Obama? People think they're voting for President Palmer...

“The crones have got me my first national interview,” I told Cheryl, swaggering in a comical fashion in order to hide my real excitement.

“Oh my God!” she said, clapping her hands together. “That’s fantastic!” She hugged me. “What in?”

“The Ealing Leader,” I told her.

“Oh.” I felt her arms go limp. “That’s not really…national as such, is it?”

“Well, ‘national’ is just an expression we use in the industry to mean ‘major’.

“No, I’m pretty sure it means ‘national’.

“Shall I cancel it?”

“No! I’m really proud. Just don’t…”

“Don’t..?”

She pulled back and held my hands. “Don’t be horrible.”

“I’m just going to be myself.” Her smile looked more like a grimace.



We meet in a bar by the Bank station. It is otherwise empty, and Amy and I sit in a booth in the corner. “Where’s your DAT?” I ask once we’ve shaken hands.

“I’m old fashioned,” she says, smiling. “I like to use shorthand.”

“I was worried your paper couldn’t afford one,” I say.

She laughs. “Well, we’re not a huge publication, but we have a fairly wide circulation. Everyone gets a free copy through their door.”

“Yeah, but I just throw mine away without opening it.”

“Oh. Well, you should take a look. There are some interesting articles about issues that really affect local residents. That’s why I enjoy doing interviews like this. People like to follow success stories from their area. It’s exciting for people in the community to see that they have a soon-to-be-published novelist in their midst! It will build up a buzz.”

“Mmm. Do Polish people read books in English?”

Her smile drops. “Err…I’m not sure.”

“I’ve actually started drinking Polish beer to fit in with the locals!”

“Yeah, I read that on your blog.”

I cough quietly. “Well, it can work in other mediums. Actually, I was driving on Uxbridge Road last week and a bus from Warsaw was unloading them. But because it was left-hand drive, they were all getting out into the road, and this woman just stepped out without looking and I hit her with my wing mirror.”

“Oh my God! Was she alright?”

“I didn’t stop,” I say, annoyed she’s interrupted my anecdote. “But I was late for work, and when the boss asked me why I said ‘I hit a pole!’”

“You know, I can’t actually print anything racist.”

“Not really racist, is it?”

“Kind of is. My mum’s half-Polish.”

I change tact and bow my head. “My mother died.”

She puts her pen on her pad. “How did that affect your writing?”

“My mum was everything to me,” I claim. “Her influence on my novel was a very direct one. Without her, there would be no book.”

“What’s the book about?”

“Cyborgs, laser guns and the relationship between father and son.”

“Right. I just want to bounce a few questions off you…”

“Bounce away.”

“So that the readers can get a feel for who Christopher Hardy is.”

“'A feel’? Ooh!” I shake my head. “Sorry. Go for it.”

“How important is success to you?”

“Success should be important to everyone. But success doesn’t have to be winning an Olympic gold. It can be getting through the day without hurting anyone, maybe actually having done a good deed. A day when you’ve thrown a McDonalds bag full of rubbish out of your car window should not be defined as successful.”

“Would you like to be rich?”

“I’d like to be comfortable. I’d like not to have to do tedious household chores. Some celebrities say that the routine of washing, drying and ironing clothes keeps them grounded.” I do a ‘wanker’ sign.

“Right.”

“I’d like to not have to fly on Easy Jet. Something about being herded into rooms in designated lines by surly men in uniforms doesn’t appeal to me. Actually, your Polish readers will know where I’m coming from there.” She gasps, so quickly I bring in my concern for the environment. “You know, it’s those low-cost airlines that are responsible for global warming. That’s why I’d like to be able to afford to fly First Class with British Airways every time.”

“Your wife is American, isn’t she?”

“She is.”

“Dare I ask what you think of the Democratic race?”

“The important thing is that Bush is getting out. Everything else is secondary.”

“The next President could well be a woman or a black man.”

“Voting Bush in for a second term was a mistake that veered close to unforgivable. The American people are reacting to that and making amends. They are open to things that would have been inconceivable in the past.”

“What do you make of Obama?”

“He seems OK. My concern is that people are confused because of 24. They think they’re voting for President Palmer.”

“Amazing.”

“But we should be worrying about Britain. We should be focusing on people’s real concerns.”

“And what are those?”

“Aeroplane turbulence. The lack of public tennis courts. The melting of the Polar ice caps. We should be finding effective ways of turning sea water into drinking water, which would solve the problem of world thirst and the threat of flooding. As the sea levels rise we could just drink it.”

“Have you thought about going into politics?”

“As with so many people I raise questions but, alas, have no real answers. But I do know that the price of housing is eroding the class system. I grew up middle class and I earn a liveable wage. But I can’t afford to buy a house. No one my age can. We have a whole new generation who should just be called Renting Class.”

“Top ten people you’d like to hang out with?”

“One shouldn’t meet their heroes. I’ve done it a few times and it always goes badly.”

“What, they’re rude or boring, or...?”

“No, they’re always great. But I’m usually drunk, and things can get nasty.” At this point my third whiskey arrives. Amy sips her diet Coke.

“Maybe just ten people who you’d like to hang out with if you were sober and nicer?”

“Peter Doherty, Steve Coogan, Damon Albarn, Roger Federer, Conrad Keeley, Karl Pilkington, Jack Dee, Paul Simonon, Mick Jones, Topper Headon.”

“Are any of those writers?

“Not primarily.”

“Or women?”

“What are you implying?”

“Nothing.”

“I’m not gay.”

“Well, no, you’re married.”

“So was Liberace.”

“Was he?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you scared of death?”

“Not death, just the pain of dying.”

“Do you believe in an afterlife?”

“My worst fear is that death is just a paralysis and you’re still aware of everything that’s going on. There’s no dignity in death. All that nakedness. Everyone gets a look. And you’d have to suffer through an autopsy, and then get thrown in a box and either burnt and ground up or stuck in a hole to rot. I’d hate that.”

“But if your heart has stopped…”

“No one knows what happens, do they?”

We stay for another hour and I make use of her expense account. The whiskeys keep coming. I haven’t eaten.

“What’s next for you?”

“The company are forcing me to write another Sci-fi book.”

“Forcing you?”

“If you a write a series of books in the same world with the same characters over generations then the geeks who actually buy this stuff will stick with the whole series and buy the back catalogue if they come to it late. That’s the theory, anyway.”

“You don’t see yourself as a Sci-fi writer?”

“I see myself as a writer. Pigeon-holing is purely marketing. I don’t even see Clear History as Sci-fi. It’s just a story set in a slightly alternative world. But now my next book will be a prequel explaining how this world came about. That’s if the first one sells enough. So buy it!” I shout at the table before remembering there’s no Dictaphone. I finish my whiskey.

“So what do you want to be writing?”

“I’ve got an idea about terrorism. That’s really hot now. In the middle of the night, a group of terrorists – Polish, maybe – sneak into Heathrow airport and replace all the fuel with water. The next morning, all the planes get filled up with water, so the fuel gauge still registers as full, and then an hour into their journey the fuel runs out and they plummet to the ground. Hundreds of them. It’s good, isn’t it? Isn’t it?”

She nods. “Well, I’ve got more than enough. It’s been fascinating.” She holds her hand out.

My head swims with booze. “Perhaps you’d like to take this party elsewhere.”

“I’ve actually got to get back to the office.”

But I can detect hesitation. I wink. “Care to set up office in a hotel room?”

She screws up her face in disgust. “Jesus.” She gets up and walks out.

“At the very least you’ve got a story to tell,” I shout after her, and order another drink.

The Ealing Leader hasn’t published the interview yet.