Country life
Bedroom fantasy
Leanda de Lisle
I've been fantasising about setting up a camera in my bedroom and playing the resulting film on the Internet. There's a teenage girl in the United States whose bedroom has been visited by 100 million People. Now, I don't think that, in itself, is in the slightest bit appealing. But such a figure inevitably includes a fair number of weirdos. 'What's good about that?' you might ask. Well, 6,000 of them are happy to pay £10 a year to watch this young woman Slapping anti-bacterial cream on her face and playing with her kitten! That's right, no nudity, no sex — well, apparently she kisses her boyfriend every now and then. If only there had been such a thing as the Internet when 1 was a teenager. I could have adver- tised myself as a 'convent school-girl' and flashed my regulation underpants now and then. It would almost certainly have been more profitable than working as a window dresser for the Holloway Co-Op, or slaving as an au pair in a foreign city. Unfortunately, I have to face the fact that I haven't been a teenager for a while now and the bedroom of a rural housewife might not be such a draw. Still, that doesn't mean it isn't worth thinking about. I could Put the camera in a room where the results [night appeal to people who spend more time fantasising about country living than teenage girls. The morning-room (which Still doubles as our drawing-room), for example. I'm usually dressed when I'm using it and if this house were open to the public that would be one of the rooms we'd invite people to see. From our point of view the advantage of film over public access is that a camera is relatively unob- trusive, being unlikely to make a lot of noise or walk off with the snuffboxes. While a camera would offer website sub- scribers a true picture, not just of the room, but its use. Me opening my letters, smoking a Nicorette Inhalator. The room empty for several days. The dog wandering in. The room empty again. The children running through it. The room tidied by beautiful housekeeper in very short shorts. Then a climax — the room full of weekend guests saying indiscreet things. On reflection, per- haps the morning-room wouldn't be such a good choice. Or the dining-room. The telly-room is a possibility. It has a huge gothic fireplace, Peruvian mummy wrappings and Indian phallus coverers which give it the warmth and drama of a Hammer House of Horror film set. Fur- thermore, we spend a good deal of time in it. By evening you'd get the children sitting together on one sofa cushion, their laps covered by a dozen smaller cushions, frozen as if in a photograph. By night you'd see me shouting at the television or sob- bing in front of it. The dog staring very intently at Peter. Peter fast asleep, dressed in a green wool, hooded kaftan. Tin Tin meets the leprechaun St Francis. And by day you'd get me again, watching that love- ly, lovely Ed Stourton on the 1 o'clock news (well, clearly, it's vital that I'm up to the moment with current events. You never know when you might get the Call). The trouble is that while having a camera in the TV room would certainly give an authentic impression of country living, it could be argued that Internet surfers might confuse it with the website of someone who lives on entirely the wrong kind of estate. The kind with more drug dealers than gamekeepers. It would all be so much easier if I was a teenager. Which reminds me, there is the nanny. I grant you she's in her twenties, but that still makes her. ... months younger than me. Employers use spy cameras on their nannies these days, don't they? Why not just re-transmit the images on the Internet? I suppose she might not care for the idea. And there's probably some law against it. So, it's back to my bedroom and my fantasy. There are 100 million people out there who want to see me in my bed- socks. And, if they are very lucky and have a spare /10, they can.
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