CHAPTER 2

Unfortunately, the sparse ink drawing gives no indication of where that cross sits in the geographical scheme of things. Sharp mountain peaks rising to the north – well, the top of the map – and the meander of a river to the south, frame what looks like a sprawling village, overshadowed by castle turrets. It might be a parody of Ye Olde Map and rather pretty, but it’s also similar to hundreds I’ve seen gracing the beginning of many a fantasy novel. In terms of aiding this scowling Englishwoman, it could be depicting the Swiss Alps or Middle Earth.

Unfurling the ancient trusty laptop produces nothing useful whatsoever. I’ve zilch to go on re the map, so I try Googling that weird text from the book itself.

All I manage to pick up is adverts for transcendental meditation, body smoothing underwear and cream for haemorrhoids.

I close the book and run my fingertips over that beautiful leather with its embossed symbol. Another thirty minutes gets wasted trying to find anything similar online, but nope, not a whiff. Perhaps Krystal’s nana was having a joke at her granddaughter’s expense. Leaning back with a sigh, I decide to take one last glance at the mysterious map and promptly drop it on the carpet in shock.

Gone are the mountains, the river and the settlement, and in their place... what? Peering down from my chair, I can already see the new diagram has a palpable air of familiarity, as though triggered from some long forgotten memory.

No, it isn’t, you great twit. I know why it’s so familiar. I’ve walked around it hundreds of times. It’s a drawing of my local park with a walk of trees, a kids’ playground and the wildflower sanctuary. And that handwritten text next to the red X has slightly changed too. It now reads,

I grab the newly minted map and thrust it in front of my face as though daring it to change again. Nothing happens. The red X still sits in the centre, blinking at my imagination. A swift check of the book’s pages produces the same cryptic hogwash. An hour later, after I put out the fire from flaming spaghetti, I accept that the book is done being magical, at least for this Christmas Eve’s silent night.

After a tin of oxtail soup and a croissant, and ten minutes of a decades old Christmas comedy special on TV, it’s time for bed, before I start getting maudlin about being alone for the holidays. Should I call a friend? Of course not. They’ll all be partying with multiple generations of their family anyway. So, teeth get brushed and a confused head hits the pillow. You never know, things might be better when I wake.

I fell asleep about 5 am, when the chorus of drunken singing from my neighbours finally died out to the counterpoint of car door slamming, and woke to a blessed silence at around noon. After nearly drowning in the shower, I wish myself a Merry Christmas with a steaming cup of coffee and contemplate whether I can be bothered to cook shrink wrapped turkey for lunch.

A cursory glance at the shapeshifting map reveals no change: it’s still the local park, a red cross and the message,

A short walk in the fresh air might be good for me. I mean, it’s not the worst thing I’ve been asked to do, nor the most embarrassing, by far. That was probably improvising seaweed in an audition for health food. My backside was too big for that one, too.

So here I am on Christmas afternoon, wrapped in thermal leggings, two jumpers and a purple anorak, striding through the pouring rain on my way to said park, carrying the book in a plastic bag and straining not to take flight under my umbrella.

The park would be deserted in this weather at the best of times but, as most are busy opening their presents, eating a gigantic meal or nursing a hangover, there’s not a soul to be seen. Wait, there’s one man on the far side, walking a teeny dog.

I stride through the skeleton branched trees and head down the path towards the mud patch that will house spring wildflowers. According to the map, the X for standing upon should be somewhere in the vicinity of that eyesore portaloo. We got that last summer after a local councilman complained his IBS wasn’t able to wait until he got home. I can see his point and sympathise with his gastric distress, but did it need to get dropped in the middle of the park to take pride of place in all the family photos?

Juggling the bag and the listing umbrella, I ease the map out of a cavernous pocket and check the location. Great, the portaloo isn’t near the spot, it’s bang over the top of it. Fabulous. Hmmm. So, do I...

a) Head home, eat readymade turkey dinner and watch Die Hard again.

b) Stand here like a wally, until someone drops money in my hand, or

c) Move the poxy portaloo?

Now, we’ve already established in the sad introduction to this journal that I’m a disillusioned former fantasy believer, with delusions of writing epic novels, who ends up playing it safe in a rubbish job without a husband, children or a decent pension. It transpires that most would assume option a) would be the clear winner. Surprisingly, I’m now heaving on the side of a giant lump of plastic, after having checked no-one was inside, of course. That would just make it even heavier.

A visceral sucking of plastic through mud accompanies the sudden sideways movement of the portaloo, leaving me on my hands and knees in the dirt, whilst my brolly makes its desperate bid for freedom, blowing in the wind. It ends up stuck in the upper bare branches of a nearby tree, thus neatly providing a metaphor for my life.

Enduring the crunch of middle-aged patellas, I find my feet and stare at the newly liberated spot. It’s just a miserable patch of mud, much like any old patch of mud. Not that I was expecting a large red X to be painted there. Not really.

Thinking, in for a penny, in for a pound, I swiftly glance around me and shuffle onto the spot. The man with the unidentifiable dog is getting closer, but still well out of earshot, so I clear my throat with a gelatinous cough and whisper, “I was born in Lesser Grouchingfold in 1964 to Harold and Freda; their only daughter...”

I get as far as Upper Grouchingfold Junior School when the dog arrives on the scene and proceeds to pee up my ankle, being as it’s a dachshund. When I leap sideways and let rip with a string of words, all of them four letters, the sausage horror yelps and races back to his converging owner in a flurry of short legs.

“What you done to my Fluffy?” the man hollers, clasping his little urine sprayer to his flabby chest and rushing off down the path, trailing a diamante lead.

It’s about now I give up regaling an empty universe with my thrilling backstory and snatch the plastic bag off the floor as a prelude to marching off in a huff. The umbrella chooses this moment to dislodge from its woody prison and drop on my head, hooking the handle around my nose. That’s it; I want to be someone else, doing something else, living anywhere else. Someone please tell me why I couldn’t have had one dream. Just one.

Leaning on the portaloo, I wipe my foul smelling damp ankle with that blasted idiotic map and curse the Great Beyond’s idea of a cruel joke. I mean, seriously, what am I doing out here? What did I expect would happen? A flash of light and suddenly I’m in a New World with the handsome prince? Knowing my luck, I’d be Gollum’s ugly sister.

My head’s clearly spending too much time escaping the miserable real world in favour of concocting yet another unsuccessful fantasy book. I might just as well stand on the spot and announce, “Once upon a time there was a land, riven by snow and conflict...”

The plastic bag and an umbrella drop in the mud and a pee stained map floats away on the breeze.