What Not to Do If You Turn Invisible. Ross Welford

      Think back to the last time you were on your own. How alone were you really?

      Was there someone fairly close by? A parent? A teacher? A friend? If you were in trouble, could you have called someone to help?

      OK, so I’m not exactly Miss Popularity at school, but it’s not like people actually dislike me. Well, I don’t think so anyway.

      ‘There is absolutely nothing wrong with being “quiet and reserved”,’ said Gram when she read this on a school report once (and until then I had never thought there was, actually, or that anyone would think there might be).

      ‘Better to keep your mouth shut and be thought stupid than to open it and remove all doubt,’ she added in a typically Gram kind of way.

      Gram has always been – to use a phrase she is fond of herself – ‘very proper’.

      She is fond of saying that a civilised, cultured Englishwoman should know how to behave in every situation.

      Honestly, she has books on stuff like this. Books with titles like Modern Manners in the Twentieth Century. They’re funny, usually, but most of them seem to have been written when Gram was alive, so they’re not that ancient. They include things like:

       What is the correct form of address when meeting a divorced duchess for the first time?

      Or:

       How much does one leave as a tip for the household staff after staying at a friend’s country house?

      If you didn’t know Gram, I daresay it could make her seem buttoned-up and strait-laced – the insistence on writing thank-you letters within three days, for example, or always asking permission before calling an adult by their first name. Actually it’s just about being polite to people and that’s quite sweet – only, Gram takes it further than anyone else I’ve ever met.

      She once gave me a lesson in shaking hands.

      Yes, shaking hands.

      ‘Eugh, dead haddock, Ethel, dead haddock!’ That was Gram’s description of a limp handshake. ‘You must grip more. Ow! Not that much! And I’m here, Ethel! Over here: look me in the face when you shake hands. And are you pleased to see me? Well, tell your face. And … what do you say?’

      ‘Hi?’

      ‘Hi? Hi? Where on earth do you think you are? California? If one is meeting for the first time, it’s “How do you do?” Now show me: a firm, brief handshake, eye contact, a smile and “How do you do?”’

      (I actually tried this when I met Mr Parker for the first time. I could tell he was pleased, but also a bit, well, unnerved, like it was the first time any student had greeted him like that – which it may well have been. Mr Parker has been super-nice to me ever since, which Gram would say is proof that it works, and I think is probably just because Mr Parker quite likes me.)

      So Gram is not all that old but she is old-fashioned, at least in her clothes. She’s proud of the fact that she has never owned a pair of jeans, even when she was much younger and good-looking. Her denim aversion is not a protest against the modern world, though. The reason she hates jeans is that she says they are unflattering.

      ‘Wear them tight and they are indecent; wear them loose and you look like some gangster rapper.’

      Believe me: when my gram utters the words ‘gangster rapper’, it’s like she’s practising a foreign language. You can hear the quote marks round it.

      Being able to talk to anyone, from any walk of life, is a great skill if you’ve got it, but even if I did, it would be no help to me right now. There is no one I can talk to about this whole invisibility thing.

      Gram? Tried that.

      I could go on Instagram and tell Flora McStay, the one who moved to Singapore:

       Hey, guess what! I became invisible today! I’m in the picture next to the tree.

      Funny.

      I am completely on my own. It is not a good feeling.

      SO what would YOU do? Come on, it’s not a trick question – honest.

      What would you do?

      What I decide is that I need to get to hospital, quick. Therefore I need an ambulance. This is, after all, an emergency.

      I type 999.

      

      ‘Emergency. Which service do you require?’

      ‘Ambulance, please,’ I say with a trembling voice. I have never made an emergency call before. It’s pretty nerve-racking, I can tell you.

      ‘Putting you through now.’

      And I wait.

      ‘North Tyneside Ambulance Service. Can I get your name and number, please?’

      It’s a young Geordie woman on the other end. She sounds nice and I relax a bit.

      ‘It’s Ethel Leatherhead. 07877 654 344.’

      ‘Thank you. What is the nature of your emergency, please?’

      I should have learned my lesson from when I told Gram. It sounded ridiculous when I told her. It’s not going to sound any less ridiculous when I tell an emergency services operator that I have become invisible.

      ‘I … I can’t really say. I just need an ambulance urgently.’

      ‘I’m sorry, erm … Ethel, is it? I do need to know the nature of the emergency before I can send an ambulance.’

      ‘I can’t tell you. It’s just … really urgent, OK? I’m in serious trouble.’

      The operator still sounds nice. She’s being gentle.

      ‘Listen, pet, I cannit help you unless you tell me what’s wrong. Are you calling from home?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘And are you injured?’

      ‘Well … not exactly injured, it’s just …’

      ‘OK, flower. Calm down. Are you in pain?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘And are you or anyone else in immediate danger of pain or injury?’

      I give a little sigh. ‘No. Only—’

      ‘And is there anyone else there with you? Are you bein’ threatened in any way?’

      ‘No.’ I know where this is going.

      ‘Well, there is another number to call for non-emergency medical assistance, Ethel. Have you got a pen there, love?’

      I am close to tears now, and if I was thinking straight I would foresee the consequences of blurting out to her as I do, but, well, I’m not exactly level-headed right now.

      ‘I’ve become invisible, and I’m really scared, and I need an ambulance now!’

      That’s when the operator’s tone changes from reassuring and gentle to weary and tense.

      ‘You’ve become invisible? I see. Listen, pet, I have had enough. You know these calls are recorded and traceable? I’m logging this as a nuisance call, so if you call back I’m informing the police. Now gerroff the line and make way for genuine emergencies. Invisible? You kids, honestly. You drive us up the wall!’

      And with that, the call ends – along with my hopes for an easy resolution to my problem.