Diary of a Fictional Diarist
By Ben Croshaw

JANUARY 2000

Saturday 1st

Today was the start of a new millennium, as if you didn’t know. The party at Mum’s rocked well into the night, but I didn’t take part much. Quite frankly, the sight of Uncle Jim face-down in the punch made me feel ill, and I didn’t like the suggestive looks Mum gave me when she pointed at the three prostitutes Dad had invited. I know she means well, but as I keep tellingher, I’ll try and find a girlfriend when I’m ready. I was however persuaded to have a nip of shandy, and before long I was merrying it away.

The party was marred somewhat by the news that I had been fired from the takeaway. I saw this as quite unfair. After all, I didn’t see how I could have come into work when the ‘Real’ IRA was holding me hostage. I spoke to my solicitor, but apparently my boss had a better case – I should have given notice.

Still, never mind. At least I can spend my newfound free time traipsing round the empty house while my parents are at workand watch daytime TV. I know my Dad doesn’t approve, but I’m sure he’ll be ready to forgive when he grows tired of kicking me in the head. Come to think of it, it may actually be a good idea to try and get a new job, if only for the sake of my skull.There should be plenty of openings ready for an experienced guy like me.

Sunday 2nd

Would you believe it? Not one job is going. They’ve all been nabbed by teenagers looking for extra pocket money, which I also think is unfair. After all, they’d only spend it on drink, drugs and sweets. And here’s me being quite literally used as a doormat every evening. On the other hand, Dad seems to be happy that I’m actually making an effort, and he was kind enough to wipe his dog dirt on my scarf today.

Funny thing happened on the way home from the job centre – a meteorite crashed into the pavement in front of me. I was literally flung off my feet, and had to take quite a detour to get round the smouldering gaping hole.

Monday 3rd

Success! I finally found an ideal job. Some research base in Mexico needs a new cleaner. I must say the American accents on the phone were a little surprised to hear me calling from Dunchurch! I don’t blame them – Mum’s going to kill me when the bill comes through. They said if I could be in Mexico by next week, I could have the job. How friendly! I think the Americans get such a bad press these days. I’d say it must be only eighty percent of the population who carry guns and get over-excited ongame shows.

Mum and Dad naturally thought I’d gone barmy when they heard I had to get to Mexico. "That’s over a hundred miles away! How’re you going to afford it?"

I suggested maybe I could take some money out from my account, and maybe they could give me some money towards it. Dad said he’d have to think about it, and kicked me in the testicles before going to bed. I feel grateful that he was only wearinghis slippers, or it could have really hurt.

Tuesday 4th

For the second time in so many days I am enjoying a riotous party at our house. All my friends and relatives came over tocelebrate me finding a job overseas. Uncle Jim didn’t turn up – apparently he’s sleeping off the liver transplant.

Dad made a long speech which I don’t remember but explained at length that I would be going away for a very long time, and everyone cheered. I think they were more than slightly merry, so I didn’t take offence. And everyone was toasting and drinking champagne long into the night, so much so that I couldn’t get to sleep for hours. There was some kind of weird ceremony going on downstairs, and at one point I went to complain about the noise, and I must say my relatives are getting on a bit and people their ages shouldn’t be rolling around like that.

Wednesday 5th

Woke up to find my suitcase ready-packed and my parents grinning hugely at me, which rather unnerved me, but when I saw the guests lying around at awkward angles on the kitchen floor I realized they must have been trying to break it tactfully. Dad said a freak attack of spontaneous combustion made everyone’s clothes incinerate, so I told him to ring British Gas and went to the airport.

I’m writing this lying under my coat over a number of seats in a departure lounge. I’ve been waiting for hours for the plane to come in, it’s apparently been delayed by some trivial hijacking or other, but I think that’s no excuse for a long-established and trusted airline company. There was also a bit of a wait when a meteorite hit the runway, but I should think they’ve fixed that by now. It was only a little one.

Anyway, must sign off, dear diary. My flight’s just been called.

Thursday 6th

I really am losing my faith in British transport. OK, it was hardly the airline company’s fault that a meteorite tore one of the wings off, but they really should be more prepared for that kind of thing. I’m sure I speak for the rest of my passengers when I say how embarrassed we were when we flopped undaintily onto the Atlantic Ocean, which would have been acceptable had we not sunk like a stone.

Lucky I always carry my diary and stationery in a sealed plastic bag, as it gives me something to do while we wait in the liferaft for rescue. My memory’s a little sketchy as to how I escaped from the plane – but I’m sure some great detective could have come up with a passable explanation, possibly just by looking at the clues, such as my many bruises and the armrest sticking through my thigh. Don’t be alarmed – it was a cushioned armrest, and it’s only agonizing at the moment, but I fear for when it starts to sting.

How on Earth am I going to get to Mexico at this rate?

Friday 7th

Still stuck on the life raft, so I don’t have anything new to say. We still can’t see any land and we’ve had to start drinking urine.

Saturday 8th

I wonder if that fat guy over there would barbecue well?

Sunday 9th

I’m at last in Mexico, but the past few days have been very embarrassing on my account. Not content with taking a human life, I went on to overdo his thigh muscles. I know that if I had been killed for food I would have appreciated someone taking the time to cook the flesh of my leg properly.

Worse still, we’d only eaten half of him when the helicopter arrived, so we then had to explain why there was a bloody, partially-skeletal person lying in the raft and why everyone else had blood all down their chins. But they were very understanding and they even gave me some gin while they pulled the armrest out, which was now beginning to sting.

So, I’m writing this in a motel room paid for by British Airways. I wondered why such a wealthy corporation could not afford a better room than the one I was given, but I’m sure they had their reasons. Perhaps they had some more planes to buy, or something. Anyway, must get to sleep and try not to think of cockroaches.

Monday 10th

Imagine my surprise when I got to my new place of work and found it to be surrounded with security cameras, armed guards and barbed wire fences, and that it turned out to be a metal shed. Imagine my further surprise when my escort explained that the shed was just the elevator, and that the real base was deep underground. I asked why, and he mumbled something about planning permission and classified government research. How exciting!

I was shown the cleaning cupboard and given a lightning tour of the base, which I thought was a little big to be cleaned entirely by one man with a mop and bucket. I asked if there was any chance of being promoted to, say, manufacture, and my new boss said "Don’t be silly, we only use robots on the production lines."

I asked what exactly the base manufactures, and he mumbled something into his hand mingled with a theatrical cough. Nevermind, I thought, if he doesn’t want to tell me, I’m sure he has a reason for it.

They’re letting me sleep in the cleaning cupboard, which is nice of them. This way it will be easier to get from my room to my place of work, although the smell of industrial floor polish does make me a little dizzy.

Tuesday 11th

I must say, it is jolly good fun working in a classified military research base. Only this morning I was pushing my mop along a corridor in the laboratory complex, when there was a really loud noise like a thunderclap and a scientist came hurtling through a window. Luckily I managed to catch him (Well – soften his landing at least) and no one was injured, although my leg wound started bleeding again, but I don’t think that counts. The scientist in question was very apologetic, and explained he had been experimenting with a new plasma-based weapon. I asked him why Administration had thought powerful explosive weapons were important, and he mentioned something called a ‘security breach’ in Omega Sector. I know it well – I’m polishing the tables over there tomorrow.

Must dash, diary; all members of staff have just been called to the assembly hall.

Wednesday 12th

Well, the promotion prospects for my job are amazing, as I haven’t worked here for two days and I’m already on the security team! It means an extra 5000 dollars a year plus hazard pay, and a spanking new uniform. I have to wear a big helmet and a big heavy sweaty black vest, which I think is rather impractical. I have also been given a gun, which they tell me is standard issue, and who am I to argue? Apparently my first assignment will be to infiltrate Omega Sector. An amazing coincidence, I feel. Yesterday I thought I would be polishing Omega Sector – now it appears I will be patrolling it! I hope I get to see this‘security breach’ thingy – it sounds rather exciting.

Thursday 13th

I know these Americans can sometimes be a bit excitable, but I did feel it a bit much to send in eighteen of us highly trained professionals to patrol one piddling little sector. And I do wish they’d turn off all these flashing red lights – they give me terrible headaches. I mentioned this to one of my colleagues and he told me to get back in step, calling me names I certainly wouldn’t mention before the watershed! I asked him who the squadron commander was so I could make a complaint, but it turned outthat he was the squadron commander. I have heard stories about these bullying military types, but I really have to pity a man who has to turn the air blue to earn respect.

The other guys keep mentioning something called a ‘Worm Hole’, which apparently leads to some place called‘Anutha-Die-Mention’. It sounds like a place in Africa. I have always wanted to go there. This ‘Worm Hole’ must be some form of underground train system, which I think are very economical.

Friday 14th

I’m not one to be suspicious, but I don’t think the American government have given me the full story on this one. This morning I was patrolling a corridor with a few of my new friends and we came across this chap coming towards us. Then I realized itwasn’t a chap, but some kind of creature standing on its hind legs. The commander said it had "come through the Worm Hole"and that "we shouldn’t alarm it". Of course, I’ve never been to Africa, but I had never seen one of those things on David Attenborough. I was beginning to suspect that this Anutha place wasn’t in Africa at all, and that this spindly thing with thre eeyes was in fact a being not of this earth.

I was just about to comment on how amazing all this was when the thing spat fire at us, which I thought was terribly undiplomatic, but it was lucky I had taken off the bulky vest as it had apparently been stuffed with explosives, a supposition I came up with after watching my colleagues catch fire and explode. Realizing I was probably for it, I made a strategic withdrawal.

Then I discovered that Omega Sector was literally crawling with odd beings, none of whom were very pleased to see me. I thought it would be in my best interest to hide, so I snuck into the ventilation system, which I thought was quite clever.

Saturday 15th

Have you any idea how hard it is to live in a ventilation shaft? I’ve had to sleep on my boots as a pillow and eat face huggers. Thought about trying to get the hell out of the Sector. Going to make a break for it tomorrow.

Sunday 16th

Maybe tomorrow.

Monday 17th

I really must stop putting these things off, but I am quite definitely unable to make a break for it today, as my leg is hurting again. Definitely tomorrow.

Tuesday 18th

As the face huggers are beginning to avoid my hideout and the occasional droplet of condensed steam is hardly sufficient I really am going to have to go today. I will continue this entry after the attempt.

If I do say so myself I think I did quite a good job. Although the place was full of the creatures by now, the stink of facehugger blood seemed to make them think I was one of them. Although I couldn’t actually get out as the exit was sealed with a waxy secretion I was able to find a laboratory labeled ‘teleportation lab’. Perhaps here I could find some way out of this accursed place, if you’ll pardon the language.

I was playing with the keypad by the door and, by some ten zillion to one chance, I entered a code which resulted in the door slamming shut and locking. It should keep the aliens at bay but also means I’m locked in the teleportation lab, which I think you’ll agree is a bit of an old bugger.

Wednesday 19th

I’m still trapped in the teleportation labs and becoming hungrier and thirstier – there’s no way face huggers can get in. I’m evenstarting to miss the old ventilation shaft, as at least the air could get in, and I’m not sure how much longer I can live in an airtight laboratory. Even the constant pounding on the sealed door is making me a teeny bit annoyed, quite out of character for me.

I’m also sick of sleeping on the floor when there’re all these consoles to sit on. Tonight I’m going to lay down my sleepy head on one of them, and I don’t care what happens.

Thursday 20th

I really wish I hadn’t decided to sleep on the console.

Friday 21st

It’s been a busy couple of days and I haven’t had much time to write in my diary, so I’d better explain. On Wednesday night I was extremely careful not to press any buttons, but when I fell asleep I began tossing around, which led to my posterior pushing against one of the levers. Anyway, to cut a long story short, my flailing hand happened to brush against a keypad and, before I knew it, there was a great big green shimmery thing in the room with me. I was understandably surprised, but even more so when I was pulled off my feet and dragged into the maw of the thing.

Teleportation being what it is, I woke up with a splitting headache in the middle of a street somewhere. After much glancing around, reading notices and speaking to locals, I realized I must be in France. However, things were a little dodgy – not only were there swastikas everywhere, but pictures of Hitler as well. Not to mention all those men in brown shirts marching up and down the streets. I wondered what had happened to all the onion sellers and organists, until I tried to get some answers from one of the officers on duty.

He gabbled to me in German until I asked him to slow down, then he said "Zo, you are English?" in a nasty sort of way. I didn’t have time to reply in the positive before he whacked me over the head with his big stick. It took a couple more hits to knock me out, but I’m sure that that was his purpose all along and he had had no intention of hurting me unduly.

Anyway, much complicated things happened, until I found myself in what looked suspiciously like the prisoner of war camp inThe Great Escape, one of my favourite films. Fortunately there were other English people there (who all spoke in posh accents) and before long I realized that, far from being teleported to modern-day France, I had found myself flung over fifty years back in time to the Second World War. Fair enough, I thought, there’s no law saying portals can’t travel in time as well as space, but this does leave me with the slightly knotty problem of getting back to the present, but a slightly more pressing matter at the moment is getting out of this danged prisoner of war camp.

Just time for a quick note before bed – am spending the night on a rather hard mattress around lots of other English people in military uniforms. I asked the guard for an early morning wake-up call so I could plan my escape but he hit me again and spat on my face. I don’t know why I keep attracting these hostile reactions – perhaps he’s just a bit tense. Don’t blame him.

Saturday 22nd

Have made friends with my bunkmate, Cyril, who tells me he used to be a pilot in the RAF but was shot down over Calais. He told me that we should try to make a joint escape attempt, but apparently we have to make it when some bloke called Jerry isn’t looking. Surely we should be worried about all the guards, but I didn’t argue. Cyril is obviously more experienced on these matters. He even gave me a nip of his home-made fruit juice. He didn’t seem to be interested when I explained that I’m atime traveller from the twenty-first century (it’s so hard to remember, isn’t it?), and assured me that most of the people in the camp probably share my problem. I’m not sure I agree.

Anyway, must get on with planning the escape.

Sunday 23rd

We’ve got it all planned. First we’ll wait until everyone’s asleep, then we’ll go out the door of the sleeping hut. We proceed towards the perimeter fence and stand right next to the western viewing tower. Waiting until the searchlight moves on, we clamber over the fence and run off into the woods without delay. I’m so glad I’ve got someone like Cyril to plot with.

Monday 24th

Needless to say the escape didn’t go entirely as planned. Not only did I forget my diary on the way out, but one of the Germans found it and caught us by consulting my concisely written escape notes. They were very good about it, though, and shut me up in a little cell on my own without beating me up that much. It’s a bit dull in here to say the least, but at least I have time to write my diary.

Tuesday 25th

Not much going on today. Paced up and down a bit. Practiced tying my shoelaces. Read my diary through and checked the spelling errors.

Wednesday 26th

Still not much going on. Noticed a beetle on the floor. Complained to the guard, but he said I should cherish the company.

Thursday 27th

Zargor stared up at the great clock tower, noting in his memory the exact time of day, before thrusting his spear deep between the ribs of his foe. Jenklion wrestled with the shaft as his blood seeped into the sand below him, gurgled as his life fluid came up his throat, and went into spasm as his brain was starved of oxygen, before collapsing in a defeated pile as Zargor sneered and roared with triumph.

Decided I’m not that good at short story writing.

Friday 28th

There was an old German called Jerry,
Who one day became slightly merry,
He pulled down his pants,
And did a silly dance,
Was his commandant pleased? Not very!

There once was a woman from Munich,
Whose breasts were really quite punich.
She went to the doc,
And sucked at his

Decided I can’t write poetry either.

Saturday 29th

They finally let me out of the cell, which I must say was becoming rather full of insects, who are apparently attracted to the smell of face hugger. They’ve let me go back to my room and I can talk to Cyril again, who now admits perhaps we should have tried tunnelling instead.

The guards took us on an invigorating course through the exercise yard. Well, it was more gruelling than invigorating to be honest with you, but the guards were extremely pleasant when I was sick after the fifteenth lap and kicked me in the shins. I feel grateful it didn’t occur to them to use their bayonets, or I could have been seriously hurt. Anyway, must get on with planning tomorrow’s escape.

Sunday 30th

Cyril was shot in the back, which was a bit of an old bugger, and I don’t think I’ll be seeing him again in a hurry. On reflection it might have been a good idea to start tunnelling a little closer to the barbed wire. It was a little ambitious to try and tunnel right from the garden, but it made sense at the time, as the ground was softest there. Anyway, we had hardly got two feet when the whole tunnel collapsed around us, and we had to tunnel up a little early. I’m prepared to forgive the guard for shooting Cyril as he emerged (a human being rising from the ground is a little startling) but I’m sure by the time I turned up he had had time to compose himself and shooting me in the leg was entirely uncalled for. Went quietly, if you don’t count my pain-wracked sobs.

Monday 31st

Back in the little cell, where I caught up on the news with some of my beetle friends, who threw a ‘welcome back’ party. I did notice that Barry Beetle was a little distant from the festivities, but he didn’t want to talk about it. Things got a bit embarrassing when we were doing the conga and Betty was crushed underfoot, but her husband and children were extremely good about it and asked if I could do cousin Beatrice as well.

 

FEBRUARY

Tuesday 1st

Barry suggested that he and his friends help me to escape. I said I was extremely grateful for the assistance, but not a little baffled as to how an army of black beetles could overpower an armed guard. Bob and Bert demonstrated by crawling out the window, climbing up a guard’s leg and – well, I couldn’t see clearly from the cell, but I’m pretty certain the guard didn’t enjoy it very much.

Wednesday 2nd

The guards have decided to let me out early, as they have linked my existence in the cell with a plague of painful testicles all over the camp. I gave Barry, Barbara, Beatrice, Bob, Bert, Belanna, Bum and Brownie a sly wink to say I’d fulfil my promise and send them the contents of the communal slop bucket.

 

 

Thursday 3rd

Had a great idea – I would use the thin wooden slats from my bed and wrap it in the sheets to make a makeshift hang glider,then leap from the roof of the hut closest to the fence to freedom. It’s such a blindingly obvious plan I don’t know why it hasn’t occurred to anyone else. Admittedly the bed’s going to be uncomfortably soft tonight, but that’s a small price to pay for freedom.

Friday 4th

The field hospitals in this era are atrocious. I turn up with a broken leg and a worrying rash on my elbows and they just twist the leg until the bone snaps back into place. If I hadn’t been screaming quite loudly I’m sure I would have registered a formal complaint.

Saturday 5th

Well, I finally did it. I escaped from the POW camp. It came to me in the night – security was pretty lame in the hospital, as no-one expects a man in a broken leg to jump up and run off into the darkness, but that’s exactly what I did! There were a few tense moments as I crept around the dark camp, and I bumped into things once or twice, until I finally found what felt like the fence. It was just as I was climbing up when a guard came running round the corner, as I had evidently bumped into him. Looking back, I admire his marksmanship, as it must be hard to shoot someone in the back in pitch darkness from several yards away, which probably explains why he didn’t hit any vital organs and I was able to continue my escape. I don’t know what I would have done had that small meteorite hadn’t knocked the poor man out, but I shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. I vaulted over the top of the fence, forgot about the barbed wire, damaged my groin, lost my bearings and landed painfully on the other side. Not thinking straight, I limped rapidly into the darkened forest, dragging my paralyzed leg, and didn’t stop until the sound of shouting guards and sniffer dogs were a long way off.

So, here I am, lying in a leafy glade in the middle of a German forest. I must say it was lucky I stopped here, as it is only fifteen minute’s walk from the nearest source of water. Spent most of the day building a small shelter out of twigs and branches – I may have to survive here for a little while as I think of a way back to the twenty-first century. But how am I supposed to live with nothing but a blanket and a knitting needle?

Sunday 6th

Attempted a spot of fishing, but it’s harder than it looks. I tried to bend the needle round to make a hook but it only snapped so I just used a pointy twig on the end of a shoelace. I didn’t have any bait beyond the odd worm dug up out of the soil so it’s understandable that I didn’t catch anything. Oh, why aren’t there any face huggers round here? Sure, they tasted absolutely revolting, but then so does caviare and that doesn’t stop the upper classes. The thought occurs to me that if you shoved a plateof dog poo under the nose of a French chef he’d probably tell you to not hesitate to leave, but if you took a vile-tasting face hugger and put a slice of lemon on it he’d employ you with open arms. Not for the first time I worry that I don’t understand this world in which I live.

Decided to try and eat insects for supper. After all, didn’t I read somewhere that they’re supposed to be good for you? I’m sure it can’t be worse than eating human flesh.

Had the trots all night, which got me thinking – if God put all these things around us which make us feel ill, what does that tell you about him?

Monday 7th

The most wonderful thing has happened. I’d just emerged from my shelter – which, I must admit, was holding up pretty well –and had begun my early morning exercises when a giant block of ice, about four metres across, fell from the skies and crushed my temporary home. Not immediately a good thing, you might think, but this means I don’t have to walk all the way to the river every time I need water, I just chop a bit off the ice and heat it up. Admittedly, I don’t have anything to chip ice off with,but I’m sure I could use my hands once it’s softened a bit.

Breathed on it all afternoon, but no luck. Looks like I’ll have to sleep by the fire tonight. I never did like camping when I was inthe Scouts.

Tuesday 8th

Couldn’t believe my luck when I woke up this morning and found the glade in which I am living flooded, and the ice cube gone. It doesn’t take Aristotle to work out what had happened, as it had been quite a warm night, but since the glade is in a small bomb crater the water had nowhere to go and as such flooded the campsite. On the bright side, I now have my own private swimming pool. Now if I could just retrieve the wreckage of the shelter from the bottom I might be able to settle somewhere else.

The water from the ice is a bit off-colour – but you can hardly expect it to be completely clean after dropping out of the sky and landing in a forest full of earth, etc.

Wednesday 9th

Realised this morning when I had a cup of hot water that it isn’t water at all, but urine. Never mind, I thought, they do say frozen urine dropping out of the sky is not an unnatural occurrence, but now instead of my own private outdoor swimming pool I now have my own private outdoor toilet. This may be a blessing in disguise, as I am beginning to suspect that the bullet hit one of my kidneys, because now every time I try to take a leak my waste fluids leak out of the bullet hole. Spent the rest of the day wondering whether it was kidneys or lungs you only needed one of.

Thursday 10th

It’s no fun thinking you may be about to die at any time, but I was offered some distraction this evening when the sky shimmered and from the clouds a giant, silvery saucer-shaped object descended. It landed slowly not far from my camp, crushing a few trees as it did so, and I was afforded an enviable view of what happened. A doorway opened and a strangely built but oddly comforting being came out, dressed in something approaching an Oriental robe. I must say the Chinese really have pulled their fingers out this time – the vessel was the most amazing flying machine I had ever seen. Anyway, the Chinaman saw me and pointed an odd gun-like object at me, so I went to greet him and calm him down.

The next thing I knew, I was lying in a circle of light in a strange, dark room. I could sense the presence of indistinct figures lurking in the surrounding darkness, and when I tried to walk away I painfully discovered I was in a glass cylinder, about ten feet in diameter. I’m writing this sitting on the floor of the capsule, trying not to have nasty thoughts about the Chinese.

Friday 11th

I’m still being held hostage by the Chinese government. Woke up this morning to find a bucket of sick in the capsule with me, but on closer inspection it turned out to be a bucket of pureed insects. The odd wing and feeler gave it away. I wonder if they expected me to eat it. I really am beginning to have my doubts about my captors. I’m beginning to think they may not, in fact, be Chinese.

Saturday 12th

I was right to be suspicious. Today one of the strange men turned on the light and I was afforded a view of my surroundings for the first time. I was in a large chamber, full of computer equipment that lined the walls, made totally out of metal and grilles.The man who had turned on the light looked at me curiously. He was about nine foot in height with lagoon blue skin and a weird T-shaped skull, and he gave me quite a fright. I couldn’t see the rest of his body because he was wrapped in a decorated blue gown which went right down to the floor, and he had his left hand in his right sleeve and vice versa, like theOrientals do.

He gave me a curious look and emitted a sound that was not unlike a man having his arms sawn off while stamping on water-filled balloons, which went on for some length. I realised that this strange man – who I now believe to be a being not of this earth – was trying to talk to me. I suggested with body language that I did not understand a word he was saying, and he gave up and went away.

 

 

Sunday 13th

Woke up this morning to find an odd device on the floor of the cylinder. It looked spookily like a cross between a pair of binoculars and a CD player. I picked it up and had a look through the eye holes, but it was all black. Then I noticed the little button on the side, so I gave it a quick press, and was almost thrown backwards across the room as a mind-blowing display of psychedelic colour flashed in front of my eyes. It felt like a diamond-tipped drill was going through my brain.

Amazingly, I suddenly knew things. I knew, for instance, that my captors were Hinkens, from the planet Hinko, and that they were on an exploratory mission to analyze life forms on other planets. I sat slumped against the wall, wondering how I knew, then realised that the strange device was some kind of subliminal learning tool. It was clear then that the species had a technology far in advance of our own.

Realizing I was expected to use it, I placed the eye-holes to my field of vision and turned it on again. It was a little startling at first, but quite relaxing after a few minutes, which was how long it took. The thing shut itself down after a few minutes of funny lights and sounds.

I then knew everything there was to know about the Hinkens – their ceremonies, beliefs, even their language. I practiced a few conversational sentences, which sounded a little strangled at first but I soon learnt how to bend my vocal chords to pronounce the obscure syllables. I practically had to wrap my tongue around my tonsils!

Monday 14th – St. Valentine’s Day

Very informative day today. The man I met two days ago came in, again turned on the light, and again spoke to me. This time, however, I was able to understand it.

"I hope you were not disadvantaged by the block of frozen sewage which leaked out of our waste capsule," he said. I assured him that, on the contrary, it was extremely useful in flattening my shelter and flooding my campsite. He seemed relieved.

We had a long, enjoyable discussion about our different peoples and cultures, and he asked me whether I would like to return to Earth.

"Not really," I said, and outlined how my year had gone, ending with "- so I’m trying to find a way back to the twenty-first century."

"I quite understand," said my new friend, "as I myself am supposed to be in the twenty-third century. We have a time-vortex manipulator back on Hinko which I think could get you back home."

I decided not to show my ignorance and announce that I had no idea what a time-vortex manipulator was. He asked me whether I had any special skills, and I told him that I was very good at cleaning. When he heard this he grinned broadly and left me for the night.

Well, diary, it looks like my luck is changing. Not only have I got free passage on an intergalactic exploration vessel, but I’ll soon be on my way back to the present.

Tuesday 15th

My new friend woke me up this morning and let me out of the cylinder! He said that the captain was happy to let me stay on board for the journey home, as long as I worked for the benefit of the crew. My friend – who is incidentally the first officer –had spoken up on my behalf and now I’m an official Space Janitor! I was shown the cleaning cupboard, which was full of obscure cleaning equipment which I could probably get the hang of eventually, and was given some guest quarters, complete with a food replicator and all the mod cons. I was told I would start my new job tomorrow, so I could spend the rest of the day in my new quarters. The bed is a little confusing – the pillow is positioned half-way down the mattress.

I think there’s a problem with the replicator, as I asked for a plate of sausages in gravy and the thing spat out a lump of green goo which stained my trousers. I wonder how they do laundry on a spaceship?

 

Wednesday 16th

The day started off badly when I put my dirty clothes in what I thought was a laundry chute but turned out to be the airlock, soI had to choose a Hinken uniform from the large cupboard in my quarters. Even though I chose the smallest robe it was still far too baggy, my hands being half-way up the sleeves and the bottom of the robe being perpetually caught under my feet. Fortunately I found a pair of scissors in a desk drawer and was able to snip the robe to a more manageable size, even though it now looks a bit ragged. I hope the Hinkens don’t mind.

Had another informative discussion with the first officer. I was pushing my new SupaMopä along the floor (it practically pushes itself) when he stopped me and praised my intuition in making my own robe. I decided I was sick of just calling him‘my friend’ so I asked him his name.

"My name?" he asked, confused.

"Yes, what do people call you?" I said.

"The first officer."

"Yes, I know, but what’s your identity?"

I was treated to a blank expression, so I tried to fill the silence. "Look, everyone’s supposed to have a name, like Tom Smith, or Giles Brandreth."

"It is sometimes hard to follow your method of speech."

Anyway, this interrogation went on for quite a while until I asked how Hinkens tell each other apart, and finally received the explanation. "By smell."

"Sorry?" I asked.

"Every Hinko emits a different smell. That is how we identify each other." (I realised that the then still pungent aroma of face huggers may have caused the initial hostile reaction I received)

This seemed a little odd to me. "Well, what do you do if you want to raise a friend’s identity in conversation?"

"We break wind accordingly."

This led to a lengthy conversation on speech, etiquette and the Hinko metabolism, and the human equivalents. I made the mistake of asking how Hinkos sign their name, and he treated me to a graphic demonstration so I had to fetch a fresh bucket of water. But he was very interested in the human way of things, and not a little amused. He then announced that from now on his name would be Giles Brandreth.

Thursday 17th

It turns out that the green stuff which came out of the replicator was the food. All food from the machine comes in this form,and all you do when you ask for it is dictate the flavour. I was very embarrassed when the repair man called round.

I think I may have caused quite a stir, as now everyone else on board ship has decided to adopt an Earth name, because (they say) the usual method is inaccurate and far too disgusting. Unfortunately, since the Hinkens misunderstand the concept of spoken names, they’re all now called Giles Brandreth. This is becoming increasingly confusing.

After a hard day of mopping and sweeping, I went back to my quarters and ordered from the replicator a cheeseburger, fries and chocolate milkshake. I’m writing this in the bathroom in between bouts of vomiting. How was I supposed to know it would arrive all mashed together?

Friday 18th

My presence on board this ship really is beginning to affect the crew. Today I noticed some of the younger and more impressionable members of crew cutting up their robes at the hem to look like mine – the result, I’m sure, will be the splitting ofthe crew – into those with nice robes, and those with nasty robes. I would then have to join the latter gang and fall out of favour with the captain and first officer. Decided to keep out of the way of the senior staff, and polished all the sprinklers.

Saturday 19th

Things are becoming more and more absurd. Today I swept the canteen while everyone was in there having lunch, and I absent-mindedly whistled the theme tune to Dr Quinn – Medicine Woman. I was just mopping up a vomit stain on the recreation deck when an engineer walked past whistling the same tune!

Captain Brandreth called me to his office today for a chat. I dreaded it all the way there – I just knew he was going to make a stern point about my effect on his crew. Actually he just wanted my opinion on his new belly button. Apparently one of the crew caught sight of mine underneath the robe and now they’ve become a fashion accessory. The captain and I had a long chat, in which I learned that the Hinken umbilical cord is attached to the underside of the foetus’ foot. I also let slip that sometimes ships and other vehicles on Earth are given names, just like the people, and (not entirely to my surprise) the captain announced that the ship was now called the HSS Giles Brandreth. I mentioned my concerns on my apparent popularity onboard, and he reassured me, but I did notice that he was mimicking my unusual accent when speaking Hinken which comes from saliva constantly dribbling down my trachea.

This all reminds me of an anecdote from my childhood.

There was a boy at my old school called Cucumber Lawrence. That was actually his real name, but I won’t go into that, as the attached story is long and not a little nauseating. He was one of a rare breed – an unwilling trend setter. One of his trusted friends once let slip that his dad was in jail for drug dealing and that his mother was a prostitute.

Overnight, he became the playground hero. Pupils, younger and older, myself included, would walk up to him and give their admiring respects. At first, Cucumber enjoyed this attention, and employed two sixth formers to stand and collect money and sweets from children, in return for which they could kiss his feet. He decreed that everyone who met him had to go on their knees and not meet his gaze. Those who did not do this (and there were few) were dragged off, stripped naked, and suspended from a tree with piano wire while fourth years tickled them with feather dusters.

But soon this attention began to annoy Cucumber. Wherever he went, people followed. Fourth years kept kissing the ground where he walked. It began to interfere with lessons – he couldn’t hear the teacher over the constant chanting of his name. When he tried to take a leak people would kneel under him and attempt to drink his holy fluids. But what annoyed him the most was the way people copied him.

He came to school wearing jeans and a t-shirt. The next day, everyone else did the same.

He turned up one day in a tracksuit, having been made to run round the fields before school, and the next day, tracksuits all round.

He began picking his nose. There was a severe outbreak of nosebleeds.

He defecated on school grounds. A few weeks later the sixth formers were running a profitable fertiliser business.

He told his worshippers to "leave me a-(expletive)-lone", and before long there was an outbreak of mouths being washed out with soap and tongues being dipped in boiling vinegar.

To cut a long story short, Cucumber cracked. On what would turn out to be his last day at school he turned up, giggling insanely, dressed in a lime green off-the-shoulder dress, high heels and a sou’wester, not forgetting the fur stole. Over the next few weeks there was an investigation into the school by the League of Transvestite Auditing and the place was eventually shut down after every single pupil began joining in in mass fights over whether dresses should be split-seam or not. Most of the pupils managed to reform after extensive counselling, with the exception of ‘Homosexual’ Davis and Weird Sidney.

Cucumber himself was last seen completely naked wading into the sea, shouting "Sanctuary! Sanctuary!" and chasing a bewildered seagull.

I managed to tear myself away from the urge to wear women’s clothing after about a month after Cucumber’s disappearance, but the events taught me one thing – copying other people can only lead to disaster and transvestitism.

Sunday 20th

That’s it, I’m getting out of here. I don’t care how exciting it is being the first man to make contact with an alien civilization. If they’re going to waste their time imitating me instead of doing what they’re supposed to (i.e. sticking probes up my arse, mutilating cattle and leaving crop circles everywhere) then I’m not sure I want anything more to do with them.

When everyone wasn’t looking I nicked one of the escape pods. I climbed down into the transport decks, opened one up, climbed inside and launched. It was as simple as that. Maybe now I can get back to Earth and try and find some way back to the twenty-first century. I just hope this pod knows where it’s going.

Monday 21st

Oxygen’s running low. I’m lost in space. No-one’s going to find me now. I’ve lost all hope. There aren’t any planets for miles. Should anyone find this diary, maybe it’ll shed some light on a few matters. Or it could be useful if you need something to prop your door open.

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