by Annabel Port
He looks confused. I tell him I’m paying 16p per minute of labour.
“But they’re priced by weight,” he says.
“Well, I’m only paying £2.08,” I tell him. “But we can weigh it if you want.”
He does want to. He weighs it. “£1.30,” he tells me firmly.
“Well, I’m afraid I’m still going to have to pay £2.08 for it.” I give him a £20 note.
He is very confused. Perhaps understandably. “I can’t do that,” he says. He’s starting to look a bit stressed.
I notice a tips jar by the till. “Okay,” I tell him. “Give me whatever change you want and I’ll put the extra seventy-eight pence that I need to pay in the tip jar.”
This appears to satisfy him. I pay £2.08 for a £1.30 biscuit. I’m not 100% convinced this is the answer to the world economic problems. So far, it’s just involved a very expensive biscuit.
I need to make more of an impact on the world economy. I’m thinking about the countries in particular difficulty. In Europe, Greece is probably in the worst state.
It seems sad that they’ve got such economic problems when they are home to the Acropolis. It’s really old and famous; it must be worth a fortune. They should sell it like that time someone sold London Bridge to a rich American.
Then, I remember the Elgin Marbles. The Ancient Greek marble sculptures that the UK basically stole from Greece. If Greece had them back again, they could sell them.
I know we’re not going to just give them back, though. They asked and we said no because we think they’re not going to look after them properly. Presumably assuming they’ll be smearing them in feta and spilling ouzo on them.
But what if the British Museum could be persuaded to sell them to someone and they then secretly gave them to Greece? This is the answer! I don’t know who is going to buy them as I’m pretty sure I can’t afford them, but I’ve decided to worry about that later and set about getting the museum to agree to sell them first.
I formulate a plan. Then ring up the British Museum main switchboard. A man answers.
“Hello, my name’s Annabel. I’m a broker representing a client, who would like to remain anonymous at this time, and they would like to make a purchase.”
He’s a bit confused. “They want to buy something? What do they want to buy?”
“I’m not able to say at this time.” I’m not sure why I said that; it just seemed professional to be discreet.
“Is it something in the museum?” the man asks.
I pause dramatically, then say solemnly, “Yes, that is correct.”
He tells me that you can’t buy things in the museum, which isn’t good, but then he adds, “I’ll put you through to someone who might be able to help you.”
I’ve passed the first hurdle! I’m getting closer to buying the Elgin Marbles for a currently non-existent client.
I’m being put through to a woman in the development department. I say to her, “I’m a broker representing a client who wishes to remain anonymous at present, but for the purposes of what I’m about to tell you, they are a worldwide name with considerable wealth.”
She sounds excited. “Good!” she says.
I carry on. “And they want to make a purchase.”
“Okay,” she says.
“And the object in question is the Elgin Marbles.”
She laughs a little. “Right!” she says. “Well, it’s a bit of a sticky one. We’re not legally allowed to sell objects. I’ll have to get my director to call you. They’re not going to be for sale but it’s best if she speaks to you.”
She goes on to say that the legal department can send me documents showing they can’t sell the Elgin Marbles. I’m wondering how many offers they get that there are documents already drawn up.
But this is just the final hurdle to go over. Once I get the call from the director, I’m there. I’ve done it.
I wait for the call. It never comes. I’m very annoyed until I remember the buyer I was brokering for is imaginary.
And if they won’t sell the Elgin Marbles, I’ll just find some other way to get them. I’ll just have to steal them. I don’t feel bad about this. They were stolen by us in the first place and even named after the man that stole them, Mr Elgin, which would be regarded as foolish in any other kind of thievery situation. Maybe when I’ve got them, though, I’ll rename them the Port Marbles.
I make my way to British Museum. I know this isn’t going to be easy, but I’m thinking hard and I have an idea. It’s something I saw in a film once, a similarly big heist. I think I know how to do it.
At the entrance is a security guard. I say to him, “Excuse me, could I try your uniform on?”
He stares at me then replies, “You need to go to the information desk. It’s on the right.”
This is a bit weird, but I go there and say to the lady, “Excuse me, I just asked the security guard if I could try his uniform on and he said I should ask here.” I accompany this with a look intending to communicate, “How weird is that! That he told me to ask you!” Because this is the weird bit. Not the trying-on-the-uniform bit.
She is very confused. Flummoxed, even. “Well, I mean . . . I’ve actually no idea. He told you to come here?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I thought it was a bit weird.”
“I’d imagine it was up to individuals if they let you try their uniform on. I’ll check with my colleague.”
She leans over to the man next to her. I can tell she is embarrassed by the words coming out of her mouth.
“This lady wanted to try on the security guard’s uniform and he sent her over here.”
He looks at me incredulously. I match his incredulous look and add, “I know! Why did he send me here?”
He suggests I go back to the security guard. Although he’s not sure it would be a good idea for other people to dress up as security guards.
I worry now that I’ve become too noticeable and am on the verge of abandoning this amazing plan. But I do return to the security guard and explain that they’ve sent me back to him.
He looks at me coldly. Then asks with equal coldness, “You want me to take my clothes off?”
“Yes,” I say confidently. Even though I’m starting to see small cracks in my plan.
“You’ll have to get a job here if you want to wear the uniform,” he tells me.
I’ll have to find another way to steal the Elgin Marbles.
I go through the museum to the marbles. I realise that I’ve never seen them in the flesh before. I’m thinking now I’m not sure how much they’re actually worth. They are not in a great state. They’re also a bit bigger than I thought. They are definitely not going to fit in my canvas bag.
I formulate a new plan. I see two members of staff patrolling the hall. I walk towards them and say, “Hi, Michael and Tom, is it?”
I could be lucky. I’m not.
“No, neither of us, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, they must’ve given me the wrong names. Sorry, I’ve been sent to take the horse’s head from the marbles for cleaning. Could you both give me a hand carrying it out to my taxi?”
It’s a no. I’d need to be here with someone with ID. It’s very frustrating. I need help. I sidle up to a strong-looking man and say under my breath, “Do you want to help me steal the Elgin Marbles?”
He looks at me and laughs. “What? You’re going to give them back to Greece?” he asks as if he’s made the greatest joke in the world.
“Yes,” I say.
I’ve got no option but to revert to plan A. If I can find a buyer willing to pay big money, I’m sure the British Museum won’t say no. I see someone who looks like a Japanese businessman. I sidle up to him. “Want to buy the Elgin Marbles?”
He runs away from me, literally. He actually runs away and leaves the room.
It’s last-resort time. I’ve got some Post-it notes in my bag. I write on one: FOR SALE THE ELGIN MARBLES. Contact me and then my email address.
I stick it
up on the wall next to an Elgin Marble. Then leave very quickly. I keep checking my email and there’s nothing yet, but maybe there’s a problem with money being tied up. Some rich business person is probably selling some portfolios to free up some cash right now.
Later that day I get a voicemail from the British Museum. I’m terrified it’s to tell me I’m banned for life. Then I remember the state of the Elgin Marbles and care a little less. But it’s from the director of development, in regards to my enquiries yesterday about brokering a deal for the sale of the marbles. She wants me to call back. Despite all evidence to the contrary, including those legal documents, perhaps they will sell them.
I don’t want to mess everything up at this late stage though, so it’s time for me to pass everything I’ve learned on to the economic experts. They can take it from here. By which I mean, do the actual deal with the British Museum and then abolish all currency and set up a barter system. But, presuming they won’t be impressed by my home economics GCSE, how can I persuade them to listen to me? Then it comes to me. Like a bolt out of the blue. The answer. I’ll lie! I’ll say I’ve been studying economics for forty years. I’ve devoted my life to it. My name is Professor Angela Cleveland.
I try the Treasury first. There’s a message saying nobody is available to take my call.
Next up is the World Bank. It’s a recorded message telling me to press one for an operator or if calling from a rotary phone, please hold. I’m glad to hear that so many people are calling the World Bank from a rotary phone. I thought the only person still using a rotary phone was Noel Edmonds on Deal or No Deal and, presumably, the banker.
I press one for the operator and tell her it’s Professor Angela Cleveland calling for the president, Robert Zoellick.
“And what’s the nature of the call? Is it regarding a meeting?”
“No, it’s a conference call.” I’ve heard business people talk about conference calls before.
“He’ll know who you are, then?”
“Oh yes.”
“And what school are you from?”
I say with confidence, “Oh, Oxford University.”
Professor Angela Cleveland has just got herself a new job.
“Okay, hold there a moment.”
I’m waiting for a bit. Then I hear, “Professor Cleveland?” It takes me a while to realise that’s me.
The woman tells me that Robert is with a few people at the moment and can he call me back? Of course he can. The president! Of the World Bank! I leave my mobile number.
I try the White House now. The only number I could find was a comments line. I tell the lady who answers that I have a message for Barack Obama. I’m sure she doesn’t hear that all the time, followed by something crazy.
I keep it short. “It’s Professor Angela Cleveland. I’ve studied the world economy for forty years. This is how to save the economy. Persuade Britain to sell the Elgin Marbles. Give money to Greece and then abolish all currency and set up a barter system.”
She repeats this as she writes it down.
“He’ll get to see that?” I ask.
“Yes, it’ll go to him at the end of the day,” she assures me.
“Really?”
I’m imagining him in an armchair with a whisky, while this lady I’m talking to perches on the arm and reads out his messages.
“Well, his team, really,” she says.
This is disappointing but at least someone will see it. I tell her to be sure to mention I’ve been studying the world economy for forty years.
She replies with, “Well, yes, you sound like you know what you’re talking about, so that’s great.”
This is now my only hope. Barack Obama.
Until 4.45 p.m., when my mobile rings. It’s a Washington number. I’m so excited as I answer it. And I’m right to be. It’s the chief of staff at the World Bank ringing on behalf of Robert Zoellick as he’s tied up in a meeting.
The chief of staff at the World Bank in Washington DC! Calling me! An idiot!
“I wanted to call you back as actually I studied at Oxford,” she says. “Which college are you at?”
“Oh,” I say, my brain desperately scrambling around for one. “Jesus College.”
I then change the subject immediately so we don’t get into any Oxford University chat. As while I did go to Oxford Brookes University, I’m not sure my knowledge of the pubs on the Cowley Road is going to help me.
I launch into my suggestions. Starting with the Elgin Marbles and ending with the barter system.
“Okay,” she says. Then there’s a long pause. It’s very possible she’s regretting calling me.
“What I think I’ll do—” she says then stops again. “The Elgin Marbles – how far along are you with the British Museum?”
“It’s early days,” I say. “Lots of legal red tape to get through.”
“And the barter system – have you been in touch with anyone else?”
“Well, yes, the Treasury here,” I tell her, but leave out the bit where, when I got in touch, it went straight to a recorded message.
“Gosh,” she says. “Well, we’re not directly involved in Greece. We mostly deal with developing countries. What I’ll do is mention it to Bob.”
Bob! She calls the president Bob!
“Then check if anyone on the economic desk is working on Greece. And then regarding the Elgin Marbles, we’ll see if we can help provide any traction on that.”
She then asks for my email address so we can touch base later. Obviously I don’t have an Oxford University email address so I have very grave concerns that the one I do give her is not entirely convincing.
“It’s [email protected].”
I don’t expect to hear from her.
And I’m right.
4
The Challenge:
To achieve immortality
“Annabel, your challenge this week is to become immortal. To live for ever.” Sometimes I worry that Geoff sets me up for failure. However, I am very excited about the prospect of immortality. I think it’s really embarrassing that trees are living to 3,000 years and yet, at best, we can’t make past 120. Trees! It’s so embarrassing.
Like so many things, though, it’s an area I know little about. I have heard of cryopreservation, where you’re frozen after death and then resurrected once they’ve worked out how. But the only people I know that have signed up are Walt Disney and Simon Cowell. And I’m not keen on the idea that in two hundred years’ time there’ll be only us three from the past and, like expats, we end up together, in a very weird gang. I suppose I could talk to Simon about The X Factor for a bit but then Walt will want to go to Disneyland every weekend and that’s going to get tiring. I’m not one for a roller coaster.
But rather than go to the effort of thinking of another option, I start to look into it.
It turns out that Alcor, the biggest cryopreservation company, is based in Arizona. They have already frozen one hundred and six humans and thirty-three pets. Then there’s the Cryonics Institute, which has in the deep freeze one hundred and three humans and seventy-six pets. While the new kid on the block is the snappily titled KrioRus with seventeen humans, two cats, four dogs and two birds.
I start looking at the prices of Alcor. A whole body frozen costs $200,000. Just the head is $80,000. I’m really torn now. Just the head is a lot cheaper and I’m really tight. But I can’t get rid of the image of just my head on a wheelchair being pushed around by Simon Cowell. And Walt Disney being really happy we can go to the front of the queue for Thunder Mountain.
There’s a UK branch of Alcor. To join the mailing list, you are encouraged to go to [email protected].
There’s a nagging voice in my head saying that if I’m going to be spending $200,000 I’d be happier if they had something a little bit more official than a Yahoo! group.
I decide instead to dial the telephone number. It goes to voicemail. Not an Alcor UK voicemail, just the standard one that
came with their phone. I leave a message about how I’m looking to be preserved after death. Nobody calls me back.
I reassure myself that these are scientists. They are making brilliant discoveries; you can’t expect them to be great at admin as well. And it’s not the end of the road. On their webpage, there’s also a number for an insurance company because, as they say, most people pay by life insurance.
I call the number. It’s out of service. I’m a little reluctant to try the mobile number given, picturing some man in a bedsit, picking up calls while watching This Morning. But I’m soon speaking to Graham. I strain to hear Phillip and Holly in the background, but it’s silent. We have a long chat and I learn it could be as little as £15 a month for a policy plus the membership fee.
I do the maths. I’m looking at £44 a month. If I die tomorrow, this is really cheap. A total bargain. But if I die at the average age of eighty-two, it’s just over £24,000.
This is cheaper than I imagined, but I’m sure I could get it even cheaper. Why can’t I just arrange the whole cryopreservation myself? Why not?
The first thing I’d need is a big tank of liquid nitrogen. I look online and find a fifty-litre one for about £600. I’ll probably need three of these.
Now all I need is a chest freezer big enough to hold my body. I ring up the Currys’ call centre. A woman answers.
“Hello, I’m looking for a chest freezer big enough for a body,” I say brightly.
“For a what, sorry?” she replies.
“A body,” I say loudly and clearly.
“I’ll have a look. We do a lot of chest freezers, I believe.”
After a short time, she’s back. “Okay, the biggest we have is 175 litres so it would depend on the body size.”
I’m stunned by her reaction. She is totally unfazed by my request for a freezer that will hold A BODY. She’s almost bored by it all. She needs to know the body size, though, so I tell her.
“It’d be five foot four.”
She asks me if the body will be standing.
“No, lying down,” I tell her.
“Well, the one I’m looking at here is tall and thin so wouldn’t be beneficial to yourself. What price are you thinking?”
