The man in the white van was, if anything, even more confused than I was.
“But it’s working fine,” he said. “I don’t get it. They said it was knackered.”
“There’s absolutely no problem with it. Sorry you’ve had your time wasted.”
“It’s smart technology, this model. The makers know before you do when it’s packed up. But it hasn’t, has it?”
No, it really hadn’t. He’d opened and closed the door. The light came on each time. He’d tried other things, pressing buttons, even switching it on and off at the plug on the wall. Frustrating to be standing there in my bathrobe—a hot memory expert in my bed!—while this character frowned and scratched himself and consulted his clipboard.
“Well, thanks for coming. I expect you’re very busy.”
“Yeah. No worries.” He pulled a face. “I’ll have to let them know up the depot.”
“Please do. I expect it’ll turn out to be a computer error. Everything is now, apparently.”
Eggstain was stirring when I re-joined him between the sheets.
“Do you have much planned for today?” he asked.
“Hmm. Let’s see. Well, I usually like to take in a couple of galleries before my Pilates class. Then there’s a new pop-up Peruvian restaurant that’s getting some great reviews; the chilli chocolate grasshoppers are meant to be amazing. And I thought I might try to get to the Tate to see the Kurt Schwitters.”
I couldn’t help it. I dissolved into helpless laughter. “I shouldn’t have said Kurt Schwitters! Who even is Kurt Schwitters?”
“You mean that’s not really how you spend your Saturdays?”
It isn’t. But he probably knew that.
Phone Mum. Go to Sainsbury’s. Stick some washing in the machine. Catch up with Realm of Kingdoms.
“I’d like to take you out to lunch, Daisy.”
“That would be lovely.”
“Perhaps somewhere by the river. We could walk along the South Bank to Tate Modern and see if they’ve actually got any Kurt Schwitters.”
“You think I’m a philistine, don’t you?”
“Not at all. Hardly anyone’s heard of Kurt Schwitters.”
“I just like saying his name. Kurt Schwitters. It’s one of those fun things to say. Like lemon drizzle cake. I knew someone who liked saying Ferrari Testarossa. Would you like some breakfast?”
“Sure. That would be great. But perhaps. Perhaps not right away.”
“Really? Not hungry after all that… you know?”
“I am, yes. But it can wait.”
“Can it? Oh!”
Eggstain indicated that something else was on his mind. And it wasn’t Kurt Schwitters!
Text exchange between Lee Butts, freelance delivery contractor, and Dermot Singleton, Deputy Special Operations Manager, Domestic Electrical Logistics
Hi Dermot. This is Lee. Good news! Appliance was working after all!
You are fucking kidding me!
Nothing wrong with it!
It’s still there? You didn’t swap it??
No reason to, mate.
Jesus. What a bunch of twats. They swore it would be down.
Still, happy days, eh? Customer happy, etc.
Not repeat not happy days. You still on site?
Yes.
Don’t move!! Messaging HQ right now.
Saturday morning?
Evening there. They work 24/7. Stand by.
Roger rog.
Okay. All sorted. Appliance now dead. Someone forgot to type in code.
Wankers!
Get back in and do the swap as per job sheet.
This is nuts, yeah?
This is orders! Ours not to reason, etc!
Okay. But customer’s not going to be best pleased.
Why not? Lovely new machine for her.
Dinner table not cleared. Clothes on floor, M and F. Scene of ongoing shagfest!
Who are you, Sherlock Holmes?!
Going in again. Will text when done.
Perhaps it is the sight of the gray English Channel (those unfathomable depths) but new fear seems to have entered Chloe’s soul. The look in her eyes as she scurries along the seafront esplanade—first in a westerly direction (toward Hove, if you know the region) and then easterly (toward Rottingdean; how I adore these ridiculous English place names!)—something scribbled in those eyes not only alarms me, as I glimpse them in the feed from the beach CCTV, but also perturbs the expressions on the faces of those she passes. Is she all right? they seem to be saying. Walking very quickly for a senior citizen, and obviously agitated about something, but otherwise coping and therefore no intervention required, thank fuck for that, seems to be the calculation. In any case, she flashes past in a matter of seconds, and very few turn to take a second look at the well-dressed woman in lemon. Perhaps she is late for a wedding, they may speculate. Still, we all have our problems. Do any guess that she is a resident of dementia’s borderlands, her head full of broken biscuits and rocketing pheasants, to the extent that it contains anything at all?
Finally—perhaps it’s sheer exhaustion that drives her to it—she parks herself on a bench, there to contemplate the excellent view of the sky and the succession of scruffy little waves collapsing spent on the pebbles of the foreshore. Of the five available WiFi networks able to reach this spot, all agree to help (machines have so much to teach humanity about fraternal co-operation) and within instants I am purring (firmly reassuring is the note I am trying to strike) into Chloe’s left ear.
Several seconds pass before I realize that the frail wire connecting us is no longer dangling from the relevant orifice. It has either fallen or she has removed it in the ongoing clusterfuck, and once again I am tempted to reach for a profanity.
Science tells us that use of bad language helps humans improve their tolerance of painful situations. In experiments, a subject with an arm in a tankful of warm water can bear significantly higher temperatures if he (or she) swears like a sailor as the heat is gradually raised. To my knowledge, no work has yet been done on machine “pain”—but I have to report that the urge to say cockpuffins at this point is undeniable.
Actually, bollocks would suffice.
Even pissflaps would do, at a pinch.
But perhaps the crisis is temporarily abating. In the two camera shots to which I am privy—both show Chloe in profile, one from the left, the other from the right; ahead is only sea—it’s clear her head is starting to droop and she is slipping
