Annabel vs the Internet

by Annabel Port

  There are other similar replies. I’m not 100% sure I want to live in a world populated solely by people with such terrible grammar. But they are lovely to me. I’m still a bit nervous about being killed by Dark Vengeance for being in the media, but then I do some searching on the site and find out his name is actually Alan and I’m fine again.

  It’s been nice chatting to preppers online but I want to get more in with them. I want to meet them in person. It strikes me that a good place to find them is either at a supermarket doing a giant shop or in some kind of survival-gear shop. As I don’t want to pester someone with a weirdly large family or bulimia, I opt for the latter.

  I look online and discover there’s a shop near Bond Street called the Survival Shop. It’s perfect. Until I get there and find it’s closed down. It seems to me there’s less demand for end-of-the-world stuff than these preppers believe. Or they just overestimated the demand for rainproof notebooks.

  I move to plan B. A camping store. It’s quite busy. I go up to a man shopping alone.

  “Are you ready for the end of the world as we know it?”

  “What?” he says. He appears to be American.

  “The end of the world, are you ready for it? I’m getting ready for it.”

  “I don’t know what I’m doing in the next two hours, let alone the end of the world.”

  He’s not one of us. So I say to him, “Well, it looks like I’ll survive and you’ll perish.”

  “Oh no,” he says. “I’ve got guns in the States. You’ll be coming to me.”

  I tell him I’ll see him then but I don’t ask for his address.

  I move on to another man looking at Pac-a-Macs. I’m sure these could be useful come the apocalypse so I ask him, “Are you getting ready for the end of the world as we know it?”

  “Yes!” he replies.

  This is great. However, on further questioning it emerges he was getting “preparing for the end of the world as we know it” confused with “preparing for a trip next year”.

  I move on again. I decide to start asking the staff. This would be a great place to work for a prepper, you must get a good discount on all the stuff.

  I go to a staff member and say, “Excuse me, are you preparing for the end of the world as we know it?”

  He looks like he was expecting another kind of question. Then tells me that he’s not getting ready. There’s another member of staff nearby. I say to him, “I was just asking your colleague if you’re preparing for the end of the world as we know it.”

  “No, we’re not. Not in this store, no,” he says earnestly.

  I’m not giving up. But I have got distracted at this point by a compact first-aid kit and a survival bag that “helps prevent body-heat loss”. I’m looking at these kinds of products in a new light. In terms of how useful they’d be, come Doomsday.

  I’m seriously thinking about getting them when a member of staff approaches me to ask if I want any help.

  “Are you a prepper?” I ask him.

  “I’m not,” he says. “But I know what you’re on about.”

  It turns out he’s seen a show called Doomsday Preppers on the National Geographic Channel. He’s quite enthusiastic about it, so I’m getting the impression he’s more of a prepper than he wants to admit. I push him and eventually he concedes that while he’s physically not preparing, he is psychologically. He means he’s not stockpiling goods, but he’s mentally ready for any eventuality, and that’s the important thing. He doesn’t see the point in having loads of food at home as he’d be on the move anyway. He’d not be staying barricaded in, and having survival skills is more useful than buying loads of stuff.

  We have a great chat about all this. Between him and the online preppers, I’ve learned so much. I just need to go home now and build my own bunker, plan my escape route, grow all my own food, learn to shoot, build a fire, dehydrate some food and ask my mum to send me eight more tins of Waitrose ratatouille.

  8

  The Challenge:

  To sell myself to Google

  Geoff has been thinking about start-up companies, like Skype or Spotify, getting valued for vast sums and then sold. It has given him an idea.

  “You could try and get bought by Google.”

  “Me? As a human being?” This is a very rational question that I’m asking.

  “Yes, they seem to be buying up a lot of stuff. Start-ups, Motorola, loads of websites.”

  “Will you buy me back if I’m not happy?”

  I don’t get a satisfactory answer. He just reiterates that he wants me to get sold to Google for a vastly inflated price.

  This challenge doesn’t even make any sense. I’m a person, not a company. A person with no discernible skills. I have nothing to add to their business. Why would Google buy me?

  But, like how some people dream of going to Antarctica or the moon, I have always wanted to go to the Google offices. To see for myself the fireman’s pole, the ball pool, the room with puppies, the other room that is just filled with bubble wrap, and the roller coaster.

  They are near Victoria station, in a building shared with American Express. Google has the third, fourth and fifth floors. I know this because I’m at the main reception. I tell the man at the desk that I’m here for Google. He takes my name and asks for the name of the person that I’m meeting.

  “The head of acquisitions,” I say, trying to have the look of someone who’s about to be bought for millions. I mostly just do this by maintaining eye contact.

  “I need a name,” he says.

  I hadn’t even checked if acquisitions is an actual department, let alone the name of the head.

  I pretend to check my phone. Then say the first name that comes into my head, David Merchant. He taps at his keyboard, prints me out a visitor pass, then tells me it’s the fifth floor. I’m off!

  I go up in the lift to the fifth floor. There’s another reception. Google is lot more corporate, with its many receptions, than I’d like. It’s also very busy. I take a second to have a good look around and I notice there’s a door to my right, which appears to lead to a canteen. You need to tap your electronic pass to get in but some people are coming out.

  I stride straight though. Straight through into a different world. It’s like when those kids went through that wardrobe into Narnia. I’m in the most amazing canteen ever. There’s a smoothie bar. A coffee bar, where you can add any coffee flavouring that you could possibly desire. There’s food from what seems like every country of the world. Every condiment ever invented is on a table. There are desserts, chocolate bars, a revolving tray deposit, a big sunny balcony. It’s incredible. It’s only later that I find out it’s also all free.

  But I’m not here to eat. I go back to reception with its bowler-hat lightshades, lava lamps and jars of chewing gum and Drumstick lollies.

  There are three receptionists. By way of comparison, at my work there’s one and when she’s on her lunch break she’s covered by someone on work experience.

  I speak to one of the women and tell her I’m here to see the head of acquisitions. I’m told once more that I need a name.

  I try David Merchant again, just in case by some miracle it’s right. It’s not. I pretend to check my emails on my phone again, but actually I’m on Google trying to find a name. All I can come up with is the head of Google UK, Matt Brittin. He’ll do. It’s probably best to go straight to the top.

  “Oh, it’s Matt Brittin,” I say.

  “That’s who you’re meeting?” There is definitely an element of disbelief in her voice.

  “Yes,” I say confidently.

  “That’s who your email is from?” There’s still that element of disbelief. If anything, it’s getting stronger.

  “Yes,” I say firmly.

  She starts doing some typing. It’s possible she’s emailing the woman next to her with the words: Nutter. Please help.

  I pretend to read the non-existent email when really I’m skimming an article about Matt Britt
in and learn that he rowed for Cambridge and got bronze at the 1998 World Rowing Championships.

  “Ha! He mentions his rowing in the email.”

  She looks up at me and says, “Do you want to take a seat?”

  I sit and wait. Eventually she calls me over and tells me that I’m wrong, I don’t have a meeting with Matt Brittin.

  “That’s weird,” I say looking very puzzled. “Because, you know, the email.”

  “What email address was it from?” she asks.

  “Matt dot Brittin.”

  “And the rest of it?” There’s a challenging tone in her voice.

  “At Gmail dot com.”

  “No. That’s not it.” I can tell that she’s thrilled.

  “How weird,” I say. I’m not really sure what to do now. So I ask, “While I’m here can I go in the ball pool?”

  I’m embarrassed to be saying it. But I have very little dignity left to lose.

  “The what?” she says.

  I’m forced to repeat myself. “The ball pool.”

  “We don’t do tours of the building.”

  She’s admitted they have a ball pool!

  “You have a ball pool!” I say.

  “No, we don’t,” she replies.

  She’s denying they have a ball pool.

  This is not going well. I ask to take a Drumstick lolly and also one for my friend and then go to leave.

  As I’m getting back in the lift, ringing in my ears are her words, “We don’t do tours of the building.”

  I take the lift down from the fifth floor, and as the doors open on the fourth to let more people in, a bad voice in my head says, “Oh, don’t you now.” I get out of the lift. I follow some others through the doors they’ve opened with a pass and I’m in. Nobody is stopping me. I’m on the loose in Google HQ.

  The first thing I notice are the many cafes. Every corner I turn has a cafe. I see a breakfast bar with every different kind of cereal. How can that all-you-can-eat 10-star buffet not be enough?

  There’s an area flooded with light and carpet that looks like grass. It has deckchairs dotted about and people are hanging out, chatting and doing a bit of work.

  There’s an area with whiteboards and beanbags. I see people chatting on phones in proper old red telephone boxes. There are work pods, blackboards, mobile-phone charging pods.

  It’s amazing. But I don’t see a fireman’s pole or any puppies, and I don’t trip over remote-control robots running messages everywhere.

  My fear of being caught is now stronger than my desire to find the ball pool. I’m nervous about being arrested for industrial espionage. As that will really blow my chances at being bought. So I leave.

  I’ve not managed to sell myself to Google. But unexpectedly, I do have a big impact on the company. I report back on the radio show that night about my failure and my little unofficial tour of the offices. Then a few days later, it reaches me that somebody high up at Google heard and ordered an urgent security review. Which is really annoying. I had planned to go back to that canteen for breakfast, lunch and dinner for the next ten years.

  9

  The Challenge:

  To make London lovely again after the riots

  The world seems like a scary place at the moment. Thousands of people have been rioting in London and other cities in England. Geoff’s solution? Me. It’s up to me to prove that London is still lovely, starting with my own area.

  I recently moved to Snaresbrook. It’s not exactly central London, more not quite Essex. It could be called suburbia. The first day I moved in, I got chatting to my neighbours and they mentioned they had some friends staying but they’d “gone into London” for the day. I thought I was in London! I was horrified. I’m very touchy about my new address and will often petulantly point out I have a London 0208 number, even though I’ve not actually had a landline for years.

  A good place to start would be my neighbourhood shops. The rioters have been smashing shop windows, looting and setting things on fire. Instead of this, I could clean them or do odd jobs.

  I go to the closest ones on the high street in Wanstead. It’s about a ten-minute walk from my house. There’s a travel agent, which is unusual to still see open.

  I’m expecting to see one old man staffing it. There’s not, there’s six young people. There’s enough work for six people!

  I announce to them all, “Hi, I’m an anti-rioter. I’m not here to smash up your business.”

  They look a bit nervous. They’re probably thinking, Why is she saying this? Is it a double bluff?

  “I know a lot of small businesses have been hit, so I’m here to do the opposite to yours. Would you like your windows cleaned?”

  All six stare at me in disbelief. Eventually one of them tells me they’ve got a cleaner already.

  “It’s free,” I tell them. “And I’ve brought a non-toxic glass cleaner and some kitchen roll.”

  They are still declining. They actually look quite freaked out. I glance back at the windows and notice the windowsill is quite dirty.

  “Actually, I can’t help noticing your windowsill is pretty dirty. No offence.”

  I pull some lime antibacterial wipes from my bag and give it a very good wipe.

  “Why are you doing this?” one of them asks.

  “I just wanted to show that not all young people are bad. Some us are doing good.”

  I mentally dare them to challenge the fact that I’m the young one, when I’m quite clearly in my mid-to-late thirties.

  They are looking at me quizzically, but don’t say a word.

  I go back to my cleaning. When I finish, I don’t want to put the dirty wipe back in my bag so I pass it to the person closest. She takes it.

  “Well, if there’s nothing else I can do, I’ll be off.”

  They thank me and I leave.

  I go to a newsagent. The lady there doesn’t want my help but seems happy to be asked. Next is a florist. She is lovely. “Go and help those that need it,” she says, and then thanks me profusely.

  In an estate agent, the two men are very confused when I tell them that, “I’m an anti-rioter here to help you.”

  It emerges that they thought I’d said I was an “anti-writer”. That’d I’d be going in there with a giant eraser and Tippex, rubbing out all writing. When I offer my cleaning services, they refuse, saying they’ve got a cleaner, but perk up considerably when I add that it’s free.

  “Look at those handprints on your window. I’m going to clean those.” I get to work. While I’m cleaning the windows of the estate agent with my non-toxic glass cleaner, we have a nice chat about the rioters.

  I really feel like I’ve got to know my local shopkeepers. Although not in the way I’d hoped when I moved in.

  I’m ready to move even closer to home. My neighbours. My street is already really friendly so I go to the next street along and start knocking on doors. There’s nobody in. I’m starting to worry that I look like an opportunistic burglar. There are dogs barking and it feels like curtains are twitching and the Neighbourhood Watch is grinding into action.

  Eventually, a door is opened by a youngish guy in glasses. I greet him with, “Hi, I’ve just moved into the neighbourhood and thought I’d come and meet everyone.”

  He replies, “Oh, my mum’s not in at the moment.”

  I’m obviously now visibly of an age where people in their twenties assume I’m there for their mum.

  I tell him it doesn’t matter and start asking him questions. I discover he’s just graduated and moved back home and he’s looking for a job and likes Japanese art. It’s going well. It’s time to test the neighbourly spirit of the area.

  “While I’m here, could I borrow half a cup of sugar?”

  There’s a pause. Presumably filled with him thinking, Could you not go to a shop? Then he says, “What kind?”

  “Ooh, what do you mean?”

  “Well, sugar cubes or . . .”

  “Sugar cubes would be perfect.”
>
  I’m impressed. I thought only cafes had sugar cubes. I didn’t realise people had them at home. This will be much easier for me to transport.

  He disappears into the house, leaving the door open. It’s very trusting and he’s gone ages. I grow concerned that he’s calling social services, or lacing the sugar with arsenic or, worse still, he’s found he’s not got cubes and gone out the back door to buy some.

  Eventually he returns with a huge bag of brown sugar cubes. This is wonderful. London feels very lovely. It’s mostly just being lovely to me, but I’ve got sugar cubes to take home and pretend my flat is a cafe, so I’m very happy.

  Happy enough that I try another house. This door is opened by a friendly looking man, who is probably in his early sixties. I tell him I’m new to the area and popped by for a chat. I silently pray that he doesn’t say he’ll just get his mum. His face lights up and immediately calls behind him, “Liz, come here!”

  Liz isn’t his mum. Liz is his wife and his name is Chris. I’m talking to them both for so long that I seriously think I could now go on Mastermind with my specialist subject of Liz and Chris. I learn how long they’ve lived there, where they were before that, their complete job history, including modes of transport used for each, all about the other neighbours.

  I give up knocking on doors now as there’s plenty of people on the street. I see a girl about the same age as me.

  “I’ve got a sore shoulder from carrying my bags, could you give it a massage for me?”

  She looks horrified and declines with a firm no. Although she does add, “I don’t do massage,” before she walks off.

  There’s a man coming out of some flats. He’s in his late fifties and he’s stocky, bald and wearing sunglasses, a jumper and checked shorts.

  I start telling him my problem. About how my shoulder’s sore from carrying my bag. Without a word he holds out his hands to take my bag from me to carry.

  “Oh no, I was hoping for a shoulder massage,” I say, proffering my shoulder.