Living the Fantasy

There are so many cranes on the city’s skyline that it’s hard to keep abreast of developments, though I do try. One fine morning, for example, I walked to a former car-park where a cluster of almost-completed residential sky-scrapers now stands. Just a few metres away, across the small, urban river Medlock, squats the low-level converted warehouse that my partner and I almost bought into twenty years ago. The deal fell through and, though we knew that one day the derelict land over the river would be developed, we never imagined that the sky would be scraped so severely and that so many dwellings would – or could – eventually loom over us – and on such small a plot. At this rate, the housing shortage should be resolved soon.

We have lived in two different flats in the years since then and have become increasingly obsessed by the notion of what it might be like to live elsewhere. (A fondness for camper-vanning is an obvious symptom of our wanderlust.) Wherever we travel, be it in the UK or abroad, we speculate on what our lives would be like if we lived there. Sometimes I bypass the actual travelling and use the internet to find real-estate in places that take my fancy. When I went to visit my brother in Hastings last week, I was able to point out several properties that I had already investigated with a view to becoming his neighbour. (He wasn’t too alarmed at the prospect, knowing that I am prone to fantasise.) In fact, I have just downloaded the Rightmove app so that I can check out properties for sale in whichever place I happen to be.

I was demonstrating the app to my partner the other day, while we were drinking Turkish coffee in the spring sunshine at St. Katherine’s Dock, East London. “It would be nice to have a flat here, overlooking the marina and close to the coffee,” I said. “Let’s see what’s available.” The first property that popped up was a houseboat. “Ooh, that’s nice!” we said in unison and drained our cups to go in search of the handsome naval pinnace, built in 1937 but lovingly maintained in fine fettle. For an hour or two, we argued the pros and cons of a life-changing move to the water: it seemed so appealing – like a camper-van, only floating. However, the case in favour eventually foundered on the rocks of practicalities – especially those concerning our ignorance of boats and boating and my tendency to be sea-sick.

During the few days we were in London, we walked a good many miles around its centre, which brought us into contact with Extinction Rebellion, the organisation that is blocking roads to bring attention to the need to act against environmental degradation. There is criticism that their blockades inconvenience the everyday lives of the population at large, to which they reply: sorry to inconvenience you, but your world is coming to an end and you need to do something to prevent it. There are successful precedents for disruptive movements, e.g. the Suffragettes, a spin-off from the Suffragists, whose too-polite approach was ineffective. After all, without disruption, complacency persists indefinitely.

I shall probably pre-decease the extinction of our species so, from a selfish stance, I am happy to support the Revolution in principle, while letting others do the heavy lifting. However, I do have advice for those anticipating being around when the end comes. Regarding your choice of dwelling, avoid being stuck in a sky-scraping condo: in the event of dystopia, it will be unpleasant – as imagined by J.G. Ballard in his 1975 novel, High-Rise. Suburbia might provide more refuge, but hedges and shrubs provide cover for marauders. For my money, it would pay to be peripatetic. Get a camper-van (or a houseboat) and out-run the competition for tinned food.