by Terry Tyler
"It wouldn't be so bad if I was happy at home," she carried on, and went on to list her mother's latest barbs about her weight and the slimy boyfriend's latest inappropriate remarks, which was when I had a brainwave.
Only the day before, Nick had been complaining about the chores rota in his shared house.
"It's a fucking wheel! Neglecting your duties, because you didn't happen to spot that the arrow of doom was pointing to your name, is a crime punishable by two days of sniffs and snide remarks. I don't need it."
I had a brainwave.
"Why don't the three of us get a place?"
And so we did.
The Nutricorp Building, West London.
"Okay, so what else have you got for me today?" Caleb Bettencourt's eyes remain fixed on the Nutricorp sales reports on his monitor.
"Progress on the new Hopes in the North West; they're coming in on time and under budget."
"That's good. Excellent."
Jensen gives a barely audible, nervous chuckle. "Only problem now is filling them."
Caleb sits back in his chair. "Guy’s got some nice welfare cuts to roll out at the next Party Conference; packing our fine Hope Villages to bursting point will be no problem at all." He laughs. "It’s all about giving evolution a helping hand! "
4
Friends, Family and the American Dream
Before I introduced Nick and Kendall, I warned her that Nick's bark is worse than his bite―though I am not entirely sure of this―and I warned Nick about Kendall's compulsion to post every change of mood and random thought on the socials.
He shook his head and said, "Oh dear. So 2022. Doesn't she know that reticence is the new black?"
We came together at exactly the right time; the gods of flat-hunting must have been smiling on us. Our place is furnished, and it's open plan, with no hall, so the doors to the bedrooms and bathroom open off from the living room, with the stairs up to the attic in one corner. It's light, airy, warm and perfect, and I knew I had to beat any competitors down.
Esme offered to stand as guarantor, in order to secure it. She even struck a deal with him on the advance. I don't do hugs, but I did, that day.
"I can tell how important it is to you," she said.
It was. Is. On the day we moved in, I felt that my life required nothing more.
We have rules. Kendall is not allowed to activate her SneekPeek app in the flat. In case you've been living out in the wilds for the last five years, I'll explain: SneekPeek films your life as it happens, constantly uploading and downloading to the device of your choice. Kendall wears a Peek necklace, or you might fancy the Peek sunglasses or earrings. If you're a fellow Peeker on Kendall's friends list, you can click on the Peek app on your phone and tune in any time to see where she is, who she's talking to and what she's doing, even who she's arguing with. In a nutshell, it's your own reality show. You're never alone with SneekPeek.
I think it's the last word in intrusive nightmares, but Peekers love nothing more than to slide into someone else's day if their own is a tad uneventful. A gruesome hardcore called Extreme Peekers (i.e. serious weirdos) even stay live when on the loo or having sex. Horrendous, right?
Needless to say, it is banned in many public places, and all workplaces. Many feel as Nick and I do, and insist that Peeker friends turn it off when in their company.
Nick's even more of a privacy fanatic than I am. He only uses the socials under cover of Widow Skanky or Naked Truth; we have instructions not to post photos of him, or mention his name or anything he does, anywhere online.
"And I don't care if you think I'm paranoid or antisocial. If you want me to pay a third of the rent, this is the condition."
Alas, Kendall and her super-sharer friends do not understand that Orwell's Big Brother has nothing on the online life of the present. An even bigger 'alas' is that Kendall didn't know that the term 'Big Brother' came from 1984; she thought it originated from that sad old TV show. But she laughs at herself, and thanks Nick and me for educating her; that's why I like her.
Nick and Kendall have become so important to me. In my early twenties I was always getting off my face at gigs or in bars, but when I stopped wanting to, I discovered how few real friends I had. They said, fine, we can do quiet evenings, but the attitude soon changed from 'I respect that you want to lead a more sober lifestyle', to 'Oh, come on, just one line/shot, it'll perk you up', and finally to 'Lita's gone really boring'. They got in touch less and less, and I began to feel so out of the loop when we did meet up, that I stopped going out altogether.
Now, I'm a stay-at-home old lady of thirty-one and as far as friends go, I just have Esme, Nick, Kendall―and Brody. That sometimes-boyfriend I mentioned.
It's an odd one. He's not my boyfriend and I'm not his girlfriend, but we're more than friends because we sleep together. We're not just friends with benefits, though; the relationship is fairly intense, when it happens.
His job with the DSC (Housing) means that he is often many miles away for weeks at a time. I see him when he's back, but we make no commitments. It's not like he texts to say he'll be back on blah-blah day and I'm there waiting for him. We just come together when it's right for both of us.
I have incredibly strong feelings for him, but I'm good at this stuff; I can put him in one compartment of my mind and get on with the rest of my life when he goes. I miss him for a couple of days, then I get back into being happy in our home.
I love my attic bedroom, I love our messy living room and the narrow kitchen area with its breakfast bar and high stools. I love coming downstairs and seeing Nick making the coffee he lives on, and Kendall watching rubbish about werewolves and shapeshifters on Nick's ancient fifty-five-inch in the living room. I've read that our type of household has become quite the norm for twenty-, thirty- and even forty-somethings, now that the nuclear family is the exception rather than the rule, and housing prices are beyond so many budgets.
I'm at home most of the time, but Nick goes out a couple of nights a week―he has a modest social life, and two occasional lovers, Claire and Jessica. Claire is a flight attendant who is rarely here, and Jessica is married.
Kendall has her girlfriends, but her BFFs, Sienna and Jude, have recently graduated from living with their parents to live-in relationships; she complains that they behave 'all superior' because they've moved on from singledom.
"I don't care," she says. "I'd rather be home with you two." And so she and I get into our socially unacceptable round-the-house clothes, and click onto the next series on our watch list.
I expect she'll find a Wes-replacement soon, though she says she's not interested.
"Guys you meet in bars and on dating sites, they just want a quick lay, and that makes me feel like shit in the mornings. I used to do it 'cause I was lonely, half the time. Then I got pregnant by some wanker who buggered off in the morning before I was even awake, Mum made me get rid of it, and that made me realise what I was doing. Now I've got you and Nick, so I don't need anyone else."
We moved into the flat at the beginning of a bad winter; we hunkered down, as much as possible, not least of all because of the latest flu scare. Nick and I are sceptical about horror stories in the news, but as the winter drew to a close I was interested enough to look up the actual figures.
A decade ago, the flu season killed a hundred and twenty across the UK, and the figures have gone up every year. Official reports claim that this is because of ever more virulent strains of the disease, but others think it's due to increasingly bad nutrition amongst vulnerable groups. I guess there's not much in the way of vitamins to be found in Nu-Mart Pasta 'n' Sauce.
Anyway, last winter, when we saw that the flu season promised to be a biggie, Kendall said, "Fuck this, I'm staying indoors," and Nick and I echoed her sentiments. Kendall filled the fridge with Nutricorp power shakes, Nick took extra Vitamin C tablets and I stopped travelling on buses because I read that they act as disease incubators, with all those nasty poor people coughing and splutteri
ng in close proximity to one another.
The flu scare faded away with spring, with the final (official) death toll standing at four hundred and twenty-six, and as usual everyone forgot there had ever been a flu scare once the warm weather came back.
Then came the May election, since when we have been living in the bright new dawn that is the first year of #GuyMo's reign. Everywhere, there are articles about an age of optimism, motivating every individual onwards and upwards.
Hmm.
Nick and I are not the only ones to make dry comments about the American Dream coming to Britain. Give or take the odd quarter of a million people currently living in Hope Villages, that is. And the fact Nutricorp has the contract to feed them, and fulfil their medical needs.
We're not the only ones who don't understand the implications of this, either.
Widow Skanky says:
Well, it's gloomy old November again―what does that mean? Yes, yes, children, it's Bonfire Night, but, more importantly, it means that #GuyMo has been on the throne for six whole months. Quiet, in the back seats!
Now, if you're all sitting comfortably, shall we play a game?
What I'd like you to do is this: turn to the child sitting on your right, and tell him or her a fun fact about our handsome new PM's foreign trade policy, or his plans to solve the ever worsening socio-economic problems of the masses. Anything at all. Speak up, don't be shy! Your mummies and daddies voted for him, and you can scarcely turn on the TV without seeing his cheery smile―you should know everything about him by now!
*Puts hand to right ear*
I can't hear anything. What's the matter, cat got your tongues?
*Puts hand to left ear*
Come on, now, one of you must know something! What's that? This is a boring game? Dear oh dear! Alright, alright, let's try something else. Turn to the boy or girl on your other side and tell them something you know about our new PM's wife Mona, commonly known as hashtag MoMo.
*Pause*
Whoa, calm down! I can't hear myself think! My goodness, you've all got plenty to say about MoMo, haven't you? Correct, her aim is to change the BMI of the nation, and that's right, her MoJo fitness centres have waiting lists for membership. Ooh yes, I loved the video of her and the kids out on that bike ride, too. No, I'm not surprised it went viral! What's that, sweetheart? You want to be just like Hunter Morrissey when you're older? Well, that's lovely. Absolutely super.
But just one moment―please, children, stop talking now―how about all those Nutricorp buy-outs? What's that? You don't know about them? Well, how about the rising levels of homelessness? The increasing dependency on food banks, and zero tolerance for vagrancy? Those Nazi-esque benefit sanctions? Oh, sorry―were you all too busy doing your Mo-TV8 workout to notice?
Right, fun's over. It's time for today's lesson. Listen to this, and listen well.
*Deep Breath*
If you're ever in a position to do lots of naughty things that may be detrimental to the well-being of the common man, make sure you hire excellent PR and social media teams to distract the nation's attention with motivational memes and pictures of happy families on bike rides. Then everyone will think you're fabulous and no one will realise that you're little more than the douchebag puppet of corporate bigwigs who want to own every single business in the country and relegate half the population to a life of poverty.
There! It's as simple as that, kiddies!
153,495 views. 82,782 likes. 34,346 dislikes.
5
#FitForWork
MoMo's gift to the nation, as the festive season draws near, is her campaign to help the long-term unemployed. Today she sits on the Afternoon Tea sofa, her brilliant white smile so broad that the cameramen must have had to dust off their wide-angle lenses.
"I am fully committed to getting Britain fit for work!" she declares, and presenter Gavin joins her in a high five.
Enter stage left: The Unemployed.
A graduate who hasn't worked since leaving university a year ago and has spent the last twelve months lounging on the sofa eating Ben and Jerry's.
Three thirty-something factory/warehouse workers whose jobs have been taken over by robots and have spent the last twelve months lounging on the sofa, etc.
The token Older Person: a man of fifty-five who admits that long-term unemployment has driven him to drink.
All five are clad in sweatpants and baggy t-shirts bearing the slogan #FitForWork. A MoJo fitness coach puts them through their low-impact aerobic paces at the back of the stage, while our friendly First Lady tells Gavin about the #FitForWork scheme taking place at MoJo centres throughout the land.
The unemployed get the first three sessions free, after which they can take part at a reduced rate.
"So she's not making money out of the poor under the guise of actually giving a crap, then," says Nick, then heaves himself off the couch and mooches back to his room in disgust.
I stay and watch, in revolted fascination.
"And don't forget," says presenter Gavin, "if you're out of work and hoping to receive benefits, demonstrating your commitment to get fit for work will add great weight to your claim―no pun intended!"
It gets better. After you've attended ten classes you get a free #FitForWork t-shirt. Wow! I mean, just wow. I'd rather go for a run three times a week and buy my own clothes, but, of course, that wouldn't 'demonstrate my commitment'.
Yes, Gavin, we understand.
Your prize for attending twenty sessions is a #FitForWork sports kit bag. I'm on the website now, by the way; oh, and the next bit is a beauty. Fifty sessions earn you a #FitForWork duvet and pillow case set. Presumably because if you've been unemployed for long enough to get them, it's unlikely you'll ever get a job and you may as well stay in bed.
I look on Twitter. Yep, #FitForWork is trending. I click on the hashtag. Eighty per cent cheerleading (complete with 'Yays' and pictures of people doing tai chi on mountains), and twenty per cent taking the piss.
On the website, glossy fitness instructors wear name badges saying 'MoJo Kate' and 'MoJo Josh'.
On the home page, I read that Mona Morrissey is thrilled to be working alongside the DSC to get Britain in shape for a brilliant future. I bet she is.
6
Christmas Hope
I went out last night. Yes, proper socialising with real live people, like I used to, except it wasn't like back then because it didn't involve retro indie bands in dingy venues and lines of coke on toilet cisterns.
I accompanied Kendall to her Zest Christmas booze-up. She said everyone else had a significant other and she'd stick out like a sore thumb if she went alone, so she asked Nick and me if one of us would go with her. Nick said he'd rather stick pins in his eyes, so I took pity on her.
Kendall drove, in her falling apart little Toyota self-charge that always feels like the batteries are on their last legs, even when it’s just come off a Supercharger, but I so rarely go anywhere that I enjoyed the drive out into what used to be the countryside that borders the town, but is now a stretch of green fields with a road cutting between them, leading to those clumps of trees through which you can just make out our nearest Hope Village.
I like being in cars, driving along night-time roads, the darker the better. I love the feeling that I'm travelling into the unknown, that I could be going anywhere, and anything could happen.
Sadly, this experience lasted but minutes; the silent night merged into a vast retail and entertainment park, and we pulled into the car park of Highball, the cocktail bar/club/restaurant of the Zest staff's choice. There was to be no Christmas dinner or wearing of paper hats; the Zesters just wanted to party.
Kendall told me they were all super-sharers, Peekers and soc med addicts, so many of them knew who Lita Stone was, which was disconcerting, to say the least; it's easy to do 'public face' online, but acting the successful blogger/critic in front of live human beings is harder. I felt like they were waiting for me to come out with clever one-liners, but they d
on't occur unless fingertips meet laptop keys. So I did my best to steer the conversation away from me and round to healthy eating, as promoted by Zest, and about which they all had much to say.
Aside from Kendall and me, they numbered eighteen. Eight vegetarians, three shameless carnivores, five vegans (two of whom were also gluten-free) and two 'flexitarians', which means that they eat vegan when they're feeling virtuous, vegetarian when there is no vegan option available, or if they can't resist cheese on toast, and the odd burger if they really, really fancy it. In other words, what is generally known simply as 'eating', but excludes you from any of the other named groups, which is why, I imagine, they adopted the 'flexitarian' label.
I was already composing the blog post.
I pitied Kendall being the designated driver, but she seemed happy enough with her mocktails. I got fairly pissed, as far as was possible considering the weakness of the drinks. I tried a few Midori-based concoctions first, until my teeth threatened to fall out, then went on to the whisky sours, but I must have been more hammered than I realised, because when the hardcore decided to finish off the night in Highball's Dance Zone, I was totally up for it.
Kendall was looking a bit fed up by then, and said she wanted to go home.
"Come with us!" cried the pretty blonde with the tattooed eyebrows (Suze), and the non-binary with the silver hair extensions (Steph). "You can share Dallas and Austin's taxi home―let's go party!"
A shred of sense kicked in. I knew what would happen. After twenty minutes the novelty of being in a club would wear off, I'd be longing to get my make-up off and the telly and my pyjamas on, but Dallas and Austin would want to writhe on the dance floor with their arms in the air for a further two hours, and I'd be stuck with the choice of waiting for them, or forking out twenty quid to get a taxi on my own, if I could even get one in a hurry this close to Christmas.
