You know when people recount near-death experiences they say, "I felt my heart stop"? Well I did. Really just, stop. Then I felt it start again, in my wrists, my throat, my fingertips. The hair on the back of my head stood up. My hands felt like ice. I could hear the blood roaring in my ears. I didn't know what had hit me.

Actually, that's a lie; I know exactly what hit me. A bloody big double-decker bus that's what hit me. Gave me quite a shock to be honest. I imagine it gave the tourist quite a shock too, old cynic that I am. There I was, minding my own business, (that's another lie actually, I never mind my own business, I'm incredibly nosy.), when the next thing I know I step out to cross the road and BAM!

I should be dead. Maybe I am dead. But then if I'm dead how is it that I'm telling you this? Am I so opinionated that even Death itself won't stop me from ranting on? Well, no. You see, another thing people often say after a NDE is that, for them at least, the world will never be the same place again. I'll agree with this whole-heartedly, but I have a sneaking suspicion that my reason might be slightly different from everyone else's. For most people the world is different because they suddenly realise the beauty of a dog turd on the pavement outside their house and burst into tears, or worse, poetry, at the slight of this masterful poop which they might never have seen had they gone and had the misfortune to actually die.

I'm afraid I won't be writing An Ode to a Turd because, for me, lives little nuances aren't what have made the world so irreplaceably different. What has made the world so irreplaceably different is that I was struck down by a killer bus off Parliament Square in 2008, and woke up in a field in Derbyshire in 1813.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let me first take you back to the morning of the 6th July, 2008, when everything, relatively speaking, was perfectly normal.


London in the summer is wonderful. London in the summer when you've just enjoyed a shagathon with the love of your life, (who just happens to have a NET worth of 10 billion), is really wonderful. The sort of wonderful that makes a girl smile so much it looks like she's slept with a coat-hanger in her mouth. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, the early morning traffic was buzzing and Will Darcy was snoring. Pure, unadulterated bliss.

I've never been one to put much stock in physical appearance, (couldn't afford to living with my sisters. Be indifferent or be bitter, that was the choice), but Will, when he's like that, fast asleep, hair ruffled, slight stubble, he's not just handsome, he's beautiful. I'm sure I must have let out my fair share of sighs as I watched him sleep. I am...I was, without doubt, the luckiest girl in the world. Or certainly I thought I was, until the phone rang.

That woke him up I can tell you. Suddenly more beast than beauty he pick up the receiver, grunted "what?" in a way that makes me feel very unladylike feelings, and then handed me the handset looking for all the world like the boy who was caught with his hand in the sweet tin.

"It's you Mother." He mouthed, obviously reading the look on my face.

"Oh...Hello Mum."

"Lizzy! Do you know how long it's taken me to get a hold of you?! First I tried your home and you weren't there! Then I tried your mobile and you weren't there. So I tried phoning your office and you weren't there! Honestly! What if something important had happened? We're not as young as we used to be your Father and I. We could have been dead for all you knew or Kitti or Lydia could have been raped and left for dead and you're just off gallivanting around doing whatever it is you do! Where are you anyway?"

"I'm at Will's."

"Will! Oh goodness yes! And how is your William today? Not working too hard I hope? You know I only read in the paper yesterday about all these young go-getters today working themselves into an early grave. But he's fine, isn't he Lizzy."

I looked over at the pillow which had replaced my boyfriend's head. "Yes Mum, Will's fine."

"And you're both fine together?"

"Yes Mum, we're both fine together."

There was a pause, a merciful pause. I knew full well why there was a pause: 30 miles North my Mother was trying to determine whether it would be safe to ask if she could start looking for a wedding hat ("Oh I would so love to see a summer wedding Lizzy. You know your Father and I had to settle for February! I mean what sort of month is that to get married in? Hardly romantic is it?").

"Mum?" Quick before she strikes! "How exactly did you get Will's number?"

"Oh, when you were up for Easter I might have seen in your Blackberry. Really Lizzy, you just left it lying on the kitchen table, anyone could have come in and stolen it, and then where would you be?! In deep trouble that's where!"

"Mum I...I...I've got to go. I've got a meeting at seven, can't be late."

I'm pretty sure she was still gabbing on as I put the phone down, but whose fault is that? Going through my personal stuff! I should bloody well-

"She is your Mother." Said Mr. Voice-of-Reason, thirty minutes later as I explained the whole conversation to him in Starbucks. "She probably thinks she has the right."

"But what about my right! My right to have a personal life separate from my family."

He grinned. "I don't think anyone has that right."

"Well I think it's appalling and shall be writing to the UN as soon the morning meeting is over. And maybe Amnesty International as well while I'm at it. And the EU. And The Times."

"You work for The Times."

"You own The Times, but you still write to it."

"When have I ever done that?"

"Yesterday, you sent me an e-mail, my e-mail account is a work account, I work for The Times, ergo, you wrote to The Times."

I was quite pleased with my little bit of ergoing. I am after all an intelligent 28 year old career woman; I can ergo when I want to, but Will just smirked. "I love it when you reason," he, well I can only truthfully describe it as a growl, as he put our coffees down on a table, pulled me to him and then just snogged me for about five minutes!

After what didn't seem long enough he pulled away. I think I just about managed to say "yu-huh", when he grinned again, pecked me on the cheek and with a "see you later", headed off towards the nice shiny area of London where people who make lots of money by dealing with lots of money play.


If I had known that that Starbucks Latte might very well have been my last I might have savoured it a bit more. If I had known that by lunchtime I wouldn't be walking around cosmopolitan London I might have decided to wear something a bit more demure than knee high black leather boots, black hot-pants and an over-sized shirt that didn't belong to me but certainly looked much better on me. If I had known that that might have been the last phone call I ever received from my Mother, I mightn't have answered. But of my many talents, foresight isn't one. Maybe that's why I stepped out into The Strand. If I had known that a big, red London bus was about to come ploughing around the corner, I probably wouldn't have stepped out. But I did. And I felt my heart stop.

I can't remember seeing any white light. I don't think I heard my Grandma's voice, though that could be because Grandma was a raging alcoholic and so one would presume isn't in the proximity of any white lights. What I do remember was a warm summer breeze. Bird song. Dirt under my fingers. I had just been hit by a bus, but I wanted to open my eyes. So I did. I was staring at a ladybird, walking along a blade of grass. I had just been hit by a bus, but I wanted to stand up. So I did. I was in a field. Not so much a field actually, more of a meadow. A meadow on a hillside. A meadow on a hillside surrounded by many more hills. A meadow, that certainly wasn't London.

I admit, I did think for a moment that I must be dead. It was a logical thought really. Hit by a bus, wake up in some beautiful field. I'd never been an atheist: I'm not arrogant enough to presume I know exactly how the universe is made up, but I'm certainly not a believer either. Still, hit by a bus. The thought kept racing through my head. Hit by a bus...feel okay. Standing. Hit by a bus. Standing in a field, feeling..okay?

Actually, I wasn't feeling okay, my feet hurt. That was more to do with the boots than the bus, but it was enough to convince me that I wasn't dead, unless Hell is wearing high heels for all eternity. So if I wasn't dead, where was I? Bag; mobile; call W...No call. No signal. Well, that put me right back to thinking I was dead. Nowhere, and I mean nowhere, in the world no longer has no signal. You could be standing on the South Pole and, providing you have the latest model, your phone will pick up a signal. And that's when it hit me.

Oh...fuck, I thought. Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! Fucky, fucky, fuck, fuck fuck! Fucky, fucky, fucky...

Where am I? Where the fuck is this place? What sort of place has no signal? Where the fuck did that bus come from? I'm dead. I must be dead. Bloody, bloody bus! Can't be dead, feet hurt too much. I have to get to that meeting. Margret's going to kill me. Ah! Can't kill me if I'm already dead! Wait that's good. Brightside, yes. Look on the Brightside. Life's a piece of shit, when you look at it. Life's a laugh and death's a joke it true...Can't remember the rest. Bugger. Bugger...ation.

Well, I couldn't stand in a field all day trying to remember Monty Python songs. There had to be a road somewhere, and if there's a road there'd be a motorway, and if I could just find out where I am, all will be well. In front of me the grass was as fresh as grass in the morning should be, but behind it was dented, trodden on, as if someone had been walking. Somewhat odd, with hindsight, that these tracks should just stop right where I was standing, but as it was this nanometre of oddness was not even registering on the whole metre ruler that was my life (or death) at that current moment. Tracks had to lead somewhere, so I followed them.

It wasn't exactly Homer's Odyssey, I walked through one field, and then another and then another. None of them were cultivated, which again seems odd now but I didn't even think about at the time. In fact, there was hardly any cultivated land at all, it was all just wide, like a park almost, but much bigger than any park I'd ever seen. I walked and walked, for what must have been a good five miles, (in high heel boots bear in mind), and found no road, no houses, not even a proper path just the trampled earth which I followed. Eventually I came to the foot of another hill, when inspiration stuck me. With so many hills, I could be in a valley. Valleys suddenly become the exception that proves the 'no signal' rule, and if I could just get to the top of this slope, I bet I'd be able to pick something up, after all, the higher you are the closer you are to all those satellites. Genius.

There was no signal, but there was something. I'd been stood looking down over the way I had climbed, which truth be told was pretty high. No signal so I turned to face the way I still had to go but instead of another field I saw, a house, house in the grandest sense of the word. It was bloody huge! Not Buckingham Palace like to pretty impressive all the same. Nicer than Buckingham actually, a lot nicer. It looked like the set of a BBC period drama, a happy one, nothing by Dickens. And you know what I thought? I'll tell you what I thought, I thought thank fuck. It would be English Heritage or National Trust or something like that, and there would be people and cars and phones that work! There might even be a gift shop with little tubs of ice cream! Oh happy, happy day!

The pain in my feet was all but forgot, I couldn't care less. I hoisted by bag over my shoulders and ran like I'd never ran before. People would think I was crazy: families off on holiday coming to see a piece of the past, OAPs with nothing better to do than pretend the world was still like it was back then, Tory snobs, but I didn't care. They can all hang for all I cared, they've not spent the past two hours thinking they're dead. I was running so hard I didn't even notice that I'd not seen a single one of these specimens.

Over a bridge, past some gardeners, (cute that they made them dress up in regency clothing), round a corner, into the front courtyard, (there must be an information point round here somewhere). That must be the front door! Sanctuary!

I burst through the front door, out of breath, but never having been so relieved in all my life.

"Please...pant...I'm sorry...pant...I just need a minute to...pant."

An old woman was coming towards me. She had the best costume of the lot on. Must be the Site Manager I assured myself, she'll know what to do.

"Good Lord!" I heard her exclaim. "Sarah, go make up a hot bath quickly. And have some fresh clothes laid out! Quick girl, quick, we need to get her safe and upstairs as soon as possible. Come with me Ma'am, we'll get you sorted out right away. No don't try and say anything yet, all that matters is that your here and your safe."

Which all seemed very reasonable to me.


I started to suspect things mightn't be quite right when we got upstairs. For one thing, the bath wasn't a bath, it was a tin tub. For another, I'm pretty such this old woman kept calling me Mrs. Darcy, and as I'd never seen her before, I doubt my it was something my Mother had put her up to. In any case, no friend of my Mother's would start unbuttoning my shirt, no matter how ill-fitting it was.

"No, I'm fine honestly. Thank you, so much for this, but I'll be okay now. I can take care of myself, I'm sure you have other things you need to get sorted. I'll be out of your way in half an hour I promise."

She looked as if I'd just slapped her in the face. "But Mrs. Darcy!" (Ha! See, told you, I'm not crazy!!). "I can't leave you Ma'am. Oh whatever has happened to you? Was it gypsies? Well these certainly look like gypsy clothes. At least we should be thankful they didn't leave you with nothing. Oh my dear and they cut your hair all off too! It's a wonder you managed to get back here alive."

"Gypsies? There, there were no gypsies. There was a bloody great big bus I think but I'm not even sure of that anymore."

The old woman's hands flew to her mouth. Sarah dropped the jug of water she had been pouring into the tin tub. They could have been six and I've just told them Father Christmas doesn't exist for the look on their faces.

So there I was, stood in my pants and bra, with two disbelieving six year olds, neither one having noticed the broken jug. Well that was just poor house management. I bent down to pick up the pieces, "Here, let me help you with that." Another sharp intake of breath: the Easter Bunny doesn't exist either.

I looked down at the fragments of broken jug in my hand. Suddenly all I wanted in all the world was to see Will, to have him hold me and tell me I wasn't going mad, I was perfectly sane and that he loves me.

"I think maybe I should go." I said, handing the girl the piece and throwing on my shirt and shorts, (to Hell with the boots). That seemed to elicit some response from the other woman.

"But...but Mrs. Darcy!"

I would have corrected her on that point, if I'd have heard her, but I'm afraid my attention was focused entirely elsewhere, as the second I opened the door I found myself face to face with a chest I'd recognise anywhere, no matter how mad the world had gone.

"Will?!"


Disclaimer: Authors are quite proud creatures: we're proud of our characters, we're proud of our plots, we're proud of our writing. So please, don't steal any of them. I write this as a homage to Miss Austen, but I give her full credit for everything. I hope if she were alive and well today she would like what I've done with her creations.

This plot though I claim as my own. If you want to do something similar please, go ahead, but no carbon copies okay? If I could be cheeky and ask for ancknowledgment ,I will hold no resentment towards anyone doing anything of a like ilk. If you insist on simply coping though...well, I'm afriad I will have to tell on you. And then you will find out that I am more than just Lizzy like in name.