Thank you Ms Sponce for your concerning for my well being. Do not worry. But I will be telling you what is transpiring when it is happening for your information because I am sure you would like to know.

Well Mr Hector. It is unlike me to refuse offer from man but in the case of yourself this is what I do. I am not liking the chauvinistic (correct word, yes?) attitude or tone to me. I am not piece of meat to be purchase like over counter in shop. No.

Also, I show your post to my friend Winston who takes dislike to you intensely. And Winston is offering to give you the facial lifting without benefit of anasthetic if you come here.

And Winston has the hands like shovels what miners use – except with fingers.

Other thing is, when Winston see name of George’s doctor he recognise this man because he once ordered by court for the psychiatric treatment and this man Foggatty is man he is seeing. And also he think he remembers name of loony bin in which he too was incapacitated and is probably same one what my George now in.

So I am not needing meeting with you Hector and you will have to find other floozie to fill full your strange desires for, as the great Bob Dylan say… It aint me babe.

I read your comment Mister Hector but I do not believe you. (and you are not proper brother to George but only his half a brother)

Yes, I remember the time at Wynorrin when you try to get into my knickers (even though I do not wear such things but know it is expression what you English use). Also you think because I am professional actress (ex)in porn movie industry that I am also trollope who will do whatever bizarre practice what you desire, which is not true.)

Anyway if my Georgie is in loony bin what is name and where it is? So that I may telephone and find out if you speak truth.

Excuse me for being so suspect but after living in this place Purley for few weeks I am trusting not anyone. However if you can supply with name of place in what George is incapacitated then I maybe change mind and arrange meeting with you possibly.

Oh Georgie. Such a shock it is that I have had - Winston is Gay!!

I will not tell you about the embarassing circumstantials in which I discover this.

But that is not the worst of things. Winston is moving in to the flat of his friend Brian who is driver of the buses, and is also of the gay persuasion.

The man what owns the club - who is called Mr Smith - will let me stay in these two squalid rooms providing I work in club. No, not as bouncer, because Winston still has this job.

Instead is pulling handles of beer engines from behind bar and serving customers this stuff what tastes like urine.
Not that I ever drink urine - except one time which I did for a bet, but was my own urine. And anyway this is doing you know harm for certain celebrities do this on regular times.

But I digress from the point.

Where are you Georgie?

When are you going to rescue me from fate worse than death, what is called Purley.

I do not know where you are... I hope you read this blog sometimes and will come to my aid.

Your lonely and desperate

Anna

Well, Georgie, tomorrow morning I am catching train for Goteborg and then ferry to Harwich.

Perhaps you will not see this because you are sabbaticalling - never mind.

Soon we shall, I hope, meet.

Your Anna

Sabbatical

***********************************************

Sorry for the delay, Anna.

Thank you for sharing the childhood stuff – sorry about Fritz.

No, there’s nothing wrong. But I am taking a short sabbatical.

Will you contact me (via the old blog) when you arrive in Purley, and give me a phone number where you can be reached?

Safe crossing.

Looking forward to our reunion.

Yours as ever,

George

Once again you do not replay to my post.

Is there something wrong?

Anna

Now, please look here, my Georgie. First you say that you like relationship what has no expectations but like is just accepting what happening and not seeking more and such, and then you saying you don’t know anything about Anna’s childhood background and we was not close because of it. Why for do you need these things? Why can we not just be two persons what meet like the ships in the night (except we come alongside and throw the lines to each other - to use the nautical terms) but also we can cast off (other nautical term) when one of us wish to sail on.

And how closer can two persons get than putting part of one person into other person – like for instance tongue.

Anna does not do families. Excepting to say father was sea captain from port of Hamburg (this where I learn nautical sayings). Also my name not Paulsen. But of what relevance is this. I only such this name because common in Sweden like your Smith. (They say hotel registers in place called Brighton full of Mr and Mrs Smiths, well similar hotels in Goteborg full of Mr and Mrs Paulsen). My real name not important – never has been to me.

Did not your Mr Shakespeare say that the rose which might be having other name is smelling just as sweet?

Why cannot peoples just accept what they got already?
Always the questions they are asking, one of the other. Who? When? What? Why?
Does not man Jesus say - Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof?
This I learn form young church attendance which I do not now attend because they talking load of bollocks. But Jesus is talking wisely. This why they bung him on cross, because he tell the buggers what they do not want to hear. Just like the scientist I talk about previous who speaks wisely about drugs. Of course they do not stick him on cross – they just sack him because this all they can do. But if in olden days they probably burn at stake which is quaint old English custom.

But let us talk of other things.

I cannot believe these Egyptian peoples are stoking locomotives with dead mummies. Is Georgie pulling the leg of Anna?

Such spooking tale of ten-year-old Georgie on operating table having the cotton wool stuffed up orifices. What reason is there for all this medical emergency? (I am amusing myself with humorous effect of Florence Nightingale – I know from history books this woman live in time of Crimea War which occurs before Georgie gets born)

I am glad you not mad about Winnie, and are approving of our arrangement.

When next do you go see crazy Scotch woman therapist? Do you tell her about Anna? If so, what do you tell? Do you say we just good friends (which is British hypocritical slang term meaning we are at it like rabbits – not like rabbits good people of Stockholm are shoving in heating furnace, eh? Little joke, not in the good taste but I leave it in anyway.)

You need to take care when feeding aviation creatures. Do you not see famous movie what is called THE BIRDS?

Many girls do not know who is their father. Anna do not know whom is mother. Being reared by aunt who is sea captain father’s sister. This is what they are telling me, but when home from sea voyage father sleep in same bedroom as sister. And in this bedroom is only one bed. Which is very unhealthy incest and bad roles model for Anna and Sven IF she really is sister, but I do not think she is.

But like I say I do not want to talk about this family shit. Sometimes best not to know too much about people, is what I say. Why not people just accept what they given on plate and not say - when I have eaten this will there be some more?

But it is not only I who am of such opinion. Do you know of famous Native American Indian lady singer who is called Buffy… something? I hear this lady on old black plastic records (from days before they invent CDs) of Olaf (pharmacist) which he play to me in back room after he close shop and we have quiet glass of gin.

And lines from this song are sticking in head because they are well telling my own feelings. She says –

“Don’t ask why of me,
Don’t ask how,
Don’t ask forever –
Love me, love me, now”

Do you know this song, Georgie? Because I think you are from same period in history as Olaf, only you are wearing better. Because Olaf like to experiment with chemical substances which he make in shop. I think this is why he change so quickly from nice man to nasty man – just like in story Mr Jekyll and Doctor Hyde.

I do not partake in these substances even though Olaf offering to me saying “Come Anna. Let us take trip together.” But I say bugger off you crazy chemist. And I just drink his gin. Which comes in bottle from London so I know is okay.

But this is like I am saying. Olaf has his needs, Anna has her needs. What is wrong with that? I am asking.
Of course Olaf and Anna do share certain needs, so this is good also.

Little brother Sven is clever one in my house. People say he will go far. He will make something of himself (I think he just make fool of himself but I keep quiet)
Anna is pretty, they say. What need has she of brains? But still, little Anna pass exams and go to good school – from where she get chucked out as I tell you previous because of activities with ice-hockey team.

Anyway she grow up with her prettiness and attract lots of boys who do not expect her to be smart – nor wish her to be smart. So to please them Anna is not smart. And when she grow up Anna similarly please men.

But all would do well to remember that even if one end of person’s body is most active, this does not mean other end is numb.

My best friend in early times of life is Fritz. Fritz is dog. German Shepherd of my aunt. It is to Fritz I tell all my troubles. And Fritz listens. Nobody has ever listened to Anna like Fritz listens. I cry when he is dies. Veterinary man say he will dispose of body but I beg aunt to bury Fritz in garden which she finally agree to do. Sven and me dig hole then wrap Fritz in large cloth, which once used as table cover, and lay him gently into hole. Later we plant bulbs on grave.
Fritz nourish these bulbs and in springtime flowers bloom on Fritz grave. And I look from bedroom window and see Fritz lives on, in flowers. Which is how things should be.

But I do not wish to talk of things which make me sad.

I now have money for train to Goteborg – Hoping they not bunging dead rabbits into firehole of train, eh? (This is joke because Swedish trains are latest technology of the electric and travel at immense pace). I need to earn some more money for ferry. This will not take Anna long. Perhaps four weeks at most.

So I am looking forward to seeing my Georgie. Everybody need something to look forward to – even if it never happen.

But our meeting WILL happen. This I know.

Your ever-loving Anna.

Oh, I just see comment from Mr Adams. Ignore this man. Do not seek bus-driving job. You already have many jobs. You are writer, poet, artist and much more.
Anyway, when Anna get there she keep you plenty busy, eh?

This and that

*****************************************

I am lying on a trolley thing. All I can see is the ceiling. I am in a corridor; there are lights in the roof. What a way to be spending Pancake Tuesday.
I am not afraid. I just feel a sort of detached curiosity. Of course they’ve given me some medicine to make me feel like this. But that’s fine by me.

Voices above my head. Female voices. Nurses.

“Do you think we should take him into theatre?”
“Oh, it’s cold in there.”
“Yes, but Mr Bennett-Jones doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
Crunch of tyres on gravel.
“He’s here.”

A face appears. Large and round. A man’s voice. Accusingly.
“Why didn’t your mother call the doctor earlier?”
“I don’t know.” I whisper, guiltily.

I am pushed through rubber flapping doors and lifted onto a table.
“We’ll just fasten these straps around you, so you won’t fall off.”
Fine by me. I am still in some happy drug-land. Until. A man – I see his face looming over me – places a large tea-strainer with a folded white handkerchief in the bottom over my nose and mouth.

Suddenly I’m choking. It’s like cotton wool is being stuffed up my nostrils and down my throat. I panic. I thresh about – or try to: the thoughtfully placed straps hold me firmly to the table.

A man’s voice commands. “Blow it out. Blow it out.”

Desperately I try to blow this awful stuff out of my moth. I hear my own breathing, louder and louder. Blowing, blowing. Everything is going dark. Then nothing.


But all this happened a long, long time ago? (The reason Mr Bennett-Jones was annoyed was that he had been dragged away from Florence Nightingale’s leaving “do”.)

Well, I’m really telling my therapist. She asked me to write down any event I could recall that I felt had a high level of stress or trauma – especially during childhood (I was ten years old at this time).

Anyway, I just thought I would ‘share it with you’ - as they say in the best therapy circles because I was thinking that I know so little about your childhood; in fact so little of your background at all. You just ‘appeared’ out of the blue, in response to my advert for an au pair. You said your surname was ‘Paulsen’; I never really believed you. But so what? You filled the bill in all respects. Still, I’ve often thought that although we have been intimate, we have never really been close. I mean at that deeper level. And it is to that level I would like to go.

I is our childhood that shapes us (you did mention that Sven had not had an easy life), and although we can change, I believe it is only when we understand and accept our past history. Only when we can say: “Yes, this did happen”, without seeking to apportion blame – on others or on ourselves – can we move on.

Now, about ‘Winnie’: yes it would have been nice if you had told me from the start that you had been communicating with him. I really would not have been angry; I am not angry now. I think the arrangements are most admirable: it will certainly save on hotel bills whilst in Purley.

And, as I told you, I have arranged accommodation for the two of us – when you eventually reach Swindon - but for now, I want to keep it a secret so that I can surprise my Anna.


Yesterday I was feeding the swans, and assorted fowl of air and water, and I could see that there were bullies, even in the avian world. This confirms my theory that there are only two classes of people: the good guys and the bad guys, (okay, call them ‘psychological types). And you find them in all groups, classes, cultures, from the tennis club to Al-Qaeda
It is a pity the good guys don’t wear white hats and the bad guys black, like in the old ‘B’ movies of my youth.

It makes things so complicated.
Of course, governments try to simplify it for us, and group them together conveniently so we know who we are supposed to fight (depending upon the political (economic) demands of the moment): Nation; Culture; Religion; Political Creed; Moral Principles; slice whichever way to achieve the desired end.

Oh, and about the ‘bunny burning’: I personally think it is a great idea – as you say ‘ecologically sound’. Did you know that in the late nineteenth century millions of human mummies were used as fuel for locomotives in Egypt? Wood and coal were scarce, but mummies were plentiful.

I say, I say, I say. Was Tutankhamen a mummy’s boy?
No. His mummy was too wrapped up in herself.
I don’t wish to know that – kindly leave the pyramid.I hope that isn’t racist.

I do believed there are national characteristics. But, are the British hypocrites?

Look how we “took up the white man’s burden’ in the nineteenth century (yes the same century the Egyptians were firing their locomotives with dead people).
Now, some may say that we became the ‘black man’s burden’, but that is a slur, based only on the benefit of hindsight. We exported our religion and civilization and all we asked in return was a bit of gold here, some iron ore there, a few diamonds – that sort of thing….

But I am not a political animal. Although I am an animal; let us not forget that. A member of a species of particularly clever monkeys: Homo sapiens. But, surely I am more than that… aren’t I? There is no evidence to suggest that I am.

Sometimes I get this weird feeling that my life is a novel. And I am reading through it, and I am up to this particular point in the story – but the end is already written. BUT THAT’S DAFT.

I do think Jung was right about the ‘collective conscious’, though. I dream a lot and sometimes (only sometimes) I feel I am tapping in to some larger ‘mind’, of which I am part. Perhaps dreams are a ‘portal’ to this larger mind. Like the wardrobe in C. S. Lewis’s story.

But what ever else it is, I think that Life is an enterprise in itself: a grand adventure, as Ronnie Laing said. And that it needs not other justification.

Sometimes I am acutely aware of my nose. I don’t mean that it’s big or anything (well, it might be a bit big – doesn’t spoil my looks though, eh, Anna). It’s just that it feels in need of wiping – when it doesn’t. I wonder why that is.

I was in Sticky last night. Borrowed the salt off a charming young lady. I had just one pint of bitter. I was depressed.

I think I need the company of a nubile
young woman – possibly of Swedish extraction.

Peccadillo. This I see from dictionary is minor sin. Well, I got a lot of these, except I do not believe in sin. Sin is invented by church to make us feel guilty. Talkers about sin are Pecksniffian people. I know this because of same page in dictionary what show peccadillo also show this other word, which I now know, and it means “affecting high moral principles in a hypocritical way”. Interesting is not it that these two words should appear on same page?

I am not saying you, my Georgie, are hypocritical – well not any more than normal Englishman (though you are not normal – which I am meaning in good way, not bad).

But you ask me why we in Sweden are burning rabbits. This is happening only in Stockholm where parks are swarming with the little buggers and so authorities have to have cull now and again. So why not put to good use dead bodies to run heating plant? This is sound ecology.

Anyway, at least rabbits are dead before burning – unlike some of people you English burn at the post because they spouting wrong religion or perhaps kick with left foot, and you do not do this to run heating plant because you do not have one in olden days. This what I mean about hypocritical English – they making snidey comments about “burning bunnies”, conveniently forgetting terrible history record of own ancestors. Not to mention abdominal way you kill that ancient king with the red-hot poker! So I won’t mention it.

Like also how you afraid to make legal the prostitution, instead pretend it is not happening until some nosey neighbours complaining about lowering district with tarty women walking up and down all night and putting themselves in danger. Whereas if you have licensed brothels with regular inspection and everything clean and women pay taxes like good citizens and not sneaking around park like common criminal which they are not, everybody would be happy.

Same as with drugs are you hypocritical, like your government sacks top scientist who speak truth of his studies and evidence and tell you tobacco and alcohol more dangerous drugs than the old wacky baccy and the ecstatic pills. But government not making any money out of these so they chuck him out and look for some other man who will find what they want him to find.

Do not think I am slogging off your country. You have some fine traditions - which I cannot think of at present time.

Some while ago Sven gives me mobile cell phone number of Winston which is only to be used in emergencies but I think I should try this number out in case comes an emergency and this is what I do, and so I have spoken to Winston and we have got along like the house which was on fire. So when you suggesting I come across I speak to Winston and he says he will be delightful to see me (he has been asking me for some time to visit) and I know nightclub for which he is bouncing person and it is called DISLOCATION. Also because he is such hard worker and good at frightening people so no trouble occurs in club, owners let him use back room as flat. This is very pleasant room says Winston with comfortable bed which he would let me use while he sleep on mattress behind bar because he respect my dignity.

So that is what I am wanting to tell you. Perhaps I should tell you before when I first talk to Winnie (as he lets me call him) but I didn’t so no point now in trying to back the horse in through the stable door what has already been closed.

I am longing to see you and therefore prepared to go to all these troublesome lengths which I am hoping you are appreciating.

I await with racing heart to hear you will still be loving me in all the ways you done before.

Anna

Off at a tangent

When I looked out the kitchen window this morning the duck’s head was in the middle of the path, again. I think it’s cats. That knock the head off. I’ve stuck it back on a couple of times but I think you probably need special glue for stone.

Anyway, come on Anna. Spit it out. It’s not like you to be coy. What have you done, you silly strumpet, that you think might make me ‘mad’? You know you can tell your Georgie. I am never surprised by anything you do. And I forgive you, in advance – for everything.
As long as you are well, that is all that matters to me. I can ignore your little peccadilloes.

You see, that’s the good thing about our relationship: neither us have any expectations. All relationships should be like that. If you have expectations you are setting yourself up for disappointment – or worse. People let you down. They can’t help it: they are human. So best not to expect them to be the way you think they should be. I have learnt this the hard way.

Talking of being let down, have you noticed how coffee always smells better than it tastes? Now why should that be? The aroma of fresh coffee promises so much; it is inevitable that the taste is a disappointment.


Oh, and whilst I remember, thanks for that piece about ‘The Waltons’. Yes, of course, I remember now. I must confess I am sometimes a bit lazy on the old research. No excuse. Slap on the wrist – or wherever takes your fancy, my Swedish siren.

I had my flu jab last week. Free of course on the National Health Service. I won’t do the joke about feeling a prick – but the nurse did hurt me this time. I told her so, too. She said, “ I have done 900 of these injections so I should be getting good at it by now.”
I didn’t quite know what to make of that, so I put my jacket on and left.

But I am going off at a tangent. That word ‘tangent’ reminds me of school geometry lessons, and Miss Hodge jabbing me in the ribs with that board rubbing-out thing – wooden it was – because I couldn’t do the problem on the board. She used to get you out to the front and make you stand looking at the blackboard (that’s not racist, is it?), and all the numbers and ‘figures’ would swim before my eyes, and my mind blanked out, and I wished the ancient wooden floor would collapse and send us all hurtling to our doom.
Those people who say school days are the happiest days of your life must have a bloody awful life.)

But I am being tangential again.

(I’ve suddenly had flash of déjà vu – I haven’t told you all this before, have I? You may find that I repeat myself from time to time – if I do, you must tell me.)

Glancing up from my typing, I see the family across the road returning from the supermarket, spilling out of the car, their arms full of plastic bags stuffed full of God knows what. I hope they haven’t been trying to buy booze because they have their fifteen-year-old daughter with them, and a lad of about ten. They go staggering up the drive like over-laden donkeys. The girl has a French stick, a yard long. At least I think it is a French stick. Not easy to discern from this distance. (I do have a good pair of binoculars, but it’s hardly worth the trouble of digging them out just to identify a French stick.)

I was thinking: the supermarket has replaced the church as the place to take the family on Sunday morning, (the Garden Centre comes into its own in the afternoon.)

Supermarkets! What happened to the old grocer’s shop? Like the one that we had in my village when I was a boy: sawdust on the wooden floor and a huge marmalade cat - it disappeared suddenly during the period of post-war rationing; my mother wouldn’t buy sausages for a month.

And Mr Hankinson, the ironmonger, in his brown overall. I used to love running errands to his wonderful Aladdin’s Cave of a shop that smelled of paraffin and candles: ten 1 inch nails in a paper bag; two sheets of sandpaper: one fine, one coarse; One six inch nail; a small tin of ‘scumble’ varnish; a pint of paraffin (bring your own bottle). I never knew why my mother needed all this stuff when she was baking.
(Ignore that last sentence, Anna: I put it in for “humorous effect”).

Where is that wonderful world now? All gone. Along with Diphtheria, Whooping Cough and National Service.

A bird staggers down the roof of Big Bill’s house. I don’t know his other name. I know his name is Bill, and he’s a big guy – so I call him Big Bill. Not to his face – I’ve never spoken to him.
I haven’t seen a bird stagger before. It looks drunk. But the roof is quite steep and is of tiles, not slate, (We’re not in Wales.), so there is a big overlap. Obviously this adds to a bird’s difficulty in negotiating the roof’s steep pitch.
I wonder what might be the evolutionary effect, on birds, of the gradual replacement of slate by tile as roofing material. Will natural selection favour those birds best adapted to the tiled roof?

But enough of this speculation.

Now, no more nonsense, my Scandinavian slapper (joking), I want a rapid reply telling me what this is all about.
Oh, and by the way, what’s all this about you lot burning rabbits to keep warm? I heard something on the news.


Just one incident in the life of George: I visited an osteopath (perhaps you call them chiropractor?) I’ve had trouble with my neck for a while. Anyway, it turned out that, like me, he was a drummer, so we had a pleasant chat about music. Then he broke my neck. Well, it sounded like that. He said I had 5 displaced vertebrae. I think he meant before he did that, rather than after.

Oh, and I have sorted out accommodation for us – so no worries on that score.

Your lover in waiting,

George

I have just seen the comment from the ‘French Lady’. She wasn’t trying to ‘correct’ but to enlighten.
I bet she’s a Buddhist.