COMMUNING WITH NATURE
12 JUNE
‘Get up, Nathan.’
‘No.’
‘Come on, get up.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Yes, you can. Get out of bed, it smells in here.’
‘Leave me alone.’
This is a conversation any teenager will instantly recognise. It usually occurs on a Wednesday in the middle of summer at about 11.15 a.m.
The parental unit of choice will be standing over the recalcitrant teen, urging them to get out of bed and embrace the day, while the teen will resist all attempts to make them do so by holding the duvet over their head in pure adolescent stubbornness.
It’s a conversation I remember having many times when I was fourteen.
It’s probably not one I should be having with my mother at the age of thirty-three.
I should never have given her a bloody key.
And yet I did, so here she stands with her hands on her hips, staring down at me as I refuse to leave the safe and happy confines of my super king-sized bed. I have all I need here – Netflix, Just Eat, and an en-suite bathroom. Why should I ever feel the need to go anywhere else?
It’s been a month since the last Foodies show and the night I said yes to a date with a pretty girl, knowing full well that I have a death sentence hanging over me.
The one-two punch of splitting up with Sienna and meeting Alison have thrown my sorry state of affairs into sharp relief. I’ve been forced to have a good, long look at myself – and the realisation that I haven’t exactly been living the most worthwhile of lives has thrown me for a large and unpleasant loop.
I’ve been cruising along, making money hand over fist, having some truly memorable sex and generally gadding about the place like I owned it – but at what cost?
I have, if I’m being completely honest about it, been a bit of a dick. It’s a crying shame that it took a terminal diagnosis for me to realise it. It’s also a crying shame that I’ll probably be robbed of the chance to be less of a dick in the future thanks to my vastly shortened lifespan.
My despair over all of this was so intense that taking to my bed was literally the only thing I could do.
What followed was a month of self-pity, self-loathing, self-analysis and self-abuse. The fourth option was the only enjoyable one out of the lot.
In a strange way, I have been content in this lazy, miserable fug. Life is easy when all you have to worry about is how many episodes of House of Cards you have left, whether the local Chinese will deliver at 10 p.m. and how many Kleenex are left in the box. There have even been times when I’ve forgotten about my bloody tumour. Those forty-three seconds were some of the best of my life.
But now, here is my evil mother to ruin it all.
‘This is ridiculous, Nathan. You can’t just lie in bed for the rest of your life.’
‘Yes, I can. I might only have a few minutes left, so it’s fine.’
Mum lets out an exasperated gasp. ‘Oh, for God’s sake. Is this how you’re going to behave from now on? Completely incapable of having any kind of life because you’re permanently worried it’s about to end?’
‘Yes.’
‘You don’t know how long you’ve got! You don’t know you’re going to die!’
‘Yes, I do! We all die! We all must face death alone! Everything slides into entropy!’
Mum looks baffled by this. ‘What are you on about?’
‘I’ve been doing a lot of reading,’ I explain defiantly. It’s never, ever a good idea to google information about death – it leads you down a rabbit hole of cod philosophy and overwrought moralising that gets you nowhere.
‘Well, it’s time you got up and started doing something constructive with your time, my son,’ Mum tells me in no uncertain terms.
‘I don’t want to,’ I say with a Sienna-sized pout. I yank the duvet back over my head, channelling my inner fourteen-year-old, pubescent idiot.
‘Not so fast!’ Mum exclaims, yanking the duvet back down again. ‘You’re going to get up and you’re going to do something about your state of mind, Nathan. Whether you have months, years or decades left, it’s not going to help if you just wallow in bed like this the entire time!’ She points a firm finger at me. ‘Don’t be like your father!’
‘What do you suggest I do exactly?’ I ask in a sullen voice.
Mum sits on the end of the bed. ‘There’s a place I’ve found that might be able to help you.’
‘Is it an off-licence?’
Mum rolls her eyes. ‘No, Nathan. It’s a commune.’
‘A what?’
‘A commune. Down in the West Country. I heard about it from one of my clients – that architect chappy Donald who commissioned me to make those gargoyles for him. You remember?’
‘The ones with the tits?’
Mum grinds her teeth. ‘Yes . . . the gargoyles had breasts. He was trying to provoke a reaction in his visitors.’
My eyes narrow. It seems to me that statuary is at least ninety per cent about sex in some way or another. There seems to be an obsession with carving out figures in rock with their bits and pieces on display for the world to see. This probably says something profound about the human race, but I’m not sure what. ‘Yeah. I bet he was,’ I say.
She waves a hand. ‘Anyway. I bumped into him the other day and got talking about you.’
‘Mum!’ I exclaim, horrified. What is it with people I’m close to speaking to complete strangers about this bloody tumour?
‘Relax, Nathan! I didn’t tell him about your diagnosis, just that you’ve been feeling down recently.’
‘Hmmph. That’s an understatement.’
‘Yes . . . well, Donald told me that when his wife left him, he fell into a similar depression, but that he visited this commune for a few days and it really helped him. The off-grid, back-to-nature lifestyle helped him gain a bit of perspective.’
I give Mum a very suspicious look. ‘Really?’ I run a hand through my hair. ‘Well . . . it doesn’t sound like something that’d do me much good. I haven’t lost a wife, I’ve lost a life.’
‘Just try it, Nathan!’ Mum snaps with exasperation. ‘Anything has got to be better than this!’
I’m slightly taken aback by her tone of voice. To see her riled up like this is extremely disconcerting.
‘The commune is called the Light Havens,’ she continues. ‘Donald gave me their contact details. I want you to give them a call.’
‘Yes, yes, I will!’ I reply quickly, not wanting to hear that authoritative tone of voice again.
‘Good. Now, I’m going downstairs to make a cup of tea. I expect you to join me after you’ve got dressed’ – she sniffs the air – ‘and had a long shower.’
And with that, my mother rises from the bed and exits the bedroom, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
Given that my thoughts are largely unpleasant and full of holes, I choose to ignore them and finally rise from my disgusting bed like a zombie emerging from its grave.
I clamber into the shower to wash off the grime of more days than I care to mention. After about five minutes I do indeed feel a little more human . . . and a little more alive. Mum is probably right – I can’t just wallow in misery for the time I have left, no matter how much a part of me would love to do so. I have no idea whether this commune can actually do me any good, but anything’s got to be better that my current lifestyle. Give it another few days and I will have exhausted Netflix, and then where will I be? Watching daytime terrestrial television, that’s where. It would only take about three episodes of Loose Women or Homes Under the Hammer before I’d be trying to suffocate myself with the duvet.
I’ve never considered myself to be much of an environmentalist.
I watch every David Attenborough documentary that comes on the TV and make tutting noises whenever there’s a story on the news about fracking, but that’s about as far as it goes. To tell the truth, it’s one of those issues that always bores me rigid. Eliza made me go and see that movie An Inconvenient Truth when it got a rerun at the local art-house cinema. The only real inconvenience for me was that it stopped me sitting at home playing my guitar all evening.
It therefore feels unbelievable to me that I’m actually seriously considering a visit to an environmentally friendly commune on the edges of Exmoor National Park.
The Light Havens – which sounds like a name directly lifted from a Tolkien novel – is run by a chap called Martin Sizemore. I have a chat on the phone with him later that afternoon about a visit.
It transpires that Martin and his community are more than happy to invite strangers into their lives for as long as they want to stay. He’s very keen to promote their off-grid way of living. He thinks it’s a fantastic way for people feeling stressed or miserable to find a measure of happiness again. And the more people he can spread that philosophy to, the better.
The people of the Light Havens have left their modern lives behind for something more simple and down to earth. They’ve sacrificed their iPads for well-thumbed books and their overpriced M&S quinoa salads for a cabbage patch in the garden. This is either very admirable or spell-bindingly crazy, depending on your perspective. I tend to have a love-hate relationship with most modern technology myself, but quinoa makes me gag, so I’m on the fence.
Martin comes across as a sane and lucid individual during our phone call, so I guess I’m prepared to pop down to his patch of land in Devon to see if this off-grid philosophy can help me out. It won’t cure my tumour, but it may help lift my spirits and change my perspective on a few things. If nothing else, a change of scenery will do me some good. I can’t wallow in my Netflix wank palace any more. My mother won’t allow it.
As I jump on the train down to the south-west the next morning, I have images of Richard Briers in The Good Life circulating around my head. My parents used to love that show and would often sit me down in front of repeats when I was a child. While I never quite understood the allure of Felicity Kendall’s bottom, I did giggle at a lot of the jokes – my high-pitched child’s laughter in perfect accompaniment to my father’s loud, baritone guffawing.
Being a city boy, I of course believe that the whole of the south-west is served by three dirt roads and is permanently chock-a-block with caravans and tractors, so the idea of letting the train take the strain feels like a sensible one. I don’t actually have a lot of choice in the matter these days, of course. The Porsche is now permanently parked on my driveway, thanks to the DVLA driving ban.
Being carried through England’s green and pleasant land with the sun shining down is most definitely one good way of improving your state of mind. I’m not even that perturbed when we get held up for twenty minutes in Taunton because a driver is late for his shift. I do have to put my headphones in and listen to some music to drown out the copious amounts of tutting when the announcement is made over the tannoy, however.
I can see why the Light Havens is named as such when I arrive in the taxi from the train station. The cabbie gave me a funny look when I told him the address that Martin had provided, but I ignored him, safe in the knowledge that a taxi driver will give you a funny look when you tell him your destination about nine times out of ten, wherever you are in the world.
We’re somewhere about half an hour north-east of Barnstaple, on the edges of the national park – and boy is it a beautiful part of the world. The coast is a scant ten-minute walk away, and yet here we are, surrounded by sun-dappled oaks and beeches in a rather lovely woodland setting. A small smile creeps across my face for the first time in weeks as the taxi turns on to a gravel track that leads away from the B road we’ve been on for the past few miles.
A little further along, the track widens into a makeshift car park, with a gate at the other end preventing further access up the road. Standing by the gate is Richard Briers.
Okay, okay, it’s not actually Richard Briers, but it is a man in his late forties wearing a sensible beige cardigan and with a haircut twenty years out of date, so you can forgive me the comparison. It’s rather nice to be confronted by a person who looks so comfortingly normal.
‘Good morning!’ he says as the taxi driver pulls up.
‘And to you!’ I reply, jumping out of the cab with a spring in my step, brought on from a combination of good weather, attractive scenery, two recently downed painkillers and the sight of a sensible beige cardigan. I pay the taxi driver, who gives me and Martin another strange look, before he turns around in the car park and hightails it out of there.
Martin ignores this and holds out his hand to me, which I shake enthusiastically. ‘Lovely part of the world you’ve chosen to set up shop in,’ I remark, looking up at the sunlight slanting through the trees.
‘It is, isn’t it?’ Martin replies. ‘And thank you so much for coming along, Nathan. I’m really hoping our community will be able to help you.’
‘Actually, I think it might be having an effect already,’ I say with a grin, basking in the warm sunlight.
Martin bids me follow him past the closed gate, and we ascend the gravel track together, chatting about the nice weather and the train service to Barnstaple as we go. Within the space of five minutes we have rounded a bend and come in sight of the Light Havens.
It is, on the face of it, quite idyllic. The commune sits in a large, open forest glade, surrounded by tall and proud pine trees. There are, from what I can see, seven small dwellings dotted around the glade, forming a very loose circle. All of them are surrounded by their own vegetable patches, ramshackle greenhouses and other rustic accoutrements. A couple are square(ish) and apparently constructed from wattle and daub, one coloured red and the other pale blue. A further two are log cabins, but each constructed of a different wood. Two more are built of a strange combination of haystacks and old tyres, and the final house – the grandest and largest of them all – is a mishmash of all three approaches to construction. Every building has an air of quiet permanence about it that I find quite lovely. In a world of cookie-cutter Bovis Homes buildings that look flimsy enough to fall over at any minute, this bespoke, ‘earthy’ style of construction is very refreshing.
‘Rather wonderful, isn’t it?’ Martin says, noting my approving expression.
‘Yes. It really is,’ I reply. ‘It’s so peaceful.’
‘I know. We were very careful when we were looking for land to buy fifteen years ago,’ Martin explains. ‘It took us six months to find this location. You can’t hear any traffic from here, and we’re nowhere near a plane route. It’s just the birds and us.’
And they’re not even noisy birds. Wonderful stuff.
I notice a light on in the log cabin closest to where we’re standing. ‘You have electricity?’ I say.
Martin chuckles. ‘Oh yes. We’re off the grid and self-sufficient, but that doesn’t mean we don’t have a few of the twenty-first century’s home comforts!’
I want to point out that electricity was also one of the nineteenth century’s home comforts, but I like this man and don’t want to offend him. At least not deliberately.
‘Where does the power come from?’
Martin points to the house roofs. ‘Solar panels on every one.’
‘They must have been expensive.’
‘Actually, we received a grant from the council and sponsorship from the solar panel company. They didn’t cost us much in the end.’
I’m very impressed by how well planned and organised this commune is. Martin and his friends have clearly done things the right way from day one and are reaping the benefits.
I say as much.
Martin smiles again. ‘Thank you, Nathan! It has been going well. We’re even hoping to expand the place in the coming months. If you look past Frannie and Bork’s house to your left, you’ll see that the land we own stretches on much further back. There’s room there for at least another six houses. The more we build and show that our community can grow sustainably, the more attention we get from local businesses and the media.’
This all sounds very admirable. I’m even more impressed than I was a few minutes ago. I’m not even going to bring up the fact that Martin’s just told me he lives with a person called Bork – that’s how much I want to stay on this bloke’s good side. There’s something ever so noble about him and his project. I’m sure the cardigan has something to do with it.
‘Shall we go to my house?’ Martin suggests. ‘The other members of the community would like to meet you, and I had them gather there for your arrival. It’s what we like to do for all of our guests from the outside world.’
Hmmm. That feels ever so slightly uncomfortable.
I’m somewhat reminded of those old nature documentaries from the 1950s when the white man was greeted by the local natives in their biggest hut. They would usually give him some kind of food as a gift, normally made from something quite disgusting like mealworms or peacock vomit. I always thought that they did this quite deliberately, having hidden all the home-made chocolate and fruit salad somewhere out the back.
Martin makes off towards the biggest house, which I rightly assumed was his. Instead of just being square or circular, this place is a very rough ‘L’ shape and is built into the side of a small hillock. It’s the only house that has two levels – probably because the hillock props the foundations up enough to allow a second storey to be built. The roof is of course thatched. The solar panels Martin pointed out look quite incongruous against such an old-fashioned building material. The walls are a mainly white wattle and daub, with one retaining wall at the back made of car tyres.
As we enter the property through a hand-carved oak front door, I am immediately surprised by the space inside. Martin obviously likes the open-plan feel, as I can see his lounge area off to the left and the kitchen to the right. The kitchen has all the appliances you’d expect it to have, which would be surprising were it not for the solar panels on the roof. There are a couple of rooms at the far end of the open space and an ornate wooden spiral staircase at its centre, but other than that, I’m standing in a large, open room that somehow contrives to feel cosy, despite its size.
Standing and sitting around a handmade oak table in the kitchen area (if Martin isn’t a carpenter by trade, I’d be amazed) are several people, all dressed in a manner that those who attend Glastonbury Festival will immediately recognise as the height of fashion. A couple of the younger women are holding babies, and most of the men have unkempt beards. One woman, who is auburn-haired and about forty-five or so, is busy making tea beside the kitchen sink. When she sees us enter, she smiles broadly and comes over to greet us.
‘Hello, Nathan!’ the woman says. ‘Welcome to the Light Havens. I’m Celeste, Martin’s wife.’ She holds out a hand for me to shake, which I do happily.
Celeste has possibly the most magnificently large breasts I have ever seen. I know that pointing this out makes me sound like a gigantic misogynist, for which I apologise, but by crikey they are whoppers. The light-grey T-shirt she’s wearing does little to disguise their ampleness. She’s not wearing a bra, either.
I heroically manage to look her square in the eye as I shake her hand, though. This is a woman who has dedicated her life to environmentally friendly, sustainable living. The last thing she needs is a wasteful city boy like me staring at her tits instead of her compost heap.
‘Thanks for having me,’ I reply. ‘You really do have a lovely place here.’
‘Thank you, Nathan, that’s most kind,’ she says, with a pleased expression on her face. ‘Allow me to introduce the rest of our extended family.’
Celeste and Martin take me over to where I shake hands with the eleven other people that make up the community of the Light Havens. Bork is from Norway, so the name is not as strange as it first sounded. I am rather taken aback when I am presented with a small girl called Peggy, who is a big fan of The Foodies and is clutching a Libby the Happy Lemon soft toy. Peggy and Callum would get along well, I think. I feel a pang of regret in my chest for a moment, as this reminds me of Alison, but I brush the feeling away as swiftly as I can. This has been a good day so far, and I don’t want to let anything spoil it.
All in all, the folks of the Light Havens seem a laid-back, happy bunch. Okay, they’re a little oddball, but that’s to be expected, given their counterculture way of life. They are all unfailingly good-natured and welcoming, which is the most important thing.
So much so that the next couple of hours of my life are some of the nicest I’ve ever had. Being taken around the commune to see all of its off-grid delights is a very pleasant experience. The lovely weather helps. There’s nothing quite like eating a gigantic home-grown strawberry with the sun shining down on you while somebody with a big smile on their face brings you a cup of tea.
Apparently, a barbecue is being held later, where I’ve been promised at least one pint of Martin’s home-brewed beer. Celeste has told me that I’m invited to stay in their guest bedroom for as long as I’d like – an offer I’m seriously contemplating, as not even my bifold patio doors can compete with gigantic, juicy strawberries and a complete lack of traffic noise.
By the time the clock hits six, my knowledge of how the Light Havens functions is complete. It really is a marvel of off-grid living. Okay, they haven’t quite cut ties with the outside world completely – Martin still makes regular visits to the supermarket in his clapped-out old Volvo estate, and the Wi-Fi signal is surprisingly good for such a rural location – but in terms of their carbon footprint and their impact on the environment, they really are doing a fantastic job. When I get home, I’m definitely going to stop using the dishwasher as much and use the half flush on the toilet a bit more.
Martin sparks up the home-made brick barbecue outside the front of his house as the sun starts to go down. The community all gather on a collection of old deck chairs and patio furniture to enjoy the food, Martin’s beer and the fortunate life they’re living. I should probably resent them for their happiness, but I’m too stuffed with cheeseburger and strong beer to put any real effort into it.
This is easily the best mood I’ve been in for months. Mum (and Donald) were right – this place really is good for the soul. My spirits have lifted considerably.
The evening takes a very interesting turn at about 9 p.m., after the children have all been packed off to bed, when Bork produces a tobacco pouch from his back pocket and starts to roll what is quite obviously a spliff.
Being a musician, I am no stranger to the delights of marijuana. In fact, some of my most memorable nights as a young, struggling muso were spent comprehensively boxed on Afghanistan’s finest export. While I’ve traded cannabis for alcohol as I’ve got older, I am not averse to the odd nostalgic smoke, should the opportunity present itself. And it has presented itself right now in the shape of a giant Norseman with a big, bushy beard.
Everyone in the commune seems quite comfortable with the idea of a little class B entertainment, something I am not surprised about at all. Marijuana has always gone hand in hand with the people of the counterculture – and the Light Havens is no exception.
I watch as Bork lights the spliff, takes a couple of long drags and passes it to Martin.
Don’t let the sensible cardigan fool you – Martin is quite happy to partake of a little weed. He inhales a heroic amount of the sweet-smelling smoke, before passing the spliff to his wife, who does much the same thing.
Then she looks at me. ‘Would you like some, Nathan?’ she says, her head wreathed with smoke that lingers in the still summer air.
‘Er, yes. I would, actually,’ I say with a grin, taking the joint from her hands and sucking in a great lungful of THC.
This really is quite, quite splendid. What a great idea it was to come here.
Things are starting to cool down by 10 p.m., so Martin suggests we withdraw into the big, comfortable living room, where beanbags (what else?) are strewn around the floor in a haphazard fashion. I quite like a beanbag. There’s one in my loft that I keep meaning to get down so I can sit in it while I play video games. There’s something quite relaxing about having your bottom hugged by thousands of tiny polystyrene balls that I can’t quite put my finger on.
I get the distinct impression that this kind of late-night gathering is a regular occurrence here, and I feel very fortunate to be included.
‘Nathan?’ Celeste says as I drop myself into one of the beanbags.
‘Yes?’ I reply, a dreamy sense of well-being overcoming me as I settle back into the bag.
‘I have a guitar somewhere . . . Would you mind giving us a song? I’m okay on it, but I have a feeling you might be able to do a better job than me!’
Okay, so this now is officially the best night I’ve had in years, not just since the tumour came along. ‘Of course!’
Celeste goes to the back of the room and retrieves an old and rather battered acoustic guitar from the corner. She hands it to me and I spend a couple of moments tuning it. Surprisingly, given how old the guitar is, it’s not too badly out of tune, and in no time at all I am strumming through a couple of chords, wondering what I should play.
‘Okay then, I’ll start playing . . . Let’s see if you guys know the words,’ I tell them all.
Given the cannabis now flowing through my system, it should come as no surprise that I pick a bit of Led Zeppelin. I don’t go for the ultimate cliché of ‘Stairway to Heaven’, but do start playing ‘Dazed and Confused’, knowing full well that it’ll go down a treat with this lot.
And indeed it does! My song choice is much appreciated. As it is when I follow up with ‘Wild Horses’ by The Rolling Stones and ‘Behind Blue Eyes’ by The Who.
Bork rolls another spliff. By the time I’ve taken three good lungfuls, I have to stop playing as my fingers don’t want to work the fretboard properly any more.
I think I may have discovered the cure for my brain tumour. At least, I think I’ve discovered the cure for caring about my brain tumour – which is nearly as good.
‘So,’ Martin says, leaning back into his beanbag, ‘I hope your visit here is helping your sense of well-being, Nathan. It’s what we’re here for.’
I nod at him in a languid fashion. ‘It is. It really is.’ I think for a moment. ‘I’m no clearer on what the hell I’m supposed to do with my life, but I don’t seem to care that much about it at the moment . . . which is fine by me.’
Martin frowns a little. ‘Life not going the way you planned it?’
I sigh. ‘Not at all. I thought I had it all figured out, but now . . .’ I trail off, not really knowing what else to add.
Celeste shuffles her beanbag a little closer to me. ‘What changed?’ she asks.
I heave another sigh. I might as well explain to these lovely people why I am here, even if it brings the mood down a little.
I give Martin, Celeste and the rest of the commune the short version of my tragic recent life history. By the time I’m done, everyone has a sympathetic look in their eyes that makes me feel uncomfortable, even through the cannabis fug.
‘That’s so sad, Nathan,’ Celeste says, resting a hand on my leg. ‘So sad that you feel that way about yourself after such a horrible discovery.’
I nod again. ‘Yeah. I guess it is, isn’t it?’ I take another drag on the joint that’s just been handed to me. ‘I wish I had time to set things straight a bit, but I don’t think I’m going to get it.’
Martin leans forward. ‘And what would you do, if you did have the time?’
I shrug. ‘I have no idea.’
He gives me a speculative look. ‘And that might be your problem. You’re so worried that you have no time left, you’ve not even considered the idea that you might have plenty of time left.’
My eyes widen. He’s right. I hadn’t considered that at all.
Martin smiles, seeing my reaction. ‘So, I’ll ask you again, Nathan – what would you do if you did have the time?’
I lean back and stare at the ceiling. Thoughts, feelings and fears all bob around in my head for a few moments, adrift on a sea of marijuana smoke.
What would I do?
What would I do if I wasn’t going to die?
Then it hits me. My head drops back down to regard Martin. ‘Something worthwhile,’ I say purposefully. ‘I want to do something worthwhile.’
Martin nods. ‘To leave your mark on the world?’
‘Yes! Yes! That’s it!’
‘What like?’ Celeste asks, face afire with curiosity.
‘Er . . .’ That’s stumped me. It’s all very well having a cannabis-based epiphany about a need to do something of worth with what’s left of my life, but I still have no idea what that something is.
‘I don’t know,’ I reply, then bang a fist down on the thigh that Celeste isn’t touching. ‘I don’t know!’ I repeat, with frustration.
Martin holds out his hands. ‘Hey, chill out, Nathan. You don’t need to have every answer straight away, my friend. Just be happy you’ve discovered the first one here with us tonight, yeah?’
This is possibly the most Zen thing I’ve ever heard anyone say, but then I am now high as a kite, so my judgement is somewhat impaired.
I take yet another drag on the joint. ‘Yeah. You’re right, Martin. You’re so, so right. Thank you . . . Thank you all.’ I give everyone a smile that I think is warm and friendly, but is in fact the grin of someone who’s just had a frontal lobotomy with a blunt spoon. I really have had far too much cannabis this evening. ‘This is such a great place,’ I tell them all. ‘Such a great, great place.’
‘It’s lovely to have you here,’ Celeste says, squeezing my thigh gently as she does.
‘It’s lovely to be here,’ I reply.
‘Good,’ she says, tightening the squeeze a little.
‘We all think you fit in here really well,’ Martin adds, to the general positive acknowledgement of the rest of the room. ‘Now you’ve shared your story with us.’
‘Thank you, I think I do, too,’ I say.
‘It’s lovely to share ourselves with you,’ Celeste says, which is an odd way of phrasing things, but I like the sentiment just the same.
‘I like sharing myself with you as well,’ I drowsily reply.
‘Great!’ Martin exclaims in a happy voice, taking another drag on the spliff.
And then, I’m asleep.
The beanbag is too comfortable, the cannabis is too strong and the open-plan living room is too cosy for anything else to happen at this point. I should feel dreadfully embarrassed at falling asleep in a room full of people I’ve never met before, but I don’t, such is the way they’ve welcomed me into their lives and such is the strength of the cannabis I’m smoking.
In my drugged, sleepy haze, I feel a hand on my leg again, which feels extremely pleasant. I think Celeste may have taken a real liking to me today. I open my eyes to see that those wonderfully large mammaries are now within inches of my face. Celeste is leaning over me with both hands now on my thighs.
‘Is this okay, Nathan?’ she says, hands sliding up even further.
Of course, it shouldn’t be okay. Not in the slightest. Another man’s wife is quite clearly attempting to seduce me while I’m in a vulnerable state – and in front of several other people to boot. I should be jumping out of the beanbag with an embarrassed cry, horrified at the whole idea. But I’m not. Because, hey – I’m single, lonely and living moment to moment these days. If Martin isn’t bothered at the idea of his wife feeling me up, then I’m not going to be concerned about it, either. The combination of marijuana and beer has lowered my inhibitions to levels that are virtually non-existent, so why shouldn’t I let Celeste have a little fun with me?
‘Yeah, carry on . . .’ I mumble.
Celeste smiles. ‘You really want to share yourself?’ she says with a seductive smile that makes my penis twitch.
‘I do,’ I reply, flapping a hand around. ‘Go for it.’
My eyes close again as I feel her start to knead my crotch.
Her other hand continues to squeeze my left thigh, while her other hand squeezes the right.
. . . squeezes the right.
. . . her other hand.
One hand is massaging my cock, one hand is squeezing my left thigh and one is squeezing my right thigh.
Things do not add up here, my friend. They do not add up at all.
Unless Celeste has somehow morphed into the human form of the multi-limbed Hindu elephant god Ganesh, events have taken a decidedly odd turn.
Sadly, I’m so religiously off my tits on cannabis that my brain is functioning at about fifteen per cent of its normal capacity, so it is slow on the uptake, to say the least. A thought process that should take less than a second to assert itself instead requires a full half minute to break through the drug-induced fug.
When it does manage to break through, though, it is most insistent.
Somebody else is feeling you up, you idiot!
I open my eyes to find that Celeste has been joined by . . .
No, not Frannie.
No, not Martin, either, though I’m sure that’s where you were thinking this was heading, weren’t you? However, Martin is still sat back in his beanbag near the fireplace, watching proceedings with great interest.
No, it’s Bork, folks.
I’m being felt up by Celeste and six foot three inches of prime, grade-A Scandiwegian beefcake. And he’s leering at me. So is Celeste – but that’s kind of all right given her gender and the size of her mammaries.
Oh, and there’s caressing going on, too. In point of fact, it’s Celeste who’s being the aggressive one. Bork’s hands are actually quite gentle, which is surprising, given his size.
If I was bisexual, then this would all be just about the best thing ever, but I’m not, so it’s not – no matter how gentle his hands are.
A confusing welter of emotions fills my head. On the one hand, I’m naturally shocked and horrified that I’m being felt up by a bloke, but on the other hand, Celeste is still kneading my penis for all she’s worth and that is a very pleasant sensation in and of itself, no matter what else is going on at the periphery.
And let’s not forget that I’m still drunk and high, so there’s also a small part of my brain that’s just hoping I go with it, because fuck it – We’re probably going to be dead soon, so what’s the harm in seeing what a little Scandinavian man love is like? We might end up enjoying it.
The small crowd is certainly enjoying things. In fact, over Bork’s shoulder I can see three of the other commune members crawling all over each other, removing clothing as they go. I do hope these beanbags are wipe clean.
It’s at this point that Bork’s hand starts to snake up to my crotch to join Celeste’s. The part of my brain that might be up for a little experimentation is still there, but is now being drowned out by the sober part of me that has just caught up with proceedings and is starting to make its feelings known in no uncertain terms.
‘Er, could you stop, please?’ I say in a timid voice.
Bork smiles. ‘It is fine, Nathan.’
‘Yes,’ agrees Celeste in a soothing voice, giving mini-Nathan another squeeze. ‘It’s all going to be all right.’ When somebody tells you everything is going to be all right in a soothing voice, it usually means it’s time to run for the hills.
‘No, thank you,’ I say, watching Bork’s hand cover Celeste’s, adding to the squeeze. I’m in real trouble now. Judging from the size of Bork’s plate-like hand, if I say or do the wrong thing right now, he could quite easily make my day end very badly by tightening his grip over Celeste’s hand and my rapidly shrinking appendage.
Then Celeste moves her hand away completely and it’s time to take some fucking action.
‘I said no, thank you!’ I scream, as if I’ve just been approached for the fourth time on the high street to answer a questionnaire and not because a blond Scandinavian alpha male is about to give me a handjob.
Needless to say, Bork pays no attention to this. He’s now concentrating on the job and isn’t going to be stopped by such a plaintive request.
‘Oh my God!’ I wail, trying to squeeze my legs together. Sadly, I’m still sat in a fucking beanbag. Have you tried squeezing your legs together while sat in a beanbag? It’s impossible. So is pulling yourself away from an unwanted handjob.
Nevertheless, I give it a good go.
I try to pull myself from Bork’s unwanted attentions by pushing back with my hands and feet as hard as I can. However, I can barely gain any purchase on the floor thanks to the way I’m flopped back in the beanbag, so all I end up doing is thrashing about like an upended turtle.
‘I think he’s enjoying that, Bork,’ says Martin, completely misinterpreting my reaction. ‘Look how excited he is.’ Martin’s tone of voice has taken a dark turn – one implying that nipple clamps and water sports are going to be in my immediate future if I don’t do something drastic in the next desperate few seconds.
There are only two accepted ways of getting yourself out of a beanbag.
One is to roll sideways – usually with a loud and sustained grunting noise – until you are able to fall off the beanbag and bring yourself upright. This option is not open to me as I have Bork on one side and Celeste on the other, both with a knee on the beanbag, effectively blocking my escape.
The only other way to get out of a beanbag is the far more theatrical option, usually only open to those in the blossom of youth and vitality: rolling backwards off the bugger in an awkward roly-poly.
When’s the last time you did a roly-poly?
For me, I think it was about twenty years ago. Therefore, I am royally out of practice.
My first attempt is pathetic (drunk and stoned, remember). I can barely do more than buck my hips upwards and lean my head back. This just makes it look like I’m presenting myself.
Here, Bork! Here are my genitals for your appraisal! See how eager I am to have you examine them more closely!
Bork’s eyes widen enthusiastically, as do Celeste’s. She must be hoping to pick at the leftovers later.
If my first roly-poly effort was pathetic, the second overcompensates massively. With a loud and sustained grunt, I push down hard on to the floor with my legs and simultaneously throw myself backwards with such force I will have a painful neck for the next week or so.
Celeste and Bork may well need medical attention themselves, given that as I throw myself backwards, both of my knees connect with the undersides of their chins in a move reminiscent of the final round in a game of Street Fighter II. I believe the correct button combination is down, sweep left, up, circle button, square button.
Bork’s mouth is open, so there’s an audible and dreadful clunk as his bottom teeth meet the top.
Still, at least he remains conscious. Celeste is knocked completely spark out.
None of this damage is readily apparent to me, as I’m still trying to negotiate my way through the complicated late stages of the roly-poly. With a strangled cry, I go arse over tit about as gracefully as a newborn calf. Given the amount of pressure this instantly causes to my digestive system, I also let out an enormous fart. In any other circumstance this would be a source of supreme humiliation, but I’ve just knocked a Scandinavian’s teeth out and rendered a large-breasted woman unconscious, so in this situation it barely registers.
While I’m busy doing my impression of Olga Korbut after a heavy blow to the skull, Martin and the rest of the weird communal sex brigade are responding to the grievous injuries that I have wrought. Bork is helped to his feet by his life partner, Frannie, blood gushing down his chin. Martin is trying his best to rouse Celeste from her enforced slumber. Sadly, while he’s an accomplished carpenter, he’s definitely not an accomplished physician, as he’s trying to do this by poking her in the bottom.
I manage to struggle to my knees and survey the grizzly scene in front of me.
‘Oh God, I’m so sorry!’ I cry, hands held out.
Martin looks at me with instant loathing. Even though he’d have happily condoned my unwanted seduction by Bork, he quite clearly feels that I am the one in the wrong here. ‘Why did you do that?!’ he screams. He’s now trying to get Celeste to wake up by actively pushing down on her bottom, as if he’s trying to create one giant buttock. Amazingly, the technique appears to be working, as I can see her head start to move.
I point a tremulous finger at Bork. ‘He was trying to do things to me!’ I exclaim, mounting my defence. ‘He wanted to play with my bits and pieces!’
‘Of forb bad’s wab ooh ’onted!’ Bork remarks, holding his bloody jaw closed.
‘No! I never said that!’ I snap.
‘But you said you were happy to share yourself with us!’ Martin rages.
I look aghast. ‘Yes! My guitar playing and delightful conversation skills . . . not my willy! Jesus!’
Martin looks aghast. ‘You call your penis Jesus?’
‘What? No! Don’t be idiotic!’
Martin clambers to his feet over the body of his still-prostrate wife, who is now making some rather odd gurgling noises. ‘I think you should leave, Nathan!’
‘What?’
‘I think it would be best if you were to leave now!’
I glance at my watch. It’s twenty past eleven. ‘But it’s really late!’
‘’Usss ’o!’ Bork demands, now nursing his broken mouth with a moistened tea towel.
‘But . . . but what about helping me feel better about myself?’ I entreat. ‘What about helping me find answers?’
Martin puts his hands on his hips and narrows his eyes. ‘Find somebody else! I don’t feel like I’d want to help someone who wants to kill my wife and friends!’
‘But they were trying to give me a handjob!’
On the surface of it, this sounds like an incredibly ungrateful thing to say. The promise of a handjob should never result in the committal of GBH.
‘They were trying to welcome you into our community!’ Martin insists. ‘We’re very free with our bodies here!’
I roll my eyes. ‘Yeah? Well, I’m not!’
Bork now steps forward and begins to loom. Even with the bloodied chin and look of extreme hurt on his face, he’s very good at it.
I start to back away towards the front door. As I go, I point that finger at Martin again. ‘You know, I thought you lot were really cool! I thought this place was great! And then you turn out to be a bunch of sex pests!’
Martin shakes his head vociferously. ‘We are NOT sex pests! We are a happy commune of people with no inhibitions!’
‘Hah!’ I retort. ‘That’s what they all say!’
This comment makes zero sense. So much so that for a split second the commune’s collective anger at me is overtaken by confusion. Then Celeste’s head rises from the floor and I get a good look at her face. It resembles a bucket of smashed crabs.
It’s time I left.
Like a small child freed from the clutches of the wicked witch in her gingerbread cottage, I flee into the night. Unlike the child – who will probably get caught again once it gets lost in the forest and trips over a tree stump – I am blessed with an iPhone, which has built-in GPS, so I manage to make my way back to the road without too much trouble.
When the same taxi driver who dropped me off arrives to pick me up a quarter of an hour later, he gives me that look again. This time I entirely understand why.
‘Yes. They are a bunch of weirdos, aren’t they?’ I say to him as I clamber into the back seat.
He snorts. ‘Yep. Famous around here, they are. We call them the Pervy Pixies, on account of the fact they live up in the woods and . . . you know . . .’
‘Yes. I do know. Now, would you kindly get me out of here, please? I now have to try to find a hotel room at midnight down in Barnstaple.’
‘I know a place,’ the driver tells me.
‘Are there any Scandinavians there?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Carry on, then.’
The taxi takes off down the pitch-black road, carrying me away from what has amounted to an extremely unsuccessful attempt to find my happy place.
Bork had no trouble finding it, mind you – but that was the bloody problem.
An involuntary shiver runs down my spine as the taxi carries me back to civilisation, and the promise of what will probably be a lukewarm shower and a lumpy bed, knowing my luck.
When I eventually get home tomorrow, the first thing I’m going to do is go up into the loft, drag out that bloody beanbag and take it straight to the tip. Either that or I’m going to create a brand-new martial art based around it. If I can poleaxe a giant Scandinavian accidentally with one, think what damage I could do if I actually meant it.