Dyst-hopeia

My genre of writing: dystopian but with hope and humour. 

Highly visual portrayals of imagined futures, often set in London, towards the end of this century.

Elements of Atwood, Dickens, Kim Stanley Robinson, Douglas Adams, Emily St. John Mandel. 

Londonia the first book in the Londonia series was published by Tartarus Press in 2020 just before lockdown - timely for its genre . . .

Smithi, the follow up novel is completed, other companion works finished to good edit standard.

“British author Hardy debuts with a dystopian yet enchanting novel set in the early 2070s…Hardy’s almost hopeful view of the world’s inevitably chaotic future lifts this entertaining and well-told tale.” Publishers Weekly

Londonia's book jacket intro:

Londonia, that’s where we are. A sprawl of a place surrounding The Cincture - all of it once London town. 

Some persons say we’re in the year 2073, others cycle 60 . . . who gives a creepin’ beetle where we are in the history of man. Fukked it up good and proper didn’t we – they, humankind generally. 

All I know is I got my shed, my friends and a little bit of an angle on stuff – visions, see inside persons, y’know. 

Anyway, ain’t about me so much this book, more about Hoxton and her life. 

Within half a clockface I knew she was different . . . not so many damefolk would take over a church after waking on a bench with not so much as a gnat’s knowledge of what happened in their life before that moment. Got it sorted she has: a finder’s life for her – whatever you want: coffee, a shootstick, fresh meat, Zeitporn, snash, gnole . . . her ‘an Jarvis, they’ll find it – for a goodly trade, of course.

All sorted until a jaunt into The Cincture caused her to learn something that opened up a chink into the past; something that started the ultimate finding mission. 

Anylane, I’m getting ahead of meself here. Pull up that armchair to the fire, turn this over and start reading. I’ll put the kettle on if the watermec’s been. Jake’s the name – Jake the prophet.

 

 

                                                                                     

 

Trying to make sense

I was listening to a Ted Talk on The Brain the other day. The speaker was describing how long it takes for our minds to put together visual information - which I promptly forgot, sadly, but it was a matter of milliseconds.
For example, this morning while driving along I was convinced I had seen a hare sitting at the side of the road but as I drove nearer it was revealed to be a less-exciting, slightly knocked stripy bollard. I suppose it's an ancient fear and flight 'brain application' - an old discarded inner tube could be a viper, that cluster of cracks on a wall, a humungous spider . . .



Creepy Dickensian character?

                

                                 Angry hippo with one eye shut?



Laughing but with, possibly, evil intent, hippo/dinosaur/one of these giant water mammals I've forgotten the name of that live in the Floridian waters.

Phobias

Everyone has them. Mine: cockroaches, dentists, jellyfish and anything to do with tax, banks, pieces of illegible paper demanding money.
I'm a law-abiding person, very honest, (my old accountant said, far too honest . . .) and try my best to keep our money affairs in some order, or rather Mark does mainly.
a couple of days ago one of those incomprehensible letters appeared from an arts organisation I belong to. I didn't want to belong to it, but like so many things in France, you have to belong to it, sign a several tree worths of papers, and then pay charges, in order to have the right to show some pictures in a possible gallery, which in this current climate is as likely as finding the Holy Grail in your woodpile.

We looked at the letter, or Mark did while I trembled pathetically. He then wrote an email, this is incredible in itself . . . being able to send an email to any quango like this is usually impossible. He pressed the send button in total confidence that it would then sit in someones inbox for seven years and we would here no more about it.
In fact someone phoned me the next day: a humourless voice told me to go to the TAX OFFICE . . .uh!! It's OK madame, it's very simple. They may only remove one of your arms, have no fear.
I managed, through whimpering and pleading, to get Mark to go with me and we arrived in the newly painted office, nice and early the next morning.
The boy, he looked about fifteen, took the letter and gave me some forms. Seeing our non-comprehension, he gave us a supermarket queue style ticket and told us to wait for the controller. EEk.
The ticket said: estimated time of wait: zero minutes: number of people waiting: zero. We sat and waited fifteen minutes, looked at a sort of charter type poster that stated that all staff would be friendly and talked to an old man who said that the tax system was all bollocks.
The controller arrived in a floor length leather coat with two drooling Alsatians and a tool box . . . Not really. He was brown suited, chubby and mighty pissed off at having to stop having a coffee break, or perhaps he hadn't been able to park the Mercedes close enough to the office. Anyway he didn't like the look of us. When we falteringly asked him what to do, he pretty much told us to piss off while shaking his head and clucking like a deranged turkey. How dare we soil his pristine office with our arty fartyness. If Dickens had ever written about an angry French Bureaucrat - Monsieur Taupe bof-legrand,  this man would have been the book plate.

P.S Mark just looked up phobias. There are some quite surprising ones. How about — Peanut butter sticking to the roof of mouth - Arachibutyrophobia