I found the quality
pair of Olympus binoculars I’d selected, compact but powerful.
The baseball bats were right at the back in a far corner, and I’d
just reached them when my torch began to dim and flicker –
foolishly I’d forgotten to bring a spare. I grabbed two boxes
and headed for the exit, afraid of having to find my way out in the
dark. When I got to the top and examined them, the bats were junior
ones, only twenty-six inches long; considered as a weapon, they
didn’t look all that fearsome. I took them anyway.
Back home a thought struck me as I
unpacked the bats to hide them beneath my bed. I went to rummage in
the kitchen bin and retrieve the empty champagne bottle from the
night before. Early champagne bottles tended to explode, so the
manufacturers kept making their glass thicker to contain the pressure
caused by secondary fermentation – 90psi, three times what you
get inside a car tyre. This makes them heavy. I swung the Bollinger
bottle experimentally. Given a choice, I’d opt to be hit with a
junior baseball bat rather than a champagne bottle. I put it to hand
under the bed as well as the bats.
The knives I laid out on the kitchen
counter. They were razor sharp and well made, with triple-riveted
handles; a good weight and balance in the hand. I chose a medium size
knife and made a sheath for it with cardboard and black duct tape,
cutting the card to the shape of the blade, then winding duct tape
round. It took me three goes to do it to my satisfaction, so that the
fit was close but not too tight for me to be able to withdraw the
knife quickly. On my third effort I incorporated a neat loop for it
to hang by. I threaded my belt through and re-buckled it so the
sheath was on my left hip, and practised whisking the knife out in
front of the mirror in the bathroom, trying to look menacing, a
person not to be messed with. Alas, my acting lacked conviction; I
was about as scary as one of Doctor Who’s female assistants. I
once read that soldiers have to be trained to overcome their
reluctance to harm a fellow human, information I found heart-warming.
I could not imagine sticking the knife in anyone; could only hope
that in dire necessity I would find the necessary courage.
The next day I split between scavenging
and cutting up wood. I made a rewarding if not terribly useful find;
a flat with a wardrobe full of new designer clothes in my size. I
stood in the cream-carpeted bedroom by the mirrored doors and gasped
over the labels: Alexander McQueen, Vivienne Westwood, Dior, Dolce &
Gabbana, Emporio Armani. Even the shoes fitted: Manolo Blahniks,
Jimmy Choos and Christian Louboutins. There was some fabulous costume
jewellery, too. The owner must have been a rich woman with good taste
and a packed social life. I took a selection home, wishing I had the
occasions to wear them to.
Later, while sawing and chopping chairs
into firewood, I wondered what Morgan did all day after he’d
finished exercising. The day before he had not returned until dusk.
When asked he’d said he had been foraging, but without giving
any details – I’d never met anyone so good at not
answering questions. He hadn’t brought anything back with him.
I decided to find out what he was up to. That evening was the
ceilidh. Next morning I’d follow him.
I washed my hair and sat head down in
front of the stove scrunch-drying it. Nothing short of a miraculous
return to a normal climate would persuade me into a skirt, but I wore
a brand new pair of skinny jeans under ski trousers and an Oscar de
la Renta lacy silk top under my sweater for when the dancing had
warmed me up. I put on makeup, earrings and a necklace and studied
myself in the mirror; not bad. It’s reassuring to know I can
still look good when I want to.
We all get together once a month on the
last Saturday for a party, at a different flat each time; we play
games, dance and chat, and do an assortment of turns of varying
entertainment value. Each of us brings candles,
pair of Olympus binoculars I’d selected, compact but powerful.
The baseball bats were right at the back in a far corner, and I’d
just reached them when my torch began to dim and flicker –
foolishly I’d forgotten to bring a spare. I grabbed two boxes
and headed for the exit, afraid of having to find my way out in the
dark. When I got to the top and examined them, the bats were junior
ones, only twenty-six inches long; considered as a weapon, they
didn’t look all that fearsome. I took them anyway.
Back home a thought struck me as I
unpacked the bats to hide them beneath my bed. I went to rummage in
the kitchen bin and retrieve the empty champagne bottle from the
night before. Early champagne bottles tended to explode, so the
manufacturers kept making their glass thicker to contain the pressure
caused by secondary fermentation – 90psi, three times what you
get inside a car tyre. This makes them heavy. I swung the Bollinger
bottle experimentally. Given a choice, I’d opt to be hit with a
junior baseball bat rather than a champagne bottle. I put it to hand
under the bed as well as the bats.
The knives I laid out on the kitchen
counter. They were razor sharp and well made, with triple-riveted
handles; a good weight and balance in the hand. I chose a medium size
knife and made a sheath for it with cardboard and black duct tape,
cutting the card to the shape of the blade, then winding duct tape
round. It took me three goes to do it to my satisfaction, so that the
fit was close but not too tight for me to be able to withdraw the
knife quickly. On my third effort I incorporated a neat loop for it
to hang by. I threaded my belt through and re-buckled it so the
sheath was on my left hip, and practised whisking the knife out in
front of the mirror in the bathroom, trying to look menacing, a
person not to be messed with. Alas, my acting lacked conviction; I
was about as scary as one of Doctor Who’s female assistants. I
once read that soldiers have to be trained to overcome their
reluctance to harm a fellow human, information I found heart-warming.
I could not imagine sticking the knife in anyone; could only hope
that in dire necessity I would find the necessary courage.
The next day I split between scavenging
and cutting up wood. I made a rewarding if not terribly useful find;
a flat with a wardrobe full of new designer clothes in my size. I
stood in the cream-carpeted bedroom by the mirrored doors and gasped
over the labels: Alexander McQueen, Vivienne Westwood, Dior, Dolce &
Gabbana, Emporio Armani. Even the shoes fitted: Manolo Blahniks,
Jimmy Choos and Christian Louboutins. There was some fabulous costume
jewellery, too. The owner must have been a rich woman with good taste
and a packed social life. I took a selection home, wishing I had the
occasions to wear them to.
Later, while sawing and chopping chairs
into firewood, I wondered what Morgan did all day after he’d
finished exercising. The day before he had not returned until dusk.
When asked he’d said he had been foraging, but without giving
any details – I’d never met anyone so good at not
answering questions. He hadn’t brought anything back with him.
I decided to find out what he was up to. That evening was the
ceilidh. Next morning I’d follow him.
I washed my hair and sat head down in
front of the stove scrunch-drying it. Nothing short of a miraculous
return to a normal climate would persuade me into a skirt, but I wore
a brand new pair of skinny jeans under ski trousers and an Oscar de
la Renta lacy silk top under my sweater for when the dancing had
warmed me up. I put on makeup, earrings and a necklace and studied
myself in the mirror; not bad. It’s reassuring to know I can
still look good when I want to.
We all get together once a month on the
last Saturday for a party, at a different flat each time; we play
games, dance and chat, and do an assortment of turns of varying
entertainment value. Each of us brings candles,
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