The Electric Dwarf

by Tim Vine

  Ditch that Man, You Can Rise Above Him (and make all men Want You).

  You Don’t have to be Mean to Live within your Means: the Money Guide for Ladies that Lunch.

  Help with Your Life: Life Points to Succeed and Win at Life!

  Inside Supermarket Shopping: how to spot Deals and Buy well for your Family.

  There is only One Self-Help book, and you’re Looking at it!

  Banish Anxiety and Emotional Stress within Hours of Reading the Last Page of this Book.

  Healing and Self-Worth Part I.

  Healing and Self-Worth Part II.

  The Journey from the Soul, and What Lies Beyond.

  199 Ways to Influence People and Win at Life.

  The Empowered Female.

  Delete Depression in Days, Definitely!

  On Being a Jewish Feminist: a Guide for the over 60s.

  Raising Happy Children.

  Relationship Re-generation Guide (We’re on the Same Page. It’s an Empty page, but it’s the Same Page).

  The Key to Handling Stress and Depression, plus How to take Charge of your own Destiny while Maintaining Strong Relationships and a Healthy Bank Balance, Cheering Others up and Giving up Negative Thoughts: a Guide.

  Her self-editing policy was often irrelevant (if in fact it existed at all), and dreaming up punchy titles sometimes evidently remained beyond her reach. Large amounts of waffle remained the key factor here, whether in the title or the content. Claude was bemused with Sue’s dedication and drive, and didn’t really understand what it was all about. He would leave her to it, observing from the sidelines without much comprehension of what she was up to, but was quietly supportive and would offer encouraging noises at all the right moments. Clearly his new lover was not the kind of woman who would let the grass grow under her feet. Her recently purchased bonsai tree, however, was tended to with extreme care. Sue would gently caress the leaves with her words, talking at length to the mini tree after its daily tending, carried out with the utmost respect (and her red mini watering-can, straight out of Snow White & the Seven Dwarves). This was all part of her new regime, new routine, new life. She worked constantly, churning out the words, tapping away at the keyboard or carefully précising thoughts with a well-chewed pencil. She used a white Apple Mac laptop microcomputer running the latest edition of Word, and had bought a number of expensive notebooks and assorted stationery items. Her theory was that if she was jotting down an idea, it would make her feel like she’s writing something important if it were written in a top-of-the-range quality notepad, and that made her feel good.

  Sue even had another side-project in the wings, but it was currently on the back-burner until the time was right. She also intended to muscle her way in with supermarkets or cosmetics companies and the like, aspiring to be the person who dreams up the descriptions for products, especially bathroom or beauty items. She could imagine her writing style sitting comfortably on certain tubes or bottles, and had started making notes:

  Gently squeeze a small amount of product onto the palm of your hand and enjoy rubbing it into a foam with a little warm water. Rub your face, luxuriate in the great textures and delicate scent whilst taking care to avoid the area of the eyes. Take a deep breath, rinse and pat dry. OR

  Let the conditioner nourish the very life of your hair, from follicle to tip. Natural shine, spring and vitality will be restored, especially with regular applications (at least once a week is recommended). OR EVEN

  Apply WartAway® carefully to the skin once a day for up to two weeks, taking care not to damage good skin around the offending wart. Results should be seen after a few days, and excess skin can be sloughed away by a pumice stone, using a circular motion. If problem persists, consult your doctor.

  Food and drink descriptions would come easily and quickly, she was sure.

  Kwamini © Tea is harvested with care, and only the finest tips are selected by hand. This Fairtrade organic crop grows in the middle of a nature reserve high in the Chinese tea plantations, where Souchong’s large leaves are smoked in the traditional way. Brew for a few minutes to release the characteristic orange-tinged hue in this magnificent slightly spiced beverage, often enjoyed to accompany savoury food.

  OR

  McCraig’s Sabres © are deliciously crunchy biscuits, generously coated with a layer of smooth chocolate. Rich in cereals, they provide a decent amount of your daily fibre requirements as well as helping with a healthy nutritional intake whilst pleasuring your palette to the utmost!

  From time to time, however, she would take mini-breaks from her work, often to spend a bit of time on Facebook. She loved to post hilariously poignant life anecdotes, like:

  I must have been half asleep this morning, I found that I’d put the box of Corn Flakes in the fridge door!!

  Isn’t it annoying when you get shampoo in your eye?!

  Not happy with the man who stole my parking space at the supermarket this afternoon. I was about to reverse and there he was suddenly . . . he cut me up and shot in, no shame!!

  Recently a hypnotherapist friend had turned her onto a brand of herbal tea called Celestial ™ that she would constantly sip scolding mugs of throughout the day. The colourful label, clearly inspired by classical Indian art, promised ‘an aromatic, joyful and uplifting experience that will infuse the soul, revealing your inner senses whilst celebrating the very essence of life itself.’ It appeared to be working, and working well . . . or so Sue believed. And if she believed it, then it was working.

  The masterplan was also to translate into various languages with the aim of taking the products truly global, and so preliminary discussions had already started with an officially-registered French translator, who happened to be her doctor’s wife. She sometimes imagined that in a few years she would be jetting around the world in First Class, giving seminars and attending conferences as guest speaker. All of this brand-new start would require a new wardrobe at some juncture, with power-dressing being key: the aim was to ensure a professional look whilst retaining her femininity, but perhaps occasionally hinting at sexiness, depending on the occasion. The clothes needed to be expensive but not flashy, smart without being too formal, impressive but not daunting, and neither too flamboyant nor frumpy. She decided to go on a bit of a shopping spree in the UK on her next trip over. Sue’s hippy credentials at the forefront of her writing, an unswerving self-belief in her business acumen, a hungry and gullible mass audience ready to flex their credit cards, were all positive factors that would ensure a great future for the set-up. The icing on the cake came after she purchased a Doctorate online from a ‘university’ based in Fuengirola, Spain for €495, using a new surname, so 28 days later her nom de plume became Dr. Susan T. Soloman. She considered the name to hold a certain authoritative weight, which would impress potential purchasers. At least it had a ring to it . . . more so than a plain and forgettable Sue Collins. The certificate was framed and proudly displayed on the wall of her office, and she had no problem assuming the role of her alter ego as she sat down at her desk every morning. Dr. Susan T. Soloman was at work.

  Polly lounged on the floor cushions piled up towards the corner of the living room. She was back with Brian at the Welsh retreat for spiritual enlightenment and well-being, but as yet was still to feel the vibes that should bring about the desired frame of mind. Unfortunately, she was still mad with her father, Tony, after his ultimatum regarding Brian who she regarded as the love of her life. This anger was directly at odds with Brian’s doctrines, so she had not mentioned anything about it to him, but it weighed on her mind a lot of the time. Did her dad really expect her to settle down with a banker or lawyer? How could anyone not love this gentle, resourceful leader of men who is Brian?

  The stone cottage had been a lucky find, especially as Brian had agreed very favourable terms with the landlord. The negotiations hadn’t always been plain sailing as the local man’s thick accent was
a barrier for a while, but with lots of repetition, a pen and pad of paper, plus the services of a costly lawyer, they had arrived at some middle ground and sealed the deal. The property was suitably remote, a fairly spacious barn room was attached, ideal for meetings and discussion groups.

  Polly was proud of Brian’s achievements and focus, and she could see how the others respected him, listening attentively to his lectures and viewpoints, digesting and supporting. The group had grown even in the last few weeks, and there was a regular core of about thirty followers. It had reached the point that Brian had decided to set up as some kind of official unit, and it was time to decide on a suitable name. ‘How about Equinox?’ Polly suggested.

  Brian stopped chopping carrots and half-turned. ‘Hhhmm, not bad. Not bad. But maybe it’s a bit . . . well, geographical-sounding. Not sure, but I was considering The Onward Soldiers.’

  ‘Yep, it’s okay, but it kinda reminds me of The Salvation Army!’ laughed Polly. ‘I’ve got a goodun’ for you, B. The Brian-tologists!’

  Brian frowned. Then, unusually, he raised his voice. ‘Look, Polly, if you’re not going to take this seriously . . . this isn’t a joke, you know. And we’re nothing like that lot.’ He was abrupt, and starting dicing veg again, quicker than before.

  ‘Ok, okay. Sorry honey, I was just messing around. Can I give you a hand with the soup?’

  Brian was preparing a huge cauldron of vegetable broth for the evening’s meeting; it was to be an offering to the assembled friends. He had vague plans to plough up the lawn behind the cottage, to grow their own vegetables for the group, and perhaps build a shed for some goats. His followers had promised not to eat all day in order to purge their bodies and become mentally sharp to discuss their progress, as well as plans for the organization. He intended to present them with the group’s name in a few hours, but he still hadn’t decided on what to call it. A few names were in the hat: Parallelism, The Genesis Faction, 41 Days 41 Nights, and The Nemesis Throne.

  ‘No, I can manage. You rest.’ Then Brian dramatically swung round from the chopping board by the sink, a broad grin pouring through his beard. ‘I’ve got it. I’ve got the name, it’s been sent and I have received it. This is perfect. We are going to call ourselves . . . wait for it . . . THE SECTION.’

  And so it came to pass, that evening, when the tribe was assembled, a barefooted Brian gave a rousing quasi-religious speech, his eyes often moist with emotion, an ecstatic expression across his face. ‘We are the chosen ones who will surpass the human of today, we are years ahead, and with that knowledge we are nearer our salvation. They are stuck in their image of today . . . an evil rat race of TV, internet, banking and immoral conduct is what drives them in their grim lives. Together we will shun these horrors, combining resources and strength to become a force for good, a lifeline for each other, collectively pooling our knowledge to further the cause. We will work shoulder to shoulder, working up through the ranks, and I urge you to distance yourselves from those who refuse to listen and open their hearts to the way of truth. We shall grow in numbers, and our voice will be heard around all the corners of the world. More humans will become an integral part of our organisation, multiplying, spreading its power and helping the people along their lifelong journey towards spiritual freedom and happiness. Forget the lost souls, the negative emotions which are all around outside of these walls. Inside, together we are safe and strong as one unit, one family, one matrix of thought with forward-looking ideas and philosophies. We refuse to stand still, but instead will not miss the large signpost up ahead, the signpost which says HAPPINESS .

  ‘Working between us and for ourselves, we can improve and rehabilitate our lives and those of our fellow believers by our side. It may be hard to leave friends or even family on the other side, but you know deep in your hearts that they will follow if they want to walk the path with us. You will miss TV, radio and internet, but not for long. We do not need their negative forces polluting our beautiful union. It is the moment to revise our lives, and climb the Scale of Awareness, a concept that I have been developing which I will explain to you all in good time. For now, though, we must not run before we can walk. Your patience will be dutifully rewarded. Being fortunate enough to be part of this historic birth of our group of friends is in fact not a choice, it was always intended this way. . . ’ He paused for effect, dramatically lifting his forearm to wipe beads of sweat from his brow. Standing triumphantly, back straight, he very deliberately delivered the line that he had been honing to perfection in front of the bedroom mirror an hour previously. ‘We now have a name, a focus, an identity. I am delighted to include you, my friends, in this exciting and exclusive band of like-minded good people, at the birth of my project – now our project, which is now a reality. Our group is now called . . . THE SECTION.’

  The tribe burst in applause and joyful laughter, as dyed-in-the-wool members of The Section hugged each other; there were even a few tears. The realisation dawned on Brian that he had achieved his first goal, clearing the first hurdle with ease. He now had these people eating out of the palm of his hand, he had a new premises, and a good woman at his side whose dedication and love was absolute. The second phase would soon have to be initiated, in which the extraction of funds from the members of The Section was to begin. But first, he would have to dedicate more time gaining people’s trust and respect, which would involve more action and words until they would do almost anything for him and the tribe.

  ‘And now, friends, we must take time to wash our feet, the cleansing process that will purge our souls and prepare us on the right track for our work. After this, we will feast on soup, before meditation.’

  Polly fetched a few washing-up bowls and towels from the cottage, and some of the followers helped to fill them with warm water. Small groups naturally formed around the room, and the feet-washing started. The babble of animated conversation echoed around the barn as shoes and socks were removed and the joyful procedure was carried out. Brian mingled around the people, offering praise and encouragement, yet maintaining a strictly not-too-personal air about him, which he felt was becoming to his leader status. Before long, Polly was on her knees, sponging Brian’s feet, before drying them with a tea towel . . . an act that reminded them both of the evening of their first encounter when she had done pretty much the same at the flat back in Clapham. He smiled down serenely at her, in silence. The air around them was charged with optimism, the room buzzing, everyone present believing that they were at the birth of something truly amazing and life-altering.

  On opening her car door, a waft of cigarette smoke hit Sue as it so often did when out and about in France, reminding her vividly of her previous 20-a-day habit, which felt like a lifetime ago. It had been a few years since she’d quit cold turkey; she had found it remarkably easy, even with the bouts of terrible insomnia that were followed by rather odd recurring dreams. A giant polystyrene cigarette would majestically yet somehow clumsily float through the red sky like an enormous Pink Floyd-esque Zeppelin, bobbing around before flying into a cloud of smoke. This went on for days, and she would always have a sharp and focused memory of it upon waking. The images became more sporadic over weeks until finally the dreams stopped. But for all of the bad press that smoking attracted in the UK, it still seemed to be a national sport in France, more noticeably so when you were an ex-smoker. From 13-year-olds furtively chuffing their precious shared fags blowing smoke rings at each other, to the 87-year-old Great Grandmother chugging determinedly on her lifetime’s 432,291st cancer stick yet remaining miraculously cancer- and death-free, it seemed as if all walks of life were having a go. It was, however, a more unpleasant odour that greeted Sue on her arrival at the supermarket. Whiffs of sweat, not fully disguised by bleach, invaded her nostrils as automatic doors clumsily parted. A minute passed . . . her brain negated the smell, which ceased to bother her. ‘Life is all about small victories,’ she considered smugly, pleased with herself for having found the n
earest parking space to the shop’s entrance (that wasn’t a disabled or a mother/baby space, of course). She negotiated past a spotty and awkward teenager with longish hair who was gormlessly meandering about, clasping a two-litre bottle of Coke as if it was an extension of his body. A tall figure sidled past, gingerly cradling a couple of bags of ices cubes. Not being a warm day, Sue surmised that: a) there was a party going on that she hadn’t been invited to, or b) someone had broken their arm or twisted a limb, resulting in a dolorous soft-tissue injury that required ice application. Sue found herself gorping into the deep-chiller unit which was taking up most of the aisle in the local LeClerc supermarket meat section. It was stinking slightly, if that’s possible, and it was probably this stench that aroused her interest during her nonchalant afternoon stroll about. Behind her she could hear the efforts of a ruddy over-sized vendor calling out sporadically in his attempts to entice shoppers to sample and hopefully purchase certain meat-based products. Suddenly she recoiled, bolt upright whilst scrunching both mouth and nose up in disgust. Daring to peer back down again to the depths of the cavernous fridge she confirmed to herself that there were indeed nearly ten complete pig’s heads sitting quietly at the bottom of the chiller, chilling. As there was nothing else in the fridge, the macabre exhibition could easily have been a Damien Hirst installation with a million-dollar price tag. All of her attention was momentarily directed at these heads, and she couldn’t prise her scrutiny away from them. Large snouts were pressing into the polythene covering as the ears somehow found their own squashed space, eyes mercifully closed under impressive damp lashes. Greasy, barcoded price stickers had been placed somewhere over the cheek area on each tightly wrapped package of flesh – but they barely managed to stick due to the presence of unknown juices – and Sue was too transfixed, horrified and shocked to lean down to check the price of a pig’s head, despite a shopper’s curiosity that wanted to know. A humourless-looking woman of indeterminate age, perhaps late 50s, appeared at her shoulder, bringing Sue back to normal supermarket life. Sue noticed her boyish haircut, round glasses and ill-fitting black jeans. She enjoyed sensible shoes and wore a hiking jacket over her sensible jumper, but nothing would disguise her soft, regular yet dangerous-sounding cough. As she leant down to hoik out one of the more sizeable heads, Sue felt sick. The woman waddled off past the halal meats, still muttering, prize in hand. A few thoughts sprang to mind: