For many years, I fantasised about leaping from a bridge into the Thames, and saving the drowning child of a millionaire and then being cool enough to turn down all subsequent efforts on his behalf, once he arrived on the scene, to reward me for my troubles.
I would leave the riverbank, clothes soaked through, just as the ambulance – turned up, to take the rescued kid to hospital. Bystanders would point at the mysterious hero – that’s me – as I casually exited the scene, later telling the millionaire and police that they had noticed my slim fit jeans appeared to be too short for me.
The millionaire would make pleas through the media for me to come forward and reveal myself, but, being a low key guy, albeit one who sported some extrovert hairstyles in the late eighties, I would just stay in my hotel room tweeting, drinking coffee and you know, occasionally viewing porn if my mobile broadband dongle allowed me to.
But such are my circumstances now, jobless, living in this hotel, writing career in tatters, that the fantasy has now altered significantly. In this new version, on emerging from the river with the millionaire’s child in my arms, after reviving the child, I would hang around on the riverbank, waiting to be rewarded with enough money for me not to have to take on another office job.
As the millionaire jotted down my details, I would check on the kid only once my account details had been taken down. And as I would lean down to say to the child, “you’re going to be okay kid”, I would make sure the millionaire had spelt my name correctly. “R-u-I-Z, then Tizon. No hyphen. It’s two separate names…are you kidding? Do you have any idea how much lattes are? Come on pal, add on another zero on the end of that”.
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