Katrina's Journal, 03 January 2022, 1/2

Intro, Part I

Hi. My name is Katrina, and I’m from a parallel world.

My psychologist begs to differ, of course, but that, to me, seems like a sign of the times in your world. Which, unfortunately for yours truly, now happens to be my world too.

I thought that opening might get you. It’s the same with everyone I meet. I have to get it out of the way. You, and they, would’ve found out soon enough anyhow. Yes, I know perfectly well it’s clearly not the traditional method of commencing an online journal, or what you call a ‘blog’ – I don’t like the sound of that word, by the way, so I’m sticking with ‘online journal’. I was, once upon a time in a different place, a journalist myself, believe it or not. In the true sense of the word meaning ‘one who writes a journal and makes it public’. In terms of my original Gaiapedia entry (February 1990), it was the thing I was most famous for at the time.

Yeah, I know, you’re confused already. Then consider this your first warning about how my online journal may end up making your head hurt at times. And of course you don’t believe me, or rather think me a fantasist. I don’t mind. Think what you like. Still, never let it be said that I was being boring. Embrace cognitive dissonance! You’re going to need it.

Anyway – welcome to my online journal! Maybe I should’ve said that bit first…

But one thing I do want you to remember is that my memories of my homeworld are as real and immersive and tangible as yours of this world are to you. My delusion, quite simply, stubbornly refuses to break down with deeper interrogation.

So there is, really, some definite weirdness going on here. Hmm. That kind of goes without saying, eh?

It gets weirder. As well as the weirdness of the parallel world thing itself, I also happen to find myself de-aged thirty-one years. When I just showed up at the British Embassy in Paris last November they first asked me what my name and date of birth was, so I said, in all honesty, Katrina Anna Meyer, 10 December. 1972. Of course they looked at me in a funny way. I knew they would, but lying would not have turned out well for me in the long-term. Any cover story would’ve been exposed. Eventually, now I have a new passport, my official birthdate is simply 10 December 2003. It’s just easier that way, you know.

As I said, you’ll need to sort out the dissonance thing. Interestingly enough, the people I’ve met doing just that, humouring me, seems a tribute to humanity’s adaptability. And it definitely works for them. So if that’s what you want to try, go ahead.

Malcolm, my aforementioned psychologist, thought it would be a good idea for me to do a blog – no, Malcolm, online journal – about what are sure to be some serious misadventures in your dystopia, along with my ongoing observations about the state of your world (not good; in fact, badly done, Helen), and maybe a whole ream of self-indulgent ramblings about the world from whence I came. Possibly he thinks it might be therapeutic. Malcolm has an endearing tendency to get ideas in his head. His way of being helpful, of course.

Truth is, I myself don’t consider myself to be in need of that kind of therapy. Some of my alters, perhaps, but not me. Malcolm begged to differ (again). “You, Katrina,” he said, in a doomed attempt to look stern, “have recently arrived from a utopian parallel world to find yourself in a dystopia. Whether it’s a delusion or not, it’s still a deeply traumatic experience. Meaning: therapy.”

“You’re not going to allow me to say no, are you, Malcolm?” says I.

He shakes his head and smirks annoyingly at me. “Nope. And more to the point, the powers-that-be will not agree to let you into the country without such therapeutic assurances.”

I frown, although he does have a point.

Doesn’t matter how much I insist that I’m not a threat to ‘national security’, try telling that to Her Infernal Majesty’s Secret Intelligence Services.

Sure, I can understand their point of view. I just show up at the British Embassy in Paris (it’s a lovely building – you should visit), make something of a scene (I confess – I was stressed) and claim to be from a parallel world. Then there was the CCTV thing, and then, well, we’ll get to that later. But the basic story is that after going to bed as usual at home in Cambridge (Park Parade, overlooking Jesus Green – it’s lovely) I awake to find myself in my edge-of-eighteen body at Gare de l’Est in Paris. As you do. So what is a girl to do in a situation like that? British Embassy, that’s what.

It was immediately clear to me that this is a parallel world. No Maglev terminal, for a start. And the air was dirty and polluted. And everyone was wearing masks. On the one hand I could understand that, what with the pollution and everything, but then I thought ‘why don’t you force your government to do something about the pollution? Why do you put up with it?’. So that’s the point when the inkling that this is a dystopia first infiltrated my head.

Then I looked closer at these masks and it wasn’t the anti-pollution types. It was those surgeons’ masks. I got suddenly absorbed in the thought that I’d just wandered into Monty Python’s Surgeons Convention sketch, what with all the besuited commuters striding around with serious intent. But then I did the pinch test. You know, if you’re not sure you’re dreaming you pinch yourself. If it feels like a real pinch, then you’re not dreaming. Then again, I have since discovered I have an immersive and wide-ranging internal world in which every sense, including interoception, is as real as it is here in the outer world. That’s something else I’ll have to explain to you later.

Anyhow, I set off for the Embassy. Along the way I found a newspaper (Le Monde) which made me realise just how much you can infer about a world from any randomly selected day’s paper. For example, it mentioned Boris Johnson is your British Prime Minister (and that warmongering nonce, Biden, is POTUS). Well, that confirmed it. Dystopia. I wondered whether you have some kind of mass brainwashing technology going on. I get these conspiracy theory notions sometimes, by the way – you’ll get used to them. Possibly.

Well, whether it’s something technological, or just good old-fashioned MK-Ultra style psychology, it clearly works. I didn’t realise, for example, that you had some kind of ‘pandemic’ going on until I read the paper. Except people weren’t acting as if there was some deadly disease raging through the population. Ah, I thought – unless they’ve been told these masks might save them. Hmm. How ridiculous. Ah, but then, it says here in the paper that there’s some kind of ‘vaccine’. Ok. So why are people still wearing masks?

See, your world is full of contradictions. Cognitive dissonance. And people say I’m mad!

Maybe I’m the only sane one.

Please don’t feel insulted by what I’m saying about your pandemic, however. This is my parallel world memories coming through. We had a sort-of attempted conspiratorial pandemic with a modified coronavirus (which was genuinely deadly, with an infection fatality rate of around ten percent; but with a genuine vaccine), but we just sensibly shut down all the borders before it got anywhere. Then followed the money, as any sensible counter-espionage officer would do. This is one of the many curious and intriguing otherworld parallels I will have to tell you about sometime. So please excuse my conscious bias here.

Anyhow, I got to the Embassy and, well, I think I’ll just cut a long misadventure short here for this first entry. It’s enough to fill a long novel. Maybe I’ll do a movie about it someday. I was an actress and filmmaker in my world, you see. Amongst other things. From a certain point of view, having to start all over again is annoying, but on the other hand, it’s a cool challenge. And I am young again!

Except I miss my family. And my friends. And my whole world. So please, do have at least a little sympathy for me. I know I will be insufferable at times, but the truth is, I am lovely, really.

So, there has been a kind of happy ending to this first act, or episode, in the sense that I have been able to start a new life back here in Cambridge. I chose Cambridge because that’s where I used to live in my own world. Some of it clearly looks identical to what I remember. Some of it doesn’t, and the people certainly don’t. People in your world – and I noticed this from the outset – always look so anxious. They don’t wander around with smiles on their faces, like so many do in my world. Perhaps it’s something to do with whatever their so-called smartphones are displaying to them. Ironic, isn’t it, calling it a smartphone. It tends to have the opposite effect. Mind you, given this is Cambridge and there be a plenitude of students roaming the place, perhaps one shouldn’t be too surprised given they all have to pay extortionate fees for their so-called education. Or their long-suffering parents do, in most cases. It goes without saying students in my world don’t pay fees. No one does for their education.

Maybe that’s another thing I’ll rant about another time. I have a lot to get through in that regard.

Anyhow, I must not digress from my intro. I have settled in to my poky little flat (it’s opposite a pub, which is no bad thing, and in the right location, ditto, near Christ’s Pieces within an easy walk of Parkside Pool, where I shall be spending most of my days for the foreseeable), and I am not doing too badly thus far. That some-might-say good-looking but-not-my-type young estate agent who showed it to me, Tobias, called it ‘bijoux’. Being fluent in French I did have to point out the word ‘bijoux’ in that language does not in any way mean ‘poky and noticeably smaller than what it looked like on those estate agent photos, Tobias’. His response was an embarrassed chuckle with a lurking hint of cruelty. And it costs me the grand total of £1300 a month! Five times as much as it would in my world! I really don’t know how you people cope with your inflationary economic system. What really gets me is why you haven’t all risen up in revolution by now.

Still, I must be careful what I say. There were conditions attached to my new British citizenship.

When I arrived at the Embassy they eventually asked me what I wanted. I said something along the lines of British citizenship, a ticket to England, and enough money to keep me going until my natural talents start earning me a happy income. The latter shouldn’t take me long, I added, without any trace of Modesty. I mean, sure, I did it in her kind of slightly posh accent, just for a blaze, but they didn’t get the reference.

Clearly, I am going to have to educate. And inform. And entertain.

I was informed that in order to obtain an immigrant visa at the very least one has to demonstrate earnings of some £26,200 per annum. According to your oh-so-compassionate Home Secretary, that is. Well, fair enough, I suppose. One can’t have freeloaders washing up on our hallowed shores now, eh? Certainly not with a Tory government, anyhow. Still, happily enough, I have managed to secure this minimum amount through a little sponsorship deal with a local sports shop (They’re called Ryle’s and they are stubbornly traditional and insistently family-owned for over a century, just as I approve; I’ll be plugging them later, don’t worry (they’re on Sidney Street, thank you for asking); and yes, they do also exist in my homeworld – that’s why I suggested them), so we’ll take it from there.

As for the other conditions, well, that’ll have to remain, erm, classified. [You’re not allowed to say that, Katrina. Delete it. Uh. Fair enough.]

Sponsorship for what, I hear you ask. Sports. That’s what. If I say so myself, I happen to be exceptionally good at certain sports. Obviously linear time is limited so I have to be selective. So no modern pentathlon for now. Just swimming and middle-distance running. To that end, I have joined the local clubs here in Cambridge and, I am definitely going to say, have been made to feel the most wonderful and homely welcome.

So I have friends already. And no one is a failure who has friends. Hopefully, I shall be making more in due course. Maybe even a boyfriend or girlfriend (whichever comes first, lol; and if they know how to play an instrument and want to be in a band with me, so much the better). I am a very friendly person, you know. Naturally, unless you happen to be an arsehole, in which case you’ll see me effortlessly switch to Boudicca mode. [I am allowed to say that, right? Sure. Carry on. Thanks.]

Maybe some of you might end up liking me too. Some of you, however, I am fairly certain, are going to end up hating me. Well, you don’t have to read my journal, you know. You do have a choice. Say what you like about me, but never say I’m boring.

“And what do you want to do with this new life of yours, Katrina?” they asked me.

“My penance,” I replied.

To be continued…

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