Paddy Bostock - Chosen

It took Jeremy Crawford a good chunk of the twentieth century and almost two decades of the twenty-first to get sane. At least thats how he thought of it. Othershis wannabe actress wife, Sophie, his ageing parents, Gloria and Ron, his colleagues at the bank, fellow members of the squash club, assorted relatives and acquaintancesdidnt. They all thought hed lost his mind. Why else, on the spur of the moment, would a person quit his lucrative position as HAA (Head Assets Analyst) in the City and on the evening of the very same day, decamp from the sumptuous interior of his multi-million-pound mansion to a disused barn at the foot of the thousand-square-metre garden to sleep on a palliasse with a pig called Pete and consider matters? To do that a person had to have lost his marbles, reckoned Jeremys relatives and friends.

Okay, a minor aberration for a day or two due to stress at work they might have understood. Such was frequently the outcome of high-pressure jobs these days. But once Jeremy had been in his barn for two whole weeks and refused to come out, they were pretty sure hed lost the plot altogether. Foodhe insisted on nuts and berries onlyand water had to be left outside by Barry, the gardener, and were gathered in only when Barry was safely off talking to his trees and flowers. Jeremy trusted Barry. Apart from him, nobody was allowed within range, physically, telephonically, or cyber-technologically. It was Sophie who reported watching from their bedroom window as he tossed his three beloved smartphones, the ones hed once termed his lifesavers, into the stream bordering the estate and waving at them as they sank out of sight. Bye, bye. Glug, glug, gluggity and fuck you forever, Sophie reported him having screamed as a full moon rose.

Unsurprisingly, it wasnt long before Jeremys relatives, acquaintances, friends and, leading the pack, his ex-boss Sir Magnus Montague, who hadnt a clue about assets analysis and was ruing the loss of Jeremys expert advice, took to speculating about the desirability of psychiatric intervention to bring him back to his senses.

Jeremys evidently off his trolley and needs help, no question about it. Genius close to madness and so on, was Sir Magnuss view, as expressed at a private family powwow over canaps and champagne in one of the mansions larger gazebos in a copse of silver birches a stones throw from Jeremys barn.

Know a couple of trick cyclists myself, if that would be of any use, he added. Top of the range Harley Street types. Would cost a few quid but Im sure the bank would be happy enough to fork out to retain a fellow of Jeremys talents. Wouldnt want those vanishing down the pan, now would we?

No we certainly wouldnt, Sir Magnus, was the joint response of Sophie, Gloria, and Ron, all of whose life expectations depended in one way or another on Jeremys capacity to keep on earning as many shedloads of money as possible. Sophie, because she was a bimbo trophy wife whod never done a days work in her life and liked her mansion, and Gloria and Ron because their pensions were minuscule and they depended for their biannual private cruises to the Med and the Caribbean on their unexpectedly brilliant sons inordinate wealth coming their way at regular, monthly intervals. Big investments in Jeremys continuing sanity they all had, and if this Sir Magnus bloke could find a way to keep the cash flow flowing, and pay for Jeremys treatment from bank funds rather than theirs, well he was their man.

It was Ron, a retired small-time failed entrepreneur, who piped up first.

Were in your capable hands, Sir Magnus, he said. Anything it takes to get poor old Jeremy back onto the straight and narrow.

A sentiment echoed by Gloria and Sophie.

Carte blanche for me on the trick cyclist front then, eh? said Sir Magnus.

Of course, said Ron.

Jolly good. It is in all our interests to see Jezzathats what we call him at the bankback in business when all is said and done. And Im sure a few sessions with one of my psycho johnnies would do the trick. Probably just some little glitch in the wiring somewhere, eh? A few calmer-downers, a touch of the old talking cure, and hell be back up to speed in two swishes of a ponys tail.

Sophie, Ron, and Gloria smiled happily.

So then, many thanks for the nibbles and the bubbly, but now I really should be taking my leave. The cars waiting, so toodle-oo, Ill be in touch, said Sir Magnus, levering his large backside from the gazebos finest wicker chair and opening the door.

And dont fret, chaps, the shrinks will have old Jezza back to normal before you can say boo to a pelican, he called over his shoulder as he planted one large, brown, pointy-toed Oxford brogue onto Barrys carefully manicured grass and waved cheerily at the barn housing his ex-HAA before climbing into the back seat of the midnight blue Bentley 4x4 awaiting him.

Peeping through the gap between two loose barn planks, Jeremy watched on as his ex-boss took his leave, and overheard his parting comment.

Normal, huh? he muttered, returning to his palliasse. Well, normal zormal. Eh, Pete?

Oink, said Pete, whom Jeremy now thought as his only friend apart from Barry.

And what, you will be wondering, had happened to Jeremy so radically to shift his lifestyle from one of extreme opulence to dossing in a barn with a pig? Hiding away from some indictable 2008-ish banking crime hed committed which had suddenly been unearthed and was threatening to ruin his career and bring shame on him and his family and see him incarcerated for the foreseeable future?

Well, actually no. Jeremy had milked the markets with the best of them until the whole shebang went tits up and had been proudas had Sir Magnusof the firewalls hed erected between himself and the bank to offset any threat of discovery or litigation. Due diligence was Jeremys forte and he had his mansion and treasured white, latest model Mercedes E-Class Coup to prove it. No, no, his current circumstances had nothing to do with any malpractice of that kind.

So what then? I hear you ask.

Well, in the nuttiest of nutshells, the answer is the past participle chosen.

Chosen?

Yes. You see, Jeremy had awoken one morning after a night of agitated dreamstossing and turning a bit like Gregor Samsa in Kafkas Metamorphosisas an entirely new person, only mercifully not one transmogrified into a dung beetle. Call it an epiphany, call it anything you want, but overnight Jeremy Crawford had been reborn with whole new perspective on life. Whence the change had come he had no idea. But it had come. And the words echoing in his head when his eyes blinked open were: In your whole life, Jeremy, you have never chosen anything. All youve ever been is chosen.

Well, you can imagine the mental kerfuffle that caused. On the morning of his reincarnation, Jeremy had batted it away. Treated Sophie to her regular morning power fuck until she rolled over and went back to snoring as if shed never noticed. Then did a few press-ups and knees-bends on the carpet for the cardiovasculars before power showering, dressing himself in his snazziest Master of the Universe outfitthe tieless, slinky, shiny, blue suit with the thin trousers and pointy shoes like Sir Magnussscarfing two energy bars with a doppio espresso, and heading to the Merc in the garage before hitting the highway City-bound to make his mark yet again on the international money markets.

It wasnt until he was only moments away from the office that he was forced to pull the Merc over, park illegally, and yoga-breathe.