COMPETITION
Notting Hill again
Jaspistos
IN COMPETITION NO. 2147 you were given an opening sentence from a futuristic novel by R.C. Sherriff and invited to carry on in imaginative mode.
'I am writing by the light of a piece of string which I have pushed through a frag- ment of bacon fat and arranged in an egg- cup. I shall write by night, partly because I can no longer sleep through these ghastly moonless chasms, and partly because by day I must search for food, and the days are short. . . An owl was hooting just now in Ladbroke Square, but it stopped abrupt- ly as if suddenly ashamed, like a man who has laughed in a cathedral. . . . ' The man who could write that last sentence and also the play Journey's End doesn't deserve to be left out of my Reader's Encyclopaedia. The above comes from the opening page of The Hopkins Manuscript (Gollancz, 1939).
The prizewinners, printed below, get £25 each, and the bottle of the Macallan Single Malt Highland Scotch whisky goes to D.A. Prince.
It is hard to believe that this is Notting Hill Gate, but even thinking of its former glamour is dangerous now, risking a mandatory prison sen- tence under the Equal Locations Anti-Elitism Act, that triumph of Labour's fifth term. Elitist locations — whether of outstanding natural beauty, ancient history, architectural grandeur or less tangible glitterati — were declared ille- gal; literary texts were rewritten, films wiped. It was a logical step, after the Equal Appearance Act, under which everyone had to dress within beige/grey ranges from three high-street stores. and the Equal Food Act, whereby restaurants were compelled to offer only the chillcook microwaveable foods available to all in super- markets. There were riots, of course — especial- ly here, when the Equal Property Value Act was ruthlessly enforced and Darlington and Notting Hill became one level playing-field. Now ferret- ing clubs thrive where millionaires held court — and we have to say it's for the best.
(D.A. Prince) 'It is hard to believe this is Notting Hill Gate,' Sir Gordon rumbled. `I'd have said a personable Sancerre. Oh — you wouldn't remember Sancerre. The last bottle was drunk to celebrate the half-century. I had a glass of it.' `So our policy's paying off?' the young accoun- tant said. 'Let Brixton and Finsbury Park and the rest knock out the bland mass-market stuff that the Australians used to do while we prioritise quality, the long-term, the more fastidious consumer?'
`Exactly. It's a perfect niche market. Now that they've taken over Chalk Farm, Sloane Square are our only competition there. They're good, mud you, vintners in the old French tradition Who don't cut corners, but we can beat them. With your business acumen and my palate we'll be unstoppable. The world is our oyster.' 'I'll drink to that, daddy-o,' she said, turning in the bed and raising her glass.
(Basil Ransome-Davies) It is hard to believe that this is Notting Hill Gate; there are no houses, only rows and rows of Upended suitcases. A man steps out of one. He's 2ft tall. I've been away too long. Sensing my con- fusion, he explains: 'Genetic engineering and Tardis technology, we all live in suitcases now. To reduce crowding the geneticists made us small and the architechnologists invented home- cases. Come in.' I stoop and climb into a perfect replica of a 1970s semi, complete with horse- brasses and net curtains. Upstairs I spot a suit- case on the landing. 'Granny flat,' he informs me and presses a door-chime. 'Coming in for a cuppa?' Granny asks. 'Lovely view from my sit- ting-room.' I look out and see suitcases taking off and landing. There is a case in her hall. 'That's my friend Vera, let's pay her a call,' says Granny. We ring the bell. (Jeremy Carlisle) It is hard to believe that this is Notting Hill Gate — and you picked it up in a car-boot sale! Even with the chip in it, it must be worth a packet. Do you realise how few were salvaged when the fac- tory was blitzed? Using it as a bulb-planter is too much of a cliche. Of course, you could go for the Victorian look: dumpy, round pedestal table, drapy, lacy cloth, and a big, blowsy aspidistra. If it were mine, I'd really feature it, especially at parties. Perhaps I'd float some of those delight- ful Japanese paper flowers in it or, better still, fill it with truly electric punch. Mind you, I'm going through a phase of complete authenticity a ce moment: you know, purity of form, honesty of function. Since it's what Granny would call a gazunda, I'd maybe use it for its proper purpose — and keep it under the bed.
(Anne Du Croz) It is hard to believe that this is Notting Hill Gate. It is, in fact, a holographic replica of what it looked like as Chesterton described it: 'one small block of little lighted shops . . . preserved and defended, like a hamlet', containing what he saw in 1904 as 'the essentials of a civilisation, a chemist shop, a provision merchant for food and a public house for drink. There was also an old curiosity shop bristling with swords and hal- berds.' If these are the essentials of civilisation, then London in 2050 is no longer civilised!
Genetic modification has obviated the need for chemist shops, bookshops have given way to wrist-computers, food is formulated and deliv- ered by machines at the touch of a button, and an old curiosity shop would now feature laser guns and rocket pistols. There is no waterworks tower, only wasteland, pewter-coloured under a built-up moon.
(T. Griffiths)
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