by Annabel Port
“I’m happy to pay any price as long as it fits the body,” I say. I emphasise “the body” in case she hasn’t yet really processed this part of the request.
There’s a short pause. She’s found one. It’s £350. She gives me the dimensions. It’s in centimetres so I tell her I’ll convert to inches and then see if it will fit the body. Once again I emphasise “the body”.
“Okay,” she says and gives me the product code so that I can see it on the website. I take a look. I think it will fit if my knees are a bit bent. I add on the price of the liquid nitrogen and I’ve got a total of £2,156. DIY cryopreservation for just over two grand.
I’m very happy with this. Although vaguely concerned about who I can trust to keep the freezer plugged in for the next thousand years or so. A giant tortoise? Doctor Who? A tree? I look into one more option as a backup plan and discover another way of living for ever called metempsychosis, where your mind jumps into another body. That way you don’t have to be tied down to your own ageing body. You just keep moving round until the end of time.
This is perfect! It’s less sciencey than the cryopreservation, so my brain, which only managed a D in GCSE chemistry, might be able to handle it. I just need to learn how to do it.
I find an article on the Internet and press a button that downloads a PDF. A PDF of 313 pages. Scrolling down, I lose the will to live in my own body, let alone anybody else’s. But I finally get to the relevant bits.
The first step is to learn to regard your body as a garment. I try this and find that I immediately want to take my body back for an exchange or refund.
But it says you have to change the way you think about your body. You can’t say, “I’m tired,” you have to say, “My body is tired.” I get a chance to use this straight away and change my thought of, “This is ridiculous,” to, “My body thinks this is ridiculous.”
It goes on to say you have to really believe in it to work. I try really hard. I remind myself I was once regressed to a past life where I was a milkmaid in Hornchurch and I believed that, so I must be able to do this.
I’m totally ready to learn how to actually do this. I scroll down and realise that was it. There is nothing more. Three hundred and thirteen pages and they’ve not actually told me how to do it.
I find another piece. This one urges you to ask permission first. I start worrying now. I hadn’t really thought it all through. About how there’s going to be two of us in this body. Just one voice in my head is exhausting. Two would be horrifying.
And there’s still nothing on exactly how to do it. I have read that advanced yogis do it, though. And luckily there’s a yoga centre nearby. I go down there and greet the two girls on reception with, “Hi. I’m here for metempsychosis.”
They don’t know what that is. I explain. They tell me they don’t do it. I overreact a bit to this news.
“No! You don’t do it? Oh my God! None of your yogis do it?”
They tell me that perhaps they do in their spare time. They do seem very interested in it all. They’re asking me a lot of questions. I suddenly feel like I’m the expert, having read two Internet articles, so I get carried away and find myself saying, “Do you want me to do it on you now?”
They both give a very firm no. They don’t. They laugh it off. One says, “I’d be too worried about it. What if I got stuck in a mad woman’s body for ever?”
I don’t like the way she looks at me when she says “mad woman”. I leave in search of a willing participant; it might turn out I’m a natural. It might turn out that, unlike tennis, baking and hula-hooping, I’ve got an innate special ability. This could be it. The one thing I’m naturally good at. I’m giddy with optimism, when I spot a man standing outside a shop smoking. He’s got a large bag by his feet.
I find myself approaching him and saying,
“Excuse me, can I do metempychosis on you? Leave my body and then enter yours.”
I wonder if a pervert has ever said this. It sounds a bit like what a pervert might say.
He stares at me then says, “That is the weirdest thing anybody has ever said to me.”
I’m relieved he said “weirdest” and not “most perverted”. And it’s not a no. “Well, do you want to do it?” I say.
If there’s one thing I know, and it really is the one thing I know, when it comes to metempychosis you have to ask permission first. He is confused, but some inherent politeness has emerged from him and he’s saying yes.
I find myself standing a foot away from a man, facing his side, eyes closed and really trying to leave my own body and enter his.
I start with deep breathing. Occasionally I open my eyes a fraction to check he’s still there. He is. Just looking forward. I notice after a bit he’s not even smoking any more. Just waiting patiently. Or he might be trying really hard to pretend this is not happening. While I’m trying really hard to spiritually enter his body. This might be the strangest thing I’ve ever done. After five minutes I stop. I open my eyes. I have to confess to him,
“I’m really sorry. I just couldn’t do it. Just as I was about to leave my body something was holding me back.”
He looks bewildered, so rather than prolong our interaction, I thank him and leave.
I don’t manage to attain immortality by metempsychosis. But I do feel like the cryopreservation is pretty much sorted. All I need to do is find someone to make sure that freezer is kept plugged in for a thousand years or so and then mentally prepare myself for the Port, Cowell and Disney gang.
5
The Challenge:
To help the Occupy protesters
St Paul’s Cathedral has looked like a camping site for weeks. The Occupy movement has been protesting against social and economic inequality. There have been similar occupations all over the world, starting in New York on Wall Street. They are continually being moved on and it looks like the St Paul’s protesters are next. They need a new space to occupy and it’s my job to find it.
I’m concerned. When I wake up it’s raining. The last time I went camping I got trench foot, making me perhaps the first person since the First World War to suffer from this. I make my first decision. Wherever the new occupation is, it will be indoors. All I need is my sleeping bag.
The Occupy protesters want to make a big impact, so I need a really big iconic London institution to house them. But my priorities include not just shelter but preferably also access to a bed, food, drink and a bathroom. It seems to me that a good place to occupy would be a hotel. A really big, iconic London hotel. It has to be the Ritz. I’ve never been there, but I’m sure there’s a restaurant. I can go in, sit down and then just not leave.
I arrive at the imposing building. To give you the complete picture, I’m wearing a checked shirt, jeans, trainers and a parka. I’m carrying a handbag and sleeping bag. I’m wondering if I’m the first person ever to carry a sleeping bag into the Ritz.
I go through the revolving doors into a very grand lobby, where a tall man in fancy clothes asks if he can help me. He probably wants to help me find the exit.
“Yes,” I say. “I want something to eat.”
“Something to eat,” he repeats, like nobody has ever come in and said that before.
“Yes,” I tell him.
“I’m afraid it’s formal wear only in our restaurant.”
“What, like ballgowns?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says.
I give him a look intending to convey, Oh I knew I should’ve worn my ballgown this afternoon. Meanwhile I’m thinking, I can’t see anyone else in ballgowns, what with it being midday.
“You could go into the bar where they have snacks, but trainers aren’t allowed,” he says, looking at my feet.
“Oh, don’t worry about that,” I tell him. “I’ll take them off.”
I quickly slip them off and put them in my bag. I’m now just in my socks.
“Have you got other shoes?” he asks.
“Oh yes,” I say. This is not a lie. I do have oth
er shoes. Just not with me.
I can tell he’s not entirely sure about all this but he directs me to the bar.
Once I’m there, I’m faced with another man. He’s wearing a white evening jacket. He greets me with, “How can I help you?” and glances down at my shoeless feet.
“Table for one, please,” I say brightly.
He takes me to a table. There are only three others in the bar. They all look like businessmen and they are all wearing shoes. It’s a beautiful, grand, art deco-styled room.
It’s time to occupy it. I pull my sleeping bag out of its cover and climb in. By the time the man in the white evening jacket has returned with the menu, I am fully inside with my sleeping bag pulled right up to my chest.
The man does not say a word. He just lays the menu before me. I don’t look at it. I think that if you have a drink and light snack it counts less as an occupation and more of a lunch. Regardless of the sleeping bag. Eventually he returns to take my order.
“I don’t think I’m going to have anything. I think I’m just going to sit here.”
“Okay,” he says and takes the menu away.
I suddenly realise that the one thing worse than being dragged out of this hotel in a sleeping bag is being ignored and having to sit here for hours until I’m forced to say, “Actually I think I’ll go now,” to avoid spending the rest of my life in the bar in the Ritz.
I’m sitting there for five long minutes. Then a second barman comes over. He asks me what I’d like to order. I tell him that I’m just having a sit-down.
He’s not such a pushover. He tells me I have to consume something or leave, but he’ll get me a chair in the gallery.
I don’t fancy the sound of this. I could be on a chair in the gallery for a very long time. Until I’m dusty.
I beckon him closer and say conspiratorially, “Do you want to know a secret?”
I can tell from his face that he doesn’t want to know any kind of secret from a person in a sleeping bag in the bar of the Ritz, but I plough on regardless.
“I’m occupying the bar like those people at St Paul’s.”
“Okay,” he says smoothly. “Well, in that case I’m going to have to call security, madam.”
I wait, secretly pleased that despite the circumstances I am still a “madam”. In a short while, a big, friendly-looking man in a suit sits down opposite me. He tells me he’s head of security.
“What are you up to?” he asks.
I tell him I’m finding a new home for the Occupy protesters and preferably in more salubrious surroundings.
He explains that this is private property, so I’ll have to leave.
“Oh,” I say. “Is this like when the Occupy protesters were moved on from Paternoster Square?”
“Well, this is private property,” he tells me again.
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll just pack my sleeping bag away.”
I’m suddenly filled with horror. It can take me upwards of five days to pack a sleeping bag back in its cover. It seems to grow the moment it’s taken out. It involves me using up a lot of floor space and a lot of puffing air out of both the bag and me. I hadn’t considered this. I express my concerns.
“Just stuff it in,” he tells me.
It takes ages but we have a lovely chat. About Thailand, east London and his ex-wife.
When I’m finished, I say, “Will you now escort me to the door?”
“Oh yes,” he replies, like I’m their oldest customer and nothing is too much trouble. We get to the door, shake hands and I go off on my way.
My advice to St Paul’s is: send this man down there to ask them all nicely to leave. They probably will.
I’ve achieved a lot so far. I’ve confirmed that the Ritz Hotel is not a suitable place for the Occupy movement to go to next. I just need to find somewhere else.
I definitely want something similar to St Paul’s. An iconic institution, a symbol of the Blitz spirit, a big tourist attraction. And it comes to me. The flagship Topshop store at Oxford Circus. It’s perfect. And it’ll be fun to try on all the clothes when everyone’s gone home at night.
I gather up my sleeping bag again. It strikes me that a lot of protesters are wearing masks. I’ve not got a proper mask at home. But I do have an eye mask so I pack that too.
When I arrive at Topshop, I go down the escalators to the main shopping area and start scouting out a good place to occupy. I find that I’m drawn to corners, but then tell myself it’s not much of a protest if you’re hiding.
At the bottom of the escalator, right in the middle of the store, are four mannequins. I go in front of them and get out my sleeping bag and eye mask. Once I’m in my sleeping bag, I try putting the mask on, but it’s incredibly disconcerting being in the middle of one of London’s busiest shops in a sleeping bag and not being able to see. So I wear it on my forehead.
People are staring at me. I feel really, really embarrassed. Perhaps it would be better to cover my eyes.
The staff are milling about but none are trying to move me on. I notice a security guard look at me and then look away again very quickly. I think he’s pretending he hasn’t seen me as he doesn’t want to have to deal with a person on the shop floor in a sleeping bag.
After about ten minutes, another security guard, who I’d describe as beefy, approaches me and says, “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
I explain what I’m doing and he walks off without a word.
I start to get nervous. What if he’s calling police? I don’t want a criminal record. What if I get through to judges’ houses in The X Factor next year but Simon Cowell is the mentor and I can’t get a visa to go to his house in Los Angeles. These are very real concerns.
Some more people have arrived. They’re not police, but they are plain-clothed security. And they are not friendly.
They tell me it’s private property and one of the men adds, “You’ve made your point, you’ve got lots of publicity at St Paul’s. You don’t need to be here.”
I realise that he thinks I’m actually one of the Occupy London group. I have very mixed feelings. I admire the dedication of these protesters, but the parka I’m wearing is actually from Selfridges. Can’t they tell?
He then says, “I’m going to ask you once more to leave.” The unspoken threat hangs in the air.
I climb out of my sleeping bag. Surprisingly, the two men start packing it away for me in its cover, but they’re really rubbish at it. They give up and tell me to do it myself outside. I just start stuffing it in, adding that I was advised to do it this way by someone at the Ritz.
The least friendly one escorts me up the escalators. As we’re going up I say, “I’m not banned, am I? It’s just that I get a lot of my clothes from here.”
“What?” he says.
“Yes, this shirt I’m wearing is from here.”
He gives me an incredulous look mixed in with quite a lot of disgust. We get to the door and he turns to face me and says the following: “You are on camera here. I am now verbally banning you from this store. If you ever attempt to re-enter you will be trespassing and the police will be called.”
I burst out laughing. “You don’t think this is a bit of an overreaction do you?”
He doesn’t share my sense of humour.
I leave. I’m gutted. I get nearly all my clothes in Topshop. I can only go back to my favourite shop in disguise. This is terrible.
Maybe Topshop was a bad idea. And one thing that’s bothered me about the whole St Paul’s occupation is why are these church people being inconvenienced? It’s the inequalities of the global financial system that the occupiers are protesting against.
I should occupy a bank and I know exactly which bank. The poshest one. Coutts. The Queen’s own bank.
I’m also starting to think that it’s no good testing a place on my own. There are over 200 tents at St Paul’s. I need to get others to join me.
I try asking outside Coutts. I approach a young man first.
> “I’m just going to go and occupy Coutts like they’ve done at St Paul’s, will you do it with me?”
“Do you know what, I’ve got an appointment. I’m so sorry.”
I ask a lady. As soon as the words are out of my mouth I realise my mistake. She looks like Natasha Kaplinksy. She is never going to join me in my sleeping bag. I try lots of people, but nobody wants to come with me.
I go in on my own. It’s very posh. There’s wood panelling, an elaborate ceiling with lots of little gold lion heads on it and the glass panels that separate you from the three cashiers go all the way up to the high ceiling.
One man is being served. He looks and sounds posh. I see a small armchair so take a seat.
One of the cashiers asks me, “Are you okay there?”
I wave and say, “Hi.”
The man being served is now walking around a bit while the lady is doing something.
I try and attract his attention with a, “Psst!”
He either doesn’t hear or he is ignoring me.
I do it again. “Psst!”
He looks over.
I say in a loud stage whisper, “I’m occupying the building, do you want to join me?”
He smiles politely and mouths the words, “No thank you.”
He finishes his business and leaves.
The woman who had been serving him now says to me, “Are you okay there? Can I help you?”
“No, I’m just occupying.”
She starts to do the polite and smiling, “Right, okay,” and then registers what I’m saying and stops.
“Like at St Paul’s,” I add.
She immediately goes somewhere behind the scenes. She’s gone a while. The other two cashiers are staring at me. I give them a big smile.
One starts asking questions. She’s very friendly.
“Are there others coming?”
“Not at the moment.”
“Are you doing this on your own?”
“Yes.”
“How long are you going to be here for?”
“I don’t know.”
Then the first lady returns and makes a phone call. I can’t hear what she is saying but soon the world’s oldest security man appears. He shuffles through a door and over to a water cooler. He gets a drink of water and then just shuffles around the lobby.