Chitra Ramaswamy

Published on Friday 3 July 2009 13:29

IT WAS supposed to be a relaxing week. There I was, a city slicker ready to wallow in some hard-earned slovenliness up north, on Applecross, one of Scotland's most remote peninsulas. What's to fret about in a place where it takes two days for news to come through that Michael Jackson is no more? This surreal bulletin, by the way, came courtesy of a German tourist who studies fossils for a living, on a cycling holiday.

Anyway, all would be sun, sea and langoustines the size of a child's fist. A campsite looking out to the Cuillins of Skye. Roads that are travelled more by obese ginger bees than cars. And – gulp – no mobile phone signal.

Day one. I should never have left the dishwasher running in my flat in Leith. No doubt there has been a flood, my home is a watery grave and no one is able to get hold of me. Suddenly the lap-lap of the turquoise waters at Applecross Bay takes on a sinister, mocking sound. I picture my belongings – bloated books, sinking laptop, bobbing bed – marooned upon it. I breathe deeply and pretend to enjoy the absolute contentment that comes with being cut off from the world.

Day two. My sister and I haven't spoken for 48 hours. She might be fine, but then again she might have fallen on a fork in her dishwasher. No, she doesn't have a dishwasher. She does have asthma though. Aha! She cannot breathe, I am her only hope, and she can't get through to me. I start wheezing in empathy.

Day three. I call my sister from a phone box, the first I've entered since you could stick an oversized 10p piece in the slot and natter for half an hour. She is on Oxford Street, shopping for a friend's wedding gift, and wants to know whether she should go with a Banksy print. "Too ubiquitous," I advise her. Not quite a death-by-fork situation, but how would she have made this decision without me?

Three days later, we head home. Near Invergarry, my phone signal returns. "Thank God," I squeal, waiting for the stream of texts and voicemails to flood through.

A single beep-beep welcomes me back to the land of Vodafone. A text from my sister: 'Michael Jackson is dead.' I send one back: 'I know.'