(aka Bike) Part 551 by Angharad |
 |
Lunch for me was a rather quiet affair. I made sandwiches and we ate them in almost silence, save for the sounds of eating, crocks and cutlery chinking and the girls giggling occasionally. They both ended up snoozing on the sofa, so I draped a blanket over them. Unusually, Stella was staying at the table reading a newish copy of Vogue. You bloody cyclists get everywhere,” she said with contempt.
“Only where wheels will take us,” I replied thinking she’s found a picture of one of these extreme mountain bikers on top of a mountain.
“Victoria Pendleton models for Vogue, some people will do anything for money.”
“I know nothing about it, so don’t ask me. She’s a pretty girl with a super figure, so why shouldn’t she model. The women don’t earn anything like the men. So I think she’s entitled to make the odd quid here and there, and it raises the profile of cycling. I mean it’s hardly like the latest Virgin advert, which is selling sex, with its red stiletto shoes and flouncy cabin crew.”
“I haven’t seen that,” said Stella, “but it wouldn’t surprise me.”
“It’s clever, but it’s selling sex, fly Virgin, we’re sexy.”
“I suppose most of their traffic is commercial, which means it’s mainly men. So it will encourage them.”
“I’m glad I don’t do that for a living, serving dinners at thirty thousand feet, no thanks. I’ll stick to my dormeece.”
“Serving them at thirty K, no thanks, I’ll have the chicken in white wine.”
“Yeah, not much meat on them, and the fur would stick to your teeth.”
“So, do you want to talk about it?” asked Stella.
“About what?” Thinking about Vogue, Virgin or dormice.
“Tales of the riverbank.”
“Hey, that’s an idea, I could read to them about Ratty and Mole, couldn’t I?”
“I was meaning your own adventures, not the anthropomorphised creations of Kenneth Grahame, and his book was ’Wind in the Willows’. The riverbank thing was a television series, on childrens’ telly.”
“Of course it was, yeah, I’ll have to read them ’Wind in the Willows’.”
“Good idea, a charming story, maybe you should play them Pink Floyd’s, ‘Piper at the Gates of Dawn’.”
“Why? They’re a bit young for Floyd, aren’t they?”
“Perhaps, but the title of the album was inspired by the names of one of the chapters in Kenneth Grahame’s book, where the animals meet Pan.”
“Goodness, Stella, maybe you should go on, ’Who wants to be a millionaire?’.
“Why? I’m already one, so why humiliate myself on telly?”
“You are?”
“Yes, the whole family is. I mean it’s not in liquid assets–unless you mean shares in a distillery, but yes, Simon is too. The other thing is you must be quite close yourself. You have a house in Bristol, plus the other assets of your parents.”
When I thought about it, on paper and before the credit crunch, the two houses I owned must be worth somewhere in the region of six or seven hundred thousand, plus the other assets my parents had owned, which in Dad’s case must have been a few thousand on top. It’s just I’d never thought of myself as anything but scraping along. I wasn’t short of cash these days, but neither was I going to suddenly become spendthrift.
“I don’t think about it,” I dismissed her comment, hoping it had worked.
“But you are comfortably off. The bank pays you a salary; the film’ll bring in a few bob, too.”
“Can we talk about something else, Stella, I don’t want to talk about money, it’s of no great interest to me, there are more important things.”
“I couldn’t agree more, which is why Daddy has never really got me to work at the bank.”
“But I thought you were going to when you went back to work.”
“I’ll see, it’s not imminent.”
I said nothing, maybe she was mellowing towards becoming a mother?”
“What about this rescue this morning? Do you want to talk or not?”
“There isn’t much to say. If the dog hadn’t been with us, all I could have done was phone for help.”
“So, did she make it?”
“Who?”
“The woman you rescued.”
“I’ve no idea.”
“Oh, I’d have thought it was obvious, if she said, ‘Thank you’, she was alive.”
“She was unconscious if not dead. I couldn’t just haul her in, I just tried to get her closer to the bank so she could be fished out. If I’d tried to drag her in, the lead would have broken. She wasn’t floating on the water, but under it, her clothes were soaking wet and heavy.”
“I hadn’t thought of that, so can’t you call the hospital?”
“Stella, you of all people should know they won’t tell me anything.”
“Yeah, I s’pose. What about the police?”
“What about them?”
“Would they know?”
“I’ve no idea, I suppose if she died, they would want a statement for the inquest. We’ll find out in the paper in a few days.”
“You carry on like this and you’ll be getting an award from the Royal Humane Society.”
“Yeah, sure I will.”
“They give them to boy scouts every year.”
“Very funny, not.”
“I was meaning the term in a generic sense, those of a kindly disposition who feel compelled to intervene and save the day whenever the situation arises, unlike others who walk on the opposite side of the road.”
“Simon is a boy scout by that definition.”
“Okay, good Samaritan, then.”
“What’s it matter? I don’t do it for labels, I do it because there’s usually no one else to do it.”
“Of course you do, that’s what is so naively fascinating about you.”
“What is?”
“That you are prepared to risk your own life to save those of others, without any thought other than saving the others.”
“There’s another way?”
“Oh yes, enjoying the publicity, or kudos it generates, or rewards. You’d be surprised what people do. Some even create the disaster, so they can save others and become the hero.”
“What twisted minds some folk have got,” I felt quite revolted by that suggestion.
“That’s not the half of it.”
“I’m sure it isn’t, but I don’t want to hear any more, thank you.”
“So when are you going to find out about the victim?”
“When they put it in the Echo.”
“I don’t know, two accidents in the same week, you must save more lives than the local ambulance service.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Stel, the first one died, and the second one could have.”
The phone rang, and I broke off the conversation to answer it. “Hello?”
“Could we speak to Mrs Watts?”
“Speaking, who is this?”
“The Evening Echo.”
“I haven’t anything to say to you.”
“Please, Mrs Watts, could you just tell us about the rescue?”
“Did the lady survive?”
“She has so far, she’s critical, but as far as we know, she’s still alive. Could we have an interview, and maybe a photo, down by the river would be brill.”
“You have got to be joking?”
“No, show people how you did it.”
“I didn’t, the fire brigade rescued her, they pulled her out of the water; or the paramedics, they saved her life with their skills.”
“What about yours, the fire service say without your assistance, they wouldn’t have known about the accident, nor been able to reach her. She’d just have been a statistic, one more death-by-drowning victim.”
“Sorry, I don’t want to talk about it.”
“What about the sledging accident earlier on this week? Weren’t you on hand then too?”
“What are you implying?”
“You’re a danger to be near, aren’t you?”
“I don’t think so,” I put the phone down. Then picked it up and left it off the hook.
“What’s the matter, Cathy?”
“That was the Echo, they want me to pose down at the bridge.”
“I see they haven’t lost their sense of tact.”
Comments
Virgin ads
There is something mind-boggling about that phrase, brings to mind the girl who was selling her virginity to the highest bidder. Never did hear how she made out. Oh, God, that pun was NOT deliberate . . . but I'm gonna leave it!
Anyway, Cathy's comments about the ad bring to mind the hot-pants-wearing stews of Southwest Airlines; and there was another airline that had the girls doing wardrobe changes during the flight, called it the "Branniff Strip". The ads were totally sexist, and likely wouldn't be tolerated these days.
Anyway, Cathy should have just said "There is no such person as Mrs. Watts at this number", and she would be telling the literal truth. But the paper is right, Cathy seems to be altering the laws of probability be her presence. People around her do keep getting hurt on a regular basis. Hmmmm, maybe she would like to join Al-Quida?
Yuri!
Yuri!
Virgin Atlantic - 25 years, still red hot
Yes, it's a corny tagline, but in case you're not in the UK and haven't seen the ad...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KS_6HHQ7jOA
Typical use of post-processing - reduce the contrast of everything but the VA cabin crew (and the pilot who evidently thinks he's scored big time!)
As the right side of the brain controls the left side of the body, then only left-handers are in their right mind!
I Can See It Now
That paper does a naughty piece on Cathy, then must retract it when everybody trounces them. Yellow papers like that aren't woth buying.
May Your Light Forever Shine
May Your Light Forever Shine
The local press aren't that bad
The average journalist on a local rag isn't out to sensationalise or make trouble. They're bored out of their minds trying to find something in an endless cycle of local sports reports, council decisions and fluff pieces.
For a hack on a local rag, this is big news, and will allow him to actually write six or seven paragraphs of real reporting, and the request for the photo isn't wrong, just insensitive. I wrote a letter to the local rag about the (previous) mayor of London's idiotic transport plans. A journalist picked it up, and asked to interview me. She wanted a photo, and wanted to set the photo on the platform of the station, since my complaint was the mayor's delaying a rail scheme. I'd see a photo of Kathy by the river similarly - they want a photo (especially as Cathy's pretty) and a photo by the river would be more appropriate than a photo in her living room.
That's true.
Well, they aren't bad in the tabloid sense. Our local weekly paper is pretty tame and we only buy it to keep abreast of things happening in the near vicinity but it's hardly worth it. The national tabloids are a different matter and are truly rubbish but they'd be unlikely to cover a story like this.
The reporter's request isn't very unreasonable. A lot of people in Cathy's position would be happy to give an interview and be photographed. It's just that it's all getting old hat for her. Saving lives or being at the scene of a tragedy must be getting a bit boring for her and, of course, she's trying to protect the little 'uns.
Geoff
Maybe She Was Kidnapped By Aliens
Maybe Cathy was kidnapped by aliens early in life and had a magnet implanted that draws her to every scene of chaos and mayhem in her country? Just a thought!
Hugs,
Jen
The Echo sounds like...
it's a step above such as the "National Enquirer" and such... At least they ASKED... That said... How long before they have photographers following her around? I'm surprised it's not already happening, to be quite honest.
As to Stella, she's almost as bad as they were, wanting all the morbid details. That said, it does sound like it's a wee bit dangerous around Cathy.
Thanks,
Annette
Following Cathy
Perhaps if the press starts to follow Cathy, it will be one of them who are in need of rescuing. That would certainly raise an ethical dilemma??
Michelle B
LOL
You absolutely know she'd end up rescuing someone or stopping someone's stupidity from harming someone else. (one of the kids I'm afraid)
Two sure things
The first is that people will decry the ambulance-chasing by the media; with the microphone shoved into somebody's face and that sort of thing, as being "sick", "intrusive", and "disgusting".
The second sure thing is that people will lap it up, buying the newspaper or magazine with the most pictures and longest stories, or switching to the TV channel that has all the graphic video.
Like drugs, as long as there is a demand there will be a market.
Yuri!
Yuri!
The Echo
I assume this is a normal newspaper, but that last comment made me wonder. Of course, it's nothing that we haven't already said in the comments. Angharad wouldn't do that, would she?
If no story, make up a goodm one
Yes she would, Wendy. You watch !
Just give the man a tid bit, they'll leave you alone.
At home they'd be six news vans set up at the river, with no-one else around . watch out chipmunks here comes a mike.
Cefin