteers to venture out into the surrounding area and collect any wayward deities or celestial minions who might be struggling with the local geography. Clues as to what they should be doing that did not come in the form of a messenger (permed or otherwise) would also be gratefully accepted. Mr Frinton suggested that they start near Ilminster because the bypass always tended to get snarled up, but Arthur Arthur countered that, unless there was a heavy convoy of messengers, it was unlikely there would be much traffic on the roads.

“Could happen,” sulked Mr Frinton.

“But unlikely,” said The Vicar kindly, “besides which, they’re very likely to be able to fly.”

“Perhaps we should wait until we’ve decided who’s going and then see where they’re keen to start out?” Chimed in Mrs Shoe, with what seemed frighteningly like more than the usual modicum of sense. “They might have had somewhere in mind already for a nice little getaway? Kills two birds with one stone, doesn’t it?” And the usual order was restored.

As We Know It - Chapters 1 and 2

Chapter 1

“I think they’re in the drawer”

“Well that’s bloody helpful, isn’t it? Which drawer? It’s pitch black in here and... OW! I’ve just stubbed my bloody toe.”

Sarah struck a match and re-lit one of the 49 candles that were currently adorning their living room. She lit another, and another, and then another; gently shaking the match dead before it could scorch her fingertips. Using the first candle as a light, she began to bring the rest of the flames back to life.

Hamish stood by the doorway, leaning against the back of the sofa rubbing his foot with one hand.

“What was that?” asked Sarah.

Hamish said nothing.

“One minute the candles are all lit and then suddenly ‘WHOOMPF’ and it’s total darkness.”

Hamish stared at her.

“The power’s gone out too. How bizarre. I didn’t feel any wind at all, though - did you? Just that ‘WHOOMPF’ noise and then blackness.”

Hamish remained still and silent.

“Oh Hamish for goodness’ sake say something.”

He shifted his weight and put his stubbed foot back on the floor. “What would you like me to say?”

“Oh, I don’t know...” There was a silence, broken only by the soft tread of Sarah’s slipper socks on the carpet and the puttering of 17, going on 18, flames. “Did you hear the ‘WHOOMPF’ sound?”

He hesitated, all the words in his head gone dormant; an untimely game of vocabulary sleeping lions. “I don’t know Sarah, I might have heard the WHOOMPF but I can’t be sure it wasn’t just the sound of my heart breaking.”

“Don’t be so melodramatic, Hamish...”

“Melodramatic...?” He started, but was interrupted by a small figure in wellington boots and a mauve coat shuffling into the lounge.

“Hello dears, it’s only me. So the power’s gone out here too, has it? Gosh, you’ve managed to get these candles out quick haven’t you?”

“Hello Mrs Shoe,” Said Sarah warmly, happy for any distraction from the conversation currently billowing across the lounge. “Has the power gone out on the whole street then?”

“I think ‘whole street’ is a bit of an exaggeration for a lane with the two of us on it, but yes - we’re both out. Strangest thing, though, my fire went out too. And my Tamagotchi died.”

“You have a Tamagotchi?” Asked Hamish, momentarily distracted.

“Well, I did have,” said Mrs Shoe, “It was a great source of comfort to me after Colin died. A little panda he is, but he seems to have gone.”

Sarah stared at the tiny old woman in front of her and tried not to laugh out loud at the idea of her sitting in front of Coronation Street with only an electronic panda for company. How many people would imagine on their wedding day that after 48 years of marriage they could be replaced with a bunch of pixels. Extraordinary. She glanced over at Hamish; he looked upset. Who could blame him? She wondered briefly whether it could have been her sheer overwhelming panic that blew the street - it had certainly felt that way. The look in his eyes, with all those candles covering the room. All she remembered thinking clearly was, ‘I hope he’s put coasters under those’. Of course, he hadn’t. There would be an awful lot of wax to chip off tomorrow. Perhaps she wouldn’t have to do it though. Today felt oddly final. She tried to ignore the bizarre kernel of realisation wriggling for attention beneath her more pressing thoughts.

“Fantastic thing really because it’s small enough to take anywhere and it has a whole range of emotions. Used to get terribly cross if I didn’t clear up its messes in a timely manner. Strange though, because I always thought pandas only ate bamboo but this one seemed to like pizza too. I suppose there’s nothing to say pandas wouldn’t like pizza in the wild. I suppose they just don’t get the chance very often. Who would think to give pizza to a panda?”

“I’ll go and check the fuse box.” Hamish left the room abruptly and left Sarah and Mrs Shoe to watch the dancing lights of the 34 lit candles.

“Bad time?” Asked Mrs Shoe.

‘Perceptive old bat.’ Thought Sarah, hastily supplying her mouth with a more appropriate response, “No, no not at all - we were just a little caught off guard by the power cut, that’s all. It’s very strange isn’t it?”

“At least you didn’t lose your best friend. I’m sort of glad it’s over.”

“What?”

“Well, it is, isn’t it?”

Sarah felt like they were both skirting around the same feeling, the feeling that perhaps… but it was too ridiculous to say out loud. She opened her mouth to speak but was saved the effort of trying to comfort a 74 year old woman over the loss of her electronic panda, by Hamish re-entering the room.

“It’s just all dead. It’s like there’s no power coming into the house at all. Must be a blow out at the power station or a cut cable or... something. Not much we can do about it now. Might as well go to bed.” He didn’t take his eyes off Sarah, who flushed uncomfortably under his gaze and ran her finger absent mindedly through the nearest flame.

“Don’t do that, dear,” said Mrs Shoe, breaking the silence “There’s nothing less attractive than the smell of singed knuckle hair on a woman.” Sarah ceased immediately, this evening was going to be hard enough to get over as it was, without Hamish leaving her for someone with flawless fingers.

“Would you like to stay with us tonight, Mrs Shoe? We’ve got a bed set up in the spare room. It’s no bother.” She knew her offer sounded lame but suddenly all the energy in her body was somewhere else, melted away with the wax that was weeping on to her precious oak dresser. What did it matter?

“Thank you dear, but it’s alright. I’ll be fine in my old place. I don’t want to stay away too long in case Duncan wakes up.”

“Duncan?”

“The panda” said Hamish, irritably. “I’ll walk you home, Mrs Shoe.”

“Very kind of you dear.” The two of them shuffled out of the front door leaving Sarah alone in the enchanting glow of the candle filled living room.

“Fuck.” She hastily blew out all the candles, enjoying the momentarily light headed experience, and went up to bed. When Hamish entered the room a thousand paranoid thoughts later she pretended to be asleep, ‘No point being awake all night talking about it.’ she thought. Her eyes didn’t even flicker as he climbed into the bed next to her. He didn’t try to make her stir. They both lay there, most of the night - both silently wondering if the sun would be rising as normal on the other side of oblivion.

Chapter 2

They suspected the apocalypse might have felt very different had you been in London when it happened... but for the residents of Norton Fitzwarren it was a fairly unremarkable event at first. The only casualty so far was Duncan, and they hadn’t even given him a proper funeral because Mrs Shoe was insisting she “could still hear his little voice”. 

The fact still remained though, that an apocalypse had occurred. Some of the villagers were a little disappointed; there was no fire, no zombies, not a smidgen of brimstone to be found anywhere. It was simply that every person in the village had woken up knowing inexplicably that the world was over. Everything had taken on a new feeling.

People who like science books and concrete will want to know how it was an apocalypse and how the villagers knew. They will want to know the premise that allowed it to happen, but, sadly for both their curiosity and the author’s chances of a film deal, the big painted streaks of havoc that make an apocalypse spicy are missing from this narrative.

Imagine someone asking you what makes a Wednesday a Wednesday other than the mass collusion that yesterday was Tuesday and it would be impetuous to bound carelessly into Thursday without a buffer.

The day after the apocalypse people had woken from their beds and not known how to start their days due to not knowing the point of continued existence. If the mood could be compared to anything, it might be closest to the ambience of a Bank Holiday Monday for a group of people who don’t normally work Mondays anyway. Everything seemed pointless, and when questioned on this pointlessness, the villagers knew unanimously that it was because of the end of the world but no one wanted to be the first one to say it. Because it sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it?

It would have been easier if it had been, well, apocalyptic. 20th Century Fox would be beating the door down if blood had spurted from the gargoyles and severed limbs littered the footpath round the Primary School. If showers of sparks sprayed burning sulphur onto the limbs of innocents and brutal clouds of ashen decay pressed the air from heroic lungs then I think even Russell Crowe might have been tempted to have a go at learning the accent. Trust me when I say no one is more disappointed than the author that there wasn’t an opportunity for passage upon passage of persuasive adjectives, and paragraphs that leapt willingly off the page and into an Odeon. But it just wasn’t like that. It was altogether much more civilised.

People didn't really know what to do... they thought about looting but agreed as a village that it seemed pretty unreasonable. There was only one shop in Norton Fitzwarren and the general consensus was that the apocalypse was probably not Nigel and Beryl's fault. In truth I think a lot of residents felt a little cheated by the whole thing. Where was the death and judgement they had been promised? The village came to the mutual conclusion that it was probably safest to just wait it out and see what happened.

It would be unfair to say that the village had slowed down; it’s difficult for a village like Norton Fitzwarren to slow much further without stopping completely. There was just a new sensation in the air. Also, Mr Young from Acorn Terrace was certain he had seen the Four Horsemen, which is convincing stuff. The world had ceased. It all felt very over. Even if it was only 3 cows being chased by Mr Baxter’s dog that Mr Young had seen.

The children were simply ecstatic that school had been declared formally closed due to the end being nigh. Most teachers felt their planning was nothing more than a cantankerous obstacle to a large glass of wine on a good day, let alone one when there was absolutely no chance of an Ofsted visit. Spending 4 hours on a Sunday planning for a 6 year old to eat glue in synch with others of his key stage capabilities was a thing of the past for the teachers of Norton Fitzwarren. 

The continuing lack of electricity was dampening levels of youth enthusiasm a little, but I’ll say this for an apocalypse; it was doing wonders for child obesity levels. Having fewer pressing issues such as what to eat and how to cope, they had taken to the streets to make the most of their most of their surprise free time. Let the adults worry about the rapidly defrosting freezer and keeping Judgement Day free.

It wasn't until the 3rd day that people’s nervousness began to get the better of their civic duty to pretend nothing was happening. Families started to wonder if they ought to be rationing. Mr Baxter was seen nervously hurrying his Yorkshire Terrier around the block looking suspiciously at anyone who was complaining of hunger. I'd never thought the residents of Norton Fitzwarren capable of eating a dog, but all of a sudden you had to really feel for pet owners. Especially the smaller ones, it’s one thing to sacrifice a pet to feed a family but poor old Mr Baxter’s Rufus would barely feed a child, and a small one at that.

They suspected in London there must have been lots of fighting and scrapping for food... it was hard to tell without any form of media. There was a tangible feeling of gratitude that so far no one here had felt like doing any murdering. I'm not sure 40% of the village really had the upper body strength. Murdering is a vocational business; a bit like teaching - you have to really want to do it or it just gets you down. Leave it to the city folk, they thought, we’ll just have a nice calm apocalypse without any of the unsightly bits.

By the 4th day all the sitting around and waiting for a sign seemed frankly irresponsible and they thought perhaps they ought to start thinking about getting organised.

A meeting was set up and it was decided they should form an Apocalypse Committee. These folk would be in charge of working out how to feed everyone and keep warm during winter, you know, should this thing drag on. Privately I think they were all hoping they could get it wrapped up before the end of summer so that it wouldn’t spoil Christmas. Heaven must be lovely at that time of year. 

As a contingency plan, they thought perhaps it might be prudent to bunch together a bit more, if and when the weather turned, like they do in foreign countries where they use a room for a few people instead of just one. Some of the villagers really weren't keen; Mrs Shoe had just had a new cream carpet laid so it was agreed she could remain on her own so long as she didn’t complain if she got cold. She said if it got too bad she didn’t mind putting plastic mats down but people would have to take their shoes off. Nigel from the village shopped quipped that, “There were no shoes at the Shoes’ “ and they all laughed.

Lurking

"Christmas is just around the corner."

I hate that phrase, it makes Christmas sound like a right pervert. What exactly is Christmas *doing* just around the corner? Creepily touching itself in a dark alley and waiting for us to walk past. Naff off Christmas you gross old bastard.

I like Christmas. Like it a lot. Well... do I? I don't actually care much at all for actual Christmas day. I like the 1-24 December. I like Advent. But I can't prance about pronouncing that "Actually I love Advent." without being the biggest nob on the planet. I'm already a gobby, environmentally obsessed, left wing comedian with her eyes on a gender neutral socialist future: I can't add being a twat about the semantics of tinsel to my list of irritating personality features.

I think a lot of this year's advent is going to be ruined by the election. I have to use social media a lot for work and at the moment looking at my feed is like sticking my head in a nutribullet. Except that there's no delicious smoothie to slurp out of my gaping head wounds; it's factless arguments and terror.

There's no easy answer. Between 2 and 4am on Wednesday when I was lying in a sweaty panic attack trying to calm down about the whole thing I veered wildly between: "Maybe I should take a few days off and get REALLY knowledgeable about the whole thing so I know WHY I believe the things I do." and "Maybe I should shut off the internet all together and just not worry?"

To me, my vote goes Left because I have disabled friends, hospital worker friends and teacher friends who cannot cope any longer with the current status quo. I don't believe most politicians (my girl C Lucas being the exception) and I don't believe the papers either... so, all I can go on is the people on the ground and they are at breaking point. So, I don't know whether the left would be any better at having a go, but at least it might be a change for the foot soldiers? That's my thinking anyway.

The whole ridiculous charade is parading down the street being ludicrous and holding up traffic, while Christmas holds its dick in its hand round the corner waiting to spaff itself all over our faces the second December flicks on.

Perhaps Advent will go some way to blocking it all out? I am certainly capable of downing Chocolate Baileys at an alarming rate and once I've gone through a bottle of that I find most of the world is blocked out. It's blocked out by the carpet because I am lying face down in it singing along to Nat King Cole and wondering why I don't have tinsel up all year round.

Things are just PRETTIER at Christmas. Everything is prettier, everything is more hopeful. Perhaps that's why this election feels so... so rude to be plonking it's disastrous arse -disastrarse TM - in the middle of the whole shiny affair. Surely an election should be the epitome of hope...? Each team laying out the ideas the best minds in the country have come up with? Each team able to use the funds of an extremely wealthy nation to power some BIG IDEAS and have a great offering? Shouldn't this be exciting and hopeful? Why does it feel like we're trying to blow an empty paper bag over the line... why is it all so distinctly un-fun? I think we deserve better.

I suppose that's another reason I lean to the left... because at least they seem to want to try. I get that money doesn't grow on trees and even if it did we'd have cut it down for short term financial gain, but, at least there are ideas in there that don't paint Britain as a dismal failure that should only be focusing on the leaks. We're a pretty successful country... there's so much we could be doing and for ages it's felt like we've been told we can't but not really why. If we need some necessities like schools and libraries and health care, and there's a pot of money... to me, it makes more sense to find out how to put more money in the pot rather than to just cut the necessities? I dunno. I'm a brainwashed hippy I expect.

I should have studied politics instead of spending my time watching Christmas stories where the moral is always something saccharine about it feeling good to help the needy.

I can't wait to put my tree up on Sunday and have a bit of respite from feeling this continual dual action guilt and inefectualness that has settled on my shoulders like an unwanted pashmina. I feel at all times completely powerless and completely like I'm wasting my power. I'll string the lights and light the candles and listen to Nat King Cole take away the outside world and lie on my carpet with the Baileys warming my throat and I'll let that dirty old Christmas jump out from round the corner and flash me what's under his mac. Bring it on, because anything but this.

Commentary

I’ve noticed lately that there is an inefficiency about the internet. I’m worried that my posting to the internet is causing a lot of people to have to repeat themselves ad nauseum in the comments section below whatever it is I’ve posted. I’m really upset by this: I don’t want to be the cause of anyone’s loss of productivity and so to save people the time and resources, I just want to publish here some helpful things to save people having to tire their fingers out commenting.

Ok, here we go… here are some things you don’t need to worry about checking that I know about:

1. “I wouldn’t fuck her.”

I appreciate you need to let me know this in case I think you having watched a video of me is tacit consent and I will now turn up at your house ready to hump you silly. I will always assume that anyone watching my videos is not any more interested in fucking me than I am in them.

2. “She has an asymmetric haircut. I feel X about this.”

I think the worry here is that, seconds before I went on stage someone gave me a surprise haircut which I didn’t notice whilst editing and uploading the video. It is rare for anyone to find out their haircut via the medium of YouTube comments so I think probably don’t worry about needing to inform me. I actually chose this haircut and carry it around on my head every day, so I’m pretty knowledgeable about what it looks like.

3. “She should stick to comedy, not politics.”

I’m so sorry if my comedy video in front of a live comedy audience laughing somehow came across as a serious political broadcast. It may be that people laughing out loud at what poiticians have been saying lately has confused you as to the difference between the two roles. I have taken every step I can think of, such as billing myself as a comedian, performing at comedy clubs (often with Comedy in their names) and making sure that nearly everything I say has a set-up and punchline that appeal to the majority of the room, to ensure that I cannot be mistaken for a member of parliament. However, I may be using the subject of politics to make jokes out of - I believe this is where the confusion lies BUT just to save your tired hands: you need not worry that I have switched careers, you just may not have recognised the jokes.

4. “It’s not funny.”

Often, if you’re commenting this - it’s because you’re not really a fan of my work and the video has found it’s way to you via other people sharing it because they liked it. You will probably have chosen not to share it, and rightly so, because you did not find it funny. This is very sensible behaviour on your part - if we all spent our time only sharing videos that were not funny the world would be a terrible place and I don’t think the internet would have caught on. So, the people who did share it have probably found it funny. Just to save you the effort of writing “It’s not funny” I will assume that if you neither comment on it nor share it nor interact with me you have not enjoyed it. If you are desperate to write something to indicate your non-enjoyment you are very welcome to use the alternative phrase “I don’t find this funny” or “I do not think this is funny” as you’re very welcome to an opinion, but not to make a final judgement summary for everyone.

5. “You wouldn’t say that to/about X”

I probably would, actually - it just isn’t in this video. Across ten years of being a comedian I have mocked pretty much everything set in front of me in some way. I’ve mocked most religions, races, sexes, sexualities, jobs, political opinions and people. I haven’t usually mocked them for who or what they are, but for who or what they are has also not insulated them from being mocked for something else. If what I’m joking about in the video you’re watching is something that upsets you, switch the video off and you will find it produces this marvellous effect where the video is not happening any more and you don’t have to watch it. You needn’t worry that me mocking Brexit is the death of free speech, or the Left wing disrespecting the will of the people; somewhere in my back catalogue you can also find jokes about deforestation, jackfruit and my own mental health. Try not to think that the video happening in front of you needs to be everything - it’s ok for this video to just be this video, and for there to be another video somewhere to balance it.

6. “She doesn't look like a supermodel.”

At the risk of repeating myself, I know this. I chose my clothes and the meals and exercise combo that got me to this weight. I did not rapidly gain weight between the green room mirror and the stage - this is just what I look like all the time and I often feel ok about it. My main job in a comedy room is to say funny things and until I’m at a weight where my ability to speak is restricted I am probably not going to worry about my body fat content in relation to my video content.

7. “Women shouldn’t swear.”

If you have any medical advice as to how swearing is detrimental to a woman’s health I invite you to email me a link. If it is just your personal preference, I invite you to fuck off.

8. “Don’t give up the day job.”

Now, personally, I love this kind of praise - it gives me real confidence. Comedy is my day job, and so by telling me there is no way on earth I should quit doing it you are really giving me the moral support I need to get through another day as a professional comedian. However, oftentimes I feel like it is used a criticism as if to say “don’t believe you could be a full time comedian.” I’m so sorry that I’ve wasted your time writing this - in order for this to work, you’ll need to write your comment and fire it all the way back to May 2015 which is when I last did anything other than being funny for money. However, if you know something about the impending collapse of all forms of entertainment as a revenue stream I invite you to email me. If it is just your personal preference, I invite you not to give up your day job to become a career advisor.

Weeding

"What the hell am I doing?" She thought, looking at the mud under her finger nails and the old jeans cladding her chubby thighs.

Plants were strewn wildly around her muddy ass. She sat heavily in the red soil looking at the holes and weeds.

"Do I pull them all up? How do I know what's a proper plant and what's a shitty weed?" Reaching a muddy hand into her pocket, Ness pulled out her iPhone. It looked curiously futuristic there amongst the grass and the dirt. She looked at the phone a thousand times a day but it never looked out of place. Not in her house where it lived. But here, here in the closest to wild she could get without leaving the city it looked weird. All shiny metal and hard lines.

She tried to give the phone her thumbprint. "Gosh aren't we trusting... imagine giving a tech company access to one of the major things that could have you convicted of murder. Eugh, maybe technology is a terrible idea?"

The thumb print wouldn't scan. Too much mud in the unique crevices of the appendage. "Fucking useless technology." She thought angrily, "Why don't even the basics work?"

She thumped her four digit pin into the screen, leaving wide smudges of detritus across the glass. Pulling up the internet explorer she hammered her question into the obliging little box. "What plants are weeds and which are proper plants?"

In the millisecond before the results appeared, Ness considered scrapping the enquiry just in case the results were scolding. What if the internet got cross with her rampant stupidity? What if the only search result was "Look, if your questions are this basic you have no business being out of a house?"

The results pinged into an orderly line. The first link to her a page about CBD oil. Ness wondered if using a search term with the word "weed" in it had now put her on several lists.

The second, third, fourth and fifth results were all far too complicated for her to understand at all. The sixth link took her to Pinterest and a meme about weeds only being weeds if you chose not to love the flower it could also be perceived as. "Oh fuck off Pinterest. What a waste of the internet Pinterest has turned out to be. An idle dreaming ground for women too pinned down by babies to be able to live in the real world."

Ness didn't need Pinterest. She wasn't pinned down by a baby, much to her misery and shame, she was free in the real world to do as she pleased. The trouble was, she was finding it increasingly hard to be pleased by anything. That's how she had found herself here: on her very own allotment plot with absolutely no idea what she was doing.

Ness looked down at her phone, wiped some of the mud off it and returned it to her pocket. She would just have to pull up everything and start again. so what if she accidentally destroyed some stuff that could have been good? A clean start.. that was what this place needed.

The allotment was overwhelming for a beginner. Even her own relatively small patch was a jungle of twisting things, taller things, short squashier looking things and funny shaped mud patches that would only turn from mud into faeces when they made contact with fingers. Gross.

When she'd first arrived it had looked impenetrable. A shanty town of time-rich Green party wannabees who desperately wanted to save the planet but at a distance from their own perfectly manicured lawns. Without allotments there would be very little reason for the middle classes to own Hunter wellies and then where would appearances be? Not kept up, that's for sure.

Ness' plot was at the top of the hilly allotment patch. It had an incredible view across the city and down to the coast. On a clear day she could see the wind farm standing out at sea promising salvation. It calmed her to be here, even if the gardening portion was baffling.

She pulled herself up onto her knees and let the blood flow back into her chilled buttocks. They stung in a not unpleasant way. "I suppose this is the bum equivalent of being happy to be alive? Like the euphoria when you've held your breath for ages and then give your brain back air? You feel amazing. This is my bum feeling amazing and pumped. Ready for anything. Sorry you can't do much bum. You're cute though."

Ness leaned forward and began pulling up plant after plant from the small raised bed she was sat in. She spent hours teasing all the fine, whiskery roots from the earth and making sure that not a remnant of the plant remained.

The light began to dip and dim, and while the wind didn't pick up as it would have done had this been cheaper writing, it did feel as though the graceful warmth at the edges of the air just quietly receded. Like an introvert at a party, the warmth melted away and Ness didn't notice until the atmosphere was approaching unpleasant.

She stood up and surveyed the ground. A bare patch of tidy looking brown earth now lay where before there had been myriad leaves and grasses. It looked ready for something. It looked she felt: fertile but bare. Waiting.

She glanced robotically down the hill to the hoarding. To the reason she couldn't stop coming here. Down at the bottom of the hill the shiny, plasticated boards loomed across the allotment. 8 feet high and many, many feet wide the developers had installed the hoardings to try and make their plans look more human.

"Let us have the land" said the hoardings, "and we will put families in here. In safe, warm, well-lit buildings that protect babies. You like babies, don't you? Here are some pictures of babies for you to look and realise we should be building here. These babies have parents of two different races, isn't that good? So really, if you don't let us build here you not only hate babies and want them to die outside in the cold but you also are racist. Do you want to be a racist baby hater or should you just let us build our cardboard houses on this plot?"

The breeze lifted Ness' greasy fringe off her shiny forehead. She stared at the enormous photos of the happy couple and their baby on the glossy boards and felt tears gnawing at the sides of her eyes.

"I do love babies," she thought, "I promise I like babies. I really love babies."

"Then why not give us the land?" said the hoardings.

"I need a nursery painted with jungle animals." said the baby. Enormous brown eyes now barely visible through the insufficient November evening light. The baby and its family were melting into the gloaming but Ness could feel them judging her from their homeless cuddle.

"I know you do, but does it have to be here? We need a place too."

"Who are you?" Asked the perfect Dad dismissively.

"Oh, we're the weirdos." Ness whispered, the tears having nibbled their way free and now skating cold races down her cheeks. "We're the weirdos who didn't get to be you. We empathise too much with hedghogs to get any work done, and couldn't switch off fear of the floods long enough to trust a future for our not-babies. We would be you if we could, but you did it first and made it look too perfect for us to risk ruining it by copying. We need a space too."

Standing there, frozen. Completely stuck. Ness could now only see the white of the board around the family. She shook herself to loosen her legs and began to move back towards the gate; careful not to look at the board again.

She wiped the tears dry; more to warm her face than to stop anyone knowing she'd been crying. She'd pretty much always been crying so what difference did today make to strangers?

Itself Gone Down

I can be utterly ruined by fear. Paralysed by it. Fear turns my shit to waterfalls, my skin to ants and my personality to a wrecking ball.

I am not a bitch unless I'm afraid. I'm never snappy and rude when I feel safe. When I don't see many choices I feel afraid - when I feel too late or too far down a path to stop or move, when I feel cornered.

I'm scared of so much. I always have been. I think fear is the single most dominating feeling I recognise from my life. Fear of failing and letting people down feeds deep depression, fear of the future and uncertainty throws anxious vomit into the fan powering my life, fear of breaking the rules made me meek, boring and obedient for so long, fear of not being good enough makes me jealous, bitter and resentful.

Fear must have its upsides - fear must make me a bit nicer sometimes because I am scared of hurting people and having them feel like I do. Fear must make me safer crossing roads. I see the point of fear - fear is what drives a species to seek survival. But what to do with this excess of it now I have a lock on my door and a freshwater tap.

I was a gullible, easily-led child. If someone told me a rule you could safely bet your house I was going to follow that rule. I let fear of negative consequences drive me completely. I succeeded at school because I couldn't break the rules by failing, I went to university because that was the best idea apparently, I got jobs to pay the bills and I got on with being diligent. Diligent is such a great fucking word to describe me. A little autobot whose primary response is to say, "Yes, ok - I believe you."

I was so naturally well-behaved and compliant that I never found out how ok it is when you do behave "wrong". I thought the world would stop if I got detention. A "D" on a test was unimaginable:  it couldn't happen because I literally couldn't imagine the consequences of not getting things right. I got right into my twenties before I found out that the consequence of not complying was just another human having an opinion on what you'd done.

Now I am a comedian. I feel like I shouldn't be though... other comedians seem to be these wild, rebellious characters who were born to be anarchic and fight the system. I feel like comedian-by-numbers... the PA who accidentally found a place in comedy. I don't take drugs (young me was told they are bad), I am not late to things or forgetful (that's rude and I mustn't be rude), I follow the golden laws of the industry. I work hard because you're supposed to.

I am a good girl. I look at the rebels and I simultaneously wish I could be like them and they could be more like me. Every time I saw someone succeed because they changed the rules and forged their own path I was gobsmacked and enthralled and enraged because yet again it didn't occur to me that rules weren't real things.

It's strange how my fears have changed since I broke down. In some ways I'm more fearful than ever before and in other ways the sound has been turned down on the peripheral ones. I'm petrified I've made the wrong choice about not having children - will I regret this forever? Have I ruined my life? Will I ever not think about what ifs? Is anyone going to properly step up and solve the climate breakdown? If they do, will I regret not having children even more? If they don't, what is the future going to look like? What am I living for?

Some of the biggest fears I think I could have. Fears that make my ribs icy. Fears that make me need to rub my neck to check for a guillotine. Fears that make me instinctively move about and want to touch someone's skin for comfort.

In other ways, I'm less fearful completely because I just don't give a fuck any more if I'm doing things "right". All that naive, small world girl belief in some intelligence and organisation from the people in charge has died a snivelling little bit part death. The adults have stopped being gods. The teachers and the kings and the parents have turned into just other people with no better idea of what they're doing than I have.

I'm no longer chasing the exceptional ones at the top of the slide. We've all gone down it and here we are in the pond behind the curtain splashing about making it up as we go along.

There isn't a "right". How exciting and terrifying?

I always had this "drive" for my career that I thought was a drive to get somewhere. My eyes firmly pinned on the horizon for this unknown location. That's where I'm driving to. The point of my career is to get over there. Never mind how smooth the driving is on the way - I've got to get to there.

And I think, and maybe it's a blip and a phase and only this week's emotion, but I think... I think now I just want to drive. I was so busy looking at the goal I forgot that I started doing this just for the pleasure of the drive. Because of the wind in my hair. My half a head of hair.

The last year gave me a taste of something nicer than a destination... I got a little flavour of my own ability to create my own style of comedy. I like things when they're nice, and safe and come from a kind place. I found a way to make softness part of what I do and I love that. Instead of aiming for a place, I'm aiming for a style of driving. Because... why not? I can buy back out of the idea of striving somewhere. It was only ever someone's idea. It wasn't definitely the right way to do something.

Work really hard.
Why?
To succeed.
Why?
You need to be financially responsible.
I am financially responsible.
You could have more...
I have what I want.
I guess you can settle.

And settle is a bad word?

 To settle is beautiful. To settle is restful. Settle an argument. Settle down with a cup of tea and a good book. Settlement.

Can I settle now, not because I've stopped dreaming, but because I dream better when I'm settled?

Last night I dreamed my frightened dreams; my husband caught me texting an ex and a pigeon got in my house and turned into a seagull which chased me and when I caught it by the beak it turned into a baby. Those are the dreams that fear induces... when fear drives me I look to all the other comedians to see what they're doing and why I'm not them. I write panicked jokes in the wrong voice, searching for the message I thought I saw in someone else's nomination.

That's why I write best on stage. On stage, I am settled... that's when the games break out and the voices and my "scenes" and the things I'm proudest of in my work. That's when I find my voice - when I'm settled. Not when I'm afraid.

My favourite thing about comedy is that is has a sell-by-date. No matter how big a star someone was, at some point in the future, the comedy will need explaining. Nothing is bulletproof for eternity as appetites, references, timings and tastes change. How marvellous. By all means have a legacy - but know its overall irrelevancy before you chase it to the exclusion of all else.

There's something so delicious about this stage of comedy - to be the anonymous highlight of someone's weekend as they laugh themselves to choking at you and then you slip away back home to put some washing on and they go and forget who you were. No expectations of you, no mantel to carry about. Whether they love or hate you, 99% of the room have forgotten you tomorrow.

That removes the fear, then. When people say "I couldn't do what you do - I'd be too scared." I think... scared of what? Only a very few remember you anyway so why do you care. Eat the best meal of your life and you only remember a vague outline of the flavours on your tongue and the textures through your teeth. It's the same with most comedy... you're left with the ghost of enjoying yourself instead of the details. It's delicious. It stops me being scared.

For My Mum

My mum isn’t 60. There are some children at school who have old mums, but not my mum.

My mum is young, and beautiful and I don’t really know how old adults are but she’s younger than Dad but older than her sister Kate, I think.

My mum has a long denim skirt, she has cool short hair and she loves Chanel Number 5.

My mum isn’t a bloody taxi service.

My mum sings along to M People and Curtis Stigers in the kitchen.

My mum always does our birthday parties at home and plans homemade games.

My mum is sick of telling us to tidy up our rooms.

My mum loves taking us to buy books before we go on holiday.

My mum loves croissants and wine and swimming pools and us. Most of all my mum loves us.

And suddenly, I turn around and she’s all grown up.

It seems like only yesterday she was letting me stay up late to watch Due South with her

It seems like only yesterday she was letting us think her whole life revolved around us…

Although that seems like only yesterday, I think my mum’s gone and grown up.

Here she is at 60.

And I wonder what she’s going to do next. Now we need her in less time consuming ways, I wonder what she’s going to do next.

I can’t wait to see what she does next.

This woman who raised the three people I love most in the world, if she can do that, what else is she going to do?

My mum is going to carry on being that teacher children hug in the playground.

My mum will be Grandma, whether her Grandsons like it or not.

My mum might find herself a dog…

My mum will keep being an anchor for people at her church.

My mum’s going to be in love.

My mum’s going to come with us to see plays, and musicals.

My mum might find another house to make our home…

My mum will keep making friends with checkout assistants, and shop-girls and, basically, anyone to whom she can chat.

My mum will carry keep making her badminton team a lighter, sillier more inviting place to be.

My mum might learn a new sport…

My mum’s going to play loads more stupid games on her computer.

My mum is going to travel the world… See Sri Lanka and the Caribbean and the sea and the sky.

My mum is all the ages she’s been, while she scraped us off all the walls and floors we fell on. Please don't retire that scraper too soon though, mum, we're going to need that some more.

However old she’s been, she’s been funny and frightened and brave and practical and kind.

And now she is 60.

Thank you for everything you’ve been, mum. We’re so grateful, but mainly, we just can’t wait to see what you do next.