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HAVE YOU SEEN THIS WOMAN? Jess Wynne, ex-Hackwriters features writer and reviewer, mysteriously disappeared yesterday from the 12.41 bus to Truro. She was seen getting on the bus and taking up a seat at the rear of the vehicle. However she did not disembark and has not been seen since. The only remaining traces to indicate her presence were a Crunchie wrapper and her pet Border Collie. Her family today made a plea for any knowledge of her whereabouts - they described themselves as 'shocked' by the incident. One of her friends commented 'you just can't trust public transport these days'. Police are holding the dog (Molly, aged 3) for questioning.

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Wishful thinking. Anything for a peaceful life and Cornwall is meant to be a magical country. That's what the brochures say, I'm sure, but I've not seen anything spectacular yet. And I've run out of time. My sojourn in Falmouth is coming to a close. I've taken education as far as I can afford and I have the summer to make decisions which could effect the course of my whole life.

Do you remember when the summer seemed endless? An great big ocean of time stretching out in front of you?

But that gentle lapping surf has transformed into tidal waves of panic and despair.

When Jess Wynne awoke one morning from troubled dreams she found herself transformed in her bed into a monstrous mess of insecurities and indecisiveness. The insect option is, on the surface, more disturbing. But at least you know where you're heading as a bug; your future goals are fairly obvious. Find food, store food, make more bugs, avoid getting squished.

When questioned about my plans for the future, my aims and objectives, I've always managed to be both vague and evasive. As far back as junior school I can recall teachers encouraging me to set out the course of my career in writing. And as a ten year old heavily influenced by The Hitch Hikers Guide to the Galaxy, I wrote that I planned to work in outer space in connection with small furry creatures from Alpha Centauri. My friend and I also used to amble around the playground impersonating Marvin the paranoid android. Says all you need to know about me really.

But I'll tell you something else anyway. All my career-orientated confusion, all my general work associated apathy, is directly related to a series of books I read as a child. I was horse crazy. But not one of those fat, prissy, gymkhana loving kids. I wanted a majestic horse. I wanted some sort of spiritual empathy. I wanted to gallop across golden sands and I wanted everyone to be really jealous. The books that appealed to me concerned a useless but artistic daydreamer who sees a beautiful chestnut Arab mare in a circus. Rather coincidentally (although I didn't think so at the time) the circus train crashes right by where the girl lives. The horse escapes, the girl captures and tames it and they have many wonderful and traumatic adventures together. All very lovely and wholesome but what about the consequences?
THE DREAM HORSE

1. The Big Dream. I still desperately want a chestnut Arab mare. Any other dream or desire does not come close - everything else is fairly arbitrary. And as an ambition it is unmentionable to the 'career advisers' I've met so far. What have I considered? Ballet dancer, ice skater, vet, artist, photographer, solicitor, race driver, carpenter, biochemist, geneticist, parapsychologist, writer…
But I'd rather just have the horse.

2. The Pursuit of the Dream. Soul damaging to say the least and warrants some explanation.
Well no horsebox ever crashed in my vicinity, no long lost relation died and unexpectedly gave me their horse. The old lady on the bus? The one with the long and involved tale about a horse in her garden left to her by her granddaughter who had died in tragic consequences. Obviously she could no longer bring herself to look at the horse but, because I am a nice honest-looking girl, she will give it to me (a beautiful chestnut Arab mare obviously) for free or perhaps some paltry amount of money that I could afford (£50). The horse would be really thin and nervous and I would nurse it back to health winning its love and respect. No one else would ride my horse but me; it would be uncontrollable in a manner which is both graceful to watch and never life threatening to me.

Well I sat on lots of buses and that lady never turned up. And believe me, if I ever meet the person who's got my horse I'm gonna smack 'em.

These are deranged fantasies and I build them up daily. In any situation I can create an imagined opportunity for me to find my horse. So the analogies with my current problems are obvious. I have a tendency to sit around waiting for career opportunities to fall in my lap. And again I design my own fantastical versions of how they will happen in my head. But that doesn't mean that my activity has always been purely mental.

In the days of Mission: horse, without boyfriends, jobs and council tax forms (I've told you I'm a student, please leave me alone!) to sap my energy, I resourcefully did every thing in my power to achieve my aim. The parents were thoroughly hassled: The garden is almost big enough, the shed could be renovated. I will spend hours everyday in nearby parks and fields allowing my horse to graze to make up for our insufficient lawn. I promise! I'll never demand pocket money! Or birthday presents! Or Christmas gifts! I promise, I promise, I promise! You could both give up smoking and the money you saved would pay for my horse. Suddenly my parents weren't so sympathetic.

I had weekly riding lessons and I lived for them. Usually they amounted to an hour over-developing my leg muscles on a variety of ancient, fat, grey ponies. Occasionally I rode faster, more aesthetically pleasing animals. These became my favourites. The first was called Pepper, the second Midnight. Predictably both were sold and I can recall crying myself to sleep.

When my parents could no longer afford lessons I worked at local stables for rides. This served as a timely warning that people generally are manipulative, mean, and bitchy - particularly those involved with horses for some unfathomable reason. I walked miles leading spoilt brats out on rides, mucked out stables until my back arched, washed, scrubbed and swept endlessly. All for the highly contested chance to ride one of the ponies back to its field at the end of the day. An early lesson in exploitation in the work place and one in which I don't need a second term.

Oh the disillusionment, I'm depressed just writing about it. But at the age of eighteen, and funded by student overdraft, I eventually got my horse. Star wasn't a chestnut Arab but she was beautiful. But she was uncontrollable in a manner both graceful to watch and very, very life threatening. As a child I used to skip school and gallop a nearby pony around its field with just a halter for control. The pony wasn't particularly grateful and it was probably a criminal offence since I didn't know its owner and had no permission, but it was fantastic fun. Aged eighteen however, I had fear and the sudden realisation that all this riding malarkey was ludicrously dangerous.

I spend so much time and effort chasing my dream and all it cost me was heartache. But a newsflash for all those who think I lack persistence and determination - I'm still dreaming. After all Star wasn't a chestnut Arab so she doesn't really count; what I need now is to find her some person who has been dreaming about a palomino Arab cross all their life. A particularly courageous person.

And just maybe I'll get some amazing job and stun everyone with my diligence. Or at least do a disappearing act with a large pile of cash. Because if my horse doesn't turn up soon I'm just going to have to save thousands and buy the highly trained and fearless of tractors version. I'll send you a free postcard of me riding off into the sunset with all donations made payable to my woeful self.

Please give generously.

Star in a box

© Jess Wynne 2001
jessiwynne@yahoo.co.uk

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