My day off was much like a day on, except that I didn't worry about the fact that I wasn't getting any work done. I was sitting in Caffe Nero reading
On Chesil Beach by Ian McEwan, wondering if everyone in the late fifties was entirely ignorant about sex as all fiction seems to like us to think. Was no one getting any really? It's a wonder any of my generation even made it into life.
I started day-dreaming and imagining one of my most popular fantasies, at least the most popular one I can write about on a family website. One of the ones in which I become an every day hero. One where my imagined actions would be so far from my actual ones that it is entirely laughable.
I was fantasising that a madman or terrorist had gone crazy in Hammersmith and was shooting up the street with a machine gun. All the people passing by on their way to wherever they were going would start running and screaming or falling to the ground, blood spurting from gaping wounds, their faces frozen in confusion and horror. I imagined that if this happened I would duck down and hide behind the chair in front of me. Then I imagined that the gunman would come into the cafe to start picking off the dolts or Western infidels who were daring to drink lattes at 5pm. He wouldn't see me in my clever hiding place and would walk past me, spraying burning lead into the fools who hadn't been as clever as me. So far, so realistic. But this is where the fantasy really starts to fly, because I always like to think that if presented with this unlikely scenario I would be incredibly brave and heroic and take on the terrorist/nutter. I decided that I would let him get a little bit ahead of me and then I would stand up, pick up the chair beside me, rush at him, smash him over the head and overpower him. I mean, really, what are the chances of me actually behaving like this? I am convinced I would be the hero, but of course, if I was unfortunate enough to ever encounter such an event I would either freeze to the spot, probably blubbing and begging not to die or I would simply wait for an opportunity to flee and hope for the best.
What good would I be in attacking a maniac? I couldn't even
punch out a scrawny University lecturer. What makes my subconscious think I'd be any good with someone who was heavily armed with guns and bombs?
In today's flight of fancy things took an unusual turn. I imagined that I managed to disarm the nutcase, but as I got up holding his weapon, police marksmen mistook me for the perpetrator and I was shot dead. But after my death everyone heralded me as a tragic hero who had saved many lives.
How pathetic is that? That I died even in my own fantasy. But I want everyone to know that if that actually happens then I don't blame the police marksman who shoots me. He was only doing his job and had to make a split second decision. I don't want his life ruined just because I was such a brilliant hero.
As it turned out my services were not called upon today, but I am always ready. If I can just save one life then I feel my job has been done. Or maybe it should be two, as I am already one in the negative in the fantasy world, thanks to that baby I sat on.
