‘My shit smells of sprouts’ announces Lionel, returning from the lavatory.
I rebuke him. ‘Lionel, I don’t mind sharing a khazi with you, but I do not wish to know the details of your excretory endeavours.’
‘Well, stands to reason dunnit’ continued my friend, as if he hadn’t heard me, ‘all the sprouts we’ve eaten in the last few days! I mean, who eats sprouts the rest of the year? Nobody. But when it comes to Christmas we have to have ‘em by the bloody barrow-load.’
‘If you don’t like them, why do you eat them?’ I say, exasperated.
‘Well, that’s what Christmas is about innit? Doing things you don’t normally like doing.’
I give up, and leave him playing the 1949 recording, The Brothers (an LP which has been in my possession for years, and which I gave him as a birthday present, since he professed to be a fan of Stan Getz and Zoot Sims. I know, I am a fool unto myself – still, it is Christmas), to go down to the communal lounge and peruse my copy of War Cry. Major Dunwoody, the senior officer in charge of the hostel, has given everyone has been given a copy of the magazine. By the way, I was listening to the Sally Army band yesterday, playing outside the Conservative Club. I don’t join in the hymns – well, for one thing, I can’t sing - but they do have some rousing tunes. As that bloke who founded them (Booth, I think was his name) said, ‘why should the devil have all the good tunes?’
Anyway, you’ll never guess whom I saw, playing the trombone - no, not Kid Ory, but Sam, the Christian policeman! Remember? The bobby who rescued me from the Mersey mud, all that time ago. I had a few words with him while the lasses were going round with the collecting boxes (don’t those girls look lovely in their uniforms and bonnets – I once considered joining the Salvation Army but on reflection I felt that the music and the uniform were insufficient reason to commit myself to a life of abstinence from alcohol. That of course is one of my problems – not alcohol - lack of commitment ‘He couldn’t commit himself – so they sectioned him.’)
Anyway, to get back to Sam, apparently he is on secondment – to the Met. And plain clothes no less! He wouldn’t tell me what case he was on, but he spends a lot of his time on surveillance in Soho. As a matter of fact he asked me to join him for a cup of coffee in the Blue Magnolia one afternoon.
My knee has gone again. Keeps giving way when I’m coming downstairs. Still, mustn’t grumble. My knees have given me good service – and, I hope, will continue to do so. I was having a shower the other day and I looked down at my legs, and I thanked them for all the support they had given me over the years.
One other thing: I hope I did not offend anyone by using the word ‘homosexual’ instead of the currently favoured ‘gay’ appellation. When I was in the Air Force (before the term ‘gay’ had been invented) I had a couple of friends who were considered… well, different. John was a special friend. He had a great sense of humour and loved the theatre. He was a mine of information on musicals; we say quite a few performances together. It never occurred to me to consider what any of the other airmen might think. I don’t think they thought anything at all – I found the RAF a very tolerant environment.
We kept in touch for a bit after we were demobbed. The last communication I had from him was a letter telling me that he and a friend had started a drag act. He enclosed a photograph. I replied saying they looked stunning – which they did - and wishing them all the best. But I never heard from him again.
I don’t know how long I can stay here ‘I must keep moving like a rolling stone’ – but I don’t want to, really. ‘All I want is a room somewhere/Far away from the cold night air/With one enormous chair…’ yes, Eliza, it would indeed be luverly.
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
Tuesday, December 26, 2006
HAPPY CHRISTMAS
It’s not so bad in here. I don’t have my own lavatory but the sheets are clean. I share a cubicle with Lionel. He isn’t homosexual or anything – so I am all right. He sells the Big Issue on ‘Boots’ corner. Says it’s the best pitch in town. He can’t remember when he decided to become homeless; all he knows is that his was the sort of home that encourages homelessness. His wife used to beat him up every Christmas; the rest of the year he was just mentally abused and psychologically traumatised.
He volunteered this information. I didn’t ask. That’s what’s so good about being in here: you have your privacy. Nobody asks questions. You can keep yourself to yourself. Another thing: although there is an undediably ecclesiastical ambience, they don’t expect you to attend any of the services – or sing carols.
I couldn’t have stayed in that house, not after the events of 23rd December. I shall be all right. I’ll keep you posted.
He volunteered this information. I didn’t ask. That’s what’s so good about being in here: you have your privacy. Nobody asks questions. You can keep yourself to yourself. Another thing: although there is an undediably ecclesiastical ambience, they don’t expect you to attend any of the services – or sing carols.
I couldn’t have stayed in that house, not after the events of 23rd December. I shall be all right. I’ll keep you posted.
Saturday, December 23, 2006
Up the Isthmus for Christmas
Myra says we have not ‘fallen from grace’, that there is no grace from which to fall. That there is no boat to miss, no ‘Good Ship Lollipop’
She asserts that we have evolved from the primordial slime and clawed our way to the head of the queue. And that as we have evolved in physical and mental complexity, so have we evolved in SPIRITUAL complexity. That this is not to say that we have invented God, but rather that God has evolved with us.
But suppose we have fallen so far that we cannot even see the possibility of grace. Suppose we are so ‘steeped in sin’ that we have completely lost sight of the ‘way’?
Myra insists that the concept of sin is at best unhelpful, and at worst destructive and life limiting. ‘If you feel you have done something really bad then - just don’t do it again. Don’t spend your days wallowing in guilt. It does nobody any good.’
And when I asked, why then do we feel so alone, so estranged, so alienated, she said ‘Well why shouldn’t we? Feeling like this is a natural outcome of being human. Or, to be more accurate, it is the price we pay for evolving into consciousness.’
Is that true? Is it why I feel so alone this Christmas? In the midst of all the jollity, the festive cheer, the party hats? Or is it that I have so ‘lost my way’ that I am treading some path of my own, that leads to nowhere – and that deep down I recognise this, hence the emptiness inside.
In a book I read, a woman wrote: Could it be that those of us who march to the beat of a different drum may just be tone deaf?
Or might it be – as Myra suggests – that some are more spiritually evolved than others, and can see a bit further? Further? Into the abyss? Or....
Night, mothering night,
Take us on your knee,
And hide our eyes
From the blank face of eternity.
Is it better to be happy rather than spiritually advanced? Do we have a choice?
I do not think I am yet ready to accept Myra’s offer of an Archdeaconship in The Church of the Latter Day Sinners.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Storm clouds gather
Sound of snoring in my ear. Afraid to open my eyes – the lids are stuck together, anyway. Where am I? I force my eyes open. Perkins is stretched out across the back of my armchair – fast asleep. I sit up quickly. It’s not that I don’t like cats, but I don’t want one sitting on my head. At my sudden movement, Perkins wakes. He gives me one of those looks cats give you: a mixture of contempt and pity. Then he yawns and closes his eyes again.
I look across; the armchair opposite is empty: no sign of its previous occupant. Have I been dreaming? Did I imagine that weird conversation about religion? I am beginning to seriously doubt myself when I catch sight of the dozen or so empty bottles lying on the hearthrug. No idea of the time. The lights in the room are still on, but I can’t see any clock and there’s no sound at all in the house. I am completely alone – except for the fish, which stare at me in their vacuous fishy way.
I am about to panic, but my armed forces training kicks in. Prioritise. Obviously the first thing is to find out the time. I grope my way into the kitchen – all the other lights in the house have been turned off. After an age of feeling around the walls, I locate the switch. The fluorescent tube buzzes, flickers and blinks – then fails completely. But in that brief burst of strobe I glimpsed the cooker. Now, navigating by the faint green beacon of its clock, I cross the dark kitchen, like a crippled bomber making its final approach, until I am near enough to read the time: 1.47.
I ought to be in bed, but therein lies a problem, three problems. I enumerate them. 1) I am not all that familiar with the geography of this house, and I don’t want to go switching lights on for fear of waking its occupants and having to face the ensuing hostility. So how am I going to find my room? 2) Do I actually have a room? I had become so enthralled in our theological discussion that I had forgotten to ask Myra if she had okayed the room swap with Carole. 3) My head feels swollen and heavy (I am sure Myra put something in that last Guinness) somewhat dulling my usually razor-sharp mind.
I turn and make my way back to the lounge. There is no sign of the deflated ‘blow-up’ bed, so that’s a good omen, or so I think. I am terribly thirsty, and desperately in need of a pee. Just in time I remember the non-functionality of the downstairs water closet. Okay, it will have to be the first floor bathroom. After that comes the big test: finding my bedroom.
Taking off my shoes I start to creep upstairs, like an inexperienced and very timid burglar. As I cautiously climb, keeping to the outside edge of each step so as to minimise the creak of a faulty stair. Then another worry floats up from the murky depths of my tired mind: Anastasia. It’s that fellow Adams’ fault of course: if he had not alarmed her with his irresponsible comment – which was, of course, complete rubbish - she would not have not have seen Myra as being any kind of threat. But anyway, she won’t turn up here; I think her reaction was of the Swedish knee-jerk variety.
I reach the first-floor landing and can breathe normally once again. Suddenly there is a loud knock at the front door – actually it’s more of a rat a tat tat! Bloody hell! It can’t be – I’m going to faint. I wonder if there’s a ‘Men’s Refuge’ in Hendon.
I look across; the armchair opposite is empty: no sign of its previous occupant. Have I been dreaming? Did I imagine that weird conversation about religion? I am beginning to seriously doubt myself when I catch sight of the dozen or so empty bottles lying on the hearthrug. No idea of the time. The lights in the room are still on, but I can’t see any clock and there’s no sound at all in the house. I am completely alone – except for the fish, which stare at me in their vacuous fishy way.
I am about to panic, but my armed forces training kicks in. Prioritise. Obviously the first thing is to find out the time. I grope my way into the kitchen – all the other lights in the house have been turned off. After an age of feeling around the walls, I locate the switch. The fluorescent tube buzzes, flickers and blinks – then fails completely. But in that brief burst of strobe I glimpsed the cooker. Now, navigating by the faint green beacon of its clock, I cross the dark kitchen, like a crippled bomber making its final approach, until I am near enough to read the time: 1.47.
I ought to be in bed, but therein lies a problem, three problems. I enumerate them. 1) I am not all that familiar with the geography of this house, and I don’t want to go switching lights on for fear of waking its occupants and having to face the ensuing hostility. So how am I going to find my room? 2) Do I actually have a room? I had become so enthralled in our theological discussion that I had forgotten to ask Myra if she had okayed the room swap with Carole. 3) My head feels swollen and heavy (I am sure Myra put something in that last Guinness) somewhat dulling my usually razor-sharp mind.
I turn and make my way back to the lounge. There is no sign of the deflated ‘blow-up’ bed, so that’s a good omen, or so I think. I am terribly thirsty, and desperately in need of a pee. Just in time I remember the non-functionality of the downstairs water closet. Okay, it will have to be the first floor bathroom. After that comes the big test: finding my bedroom.
Taking off my shoes I start to creep upstairs, like an inexperienced and very timid burglar. As I cautiously climb, keeping to the outside edge of each step so as to minimise the creak of a faulty stair. Then another worry floats up from the murky depths of my tired mind: Anastasia. It’s that fellow Adams’ fault of course: if he had not alarmed her with his irresponsible comment – which was, of course, complete rubbish - she would not have not have seen Myra as being any kind of threat. But anyway, she won’t turn up here; I think her reaction was of the Swedish knee-jerk variety.
I reach the first-floor landing and can breathe normally once again. Suddenly there is a loud knock at the front door – actually it’s more of a rat a tat tat! Bloody hell! It can’t be – I’m going to faint. I wonder if there’s a ‘Men’s Refuge’ in Hendon.
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Some pointers on structure
(I hear the clop-clop of Myra’s boot-heels as she crosses the hall, then the kitchen door bangs open. I am trying to think about the questions Myra has posed, but my brain is hurting. Suddenly there comes the sound of a cat skidding across a parquet floor. Seconds later Myra enters the room carrying 2 pint bottles of Guinness – but no glasses)
Myra: (handing me a bottle) Here, get that down you.
Me: Thank you. (I take a sip of my drink – I’ve never drunk Guinness out of a bottle before)
Myra: Don’t sip – GULP… that’s my motto in life.
(Thus encouraged, I take a fair swig – and choke. Eventually I stop coughing and spluttering. And then a thought occurs to me…)
Me: Why did you have to let Perkins in? What about the cat flap?
Myra: Hector has nailed it shut.
Me: Why did he do that?
Myra: Because he’s a twat. Now, where were we?
Me: You asked me to think about a couple of questions, but I –
Myra: Oh never mind. Consider then more as Zen koans. You know, like: what is the sound of one hand clapping? Incidentally, there is a bit of Buddhism in my religion. Of course you know Buddhism is not a religion: it is more a philosophy, along with Confucianism. Actually, I am thinking of writing a book on Zen Buddhism.
Me: Really?
Myra: Yes, a sort of modern commentary, if you like. How about this for a title: Now and Zen? Snappy? What do you think? I mean you being in the authoring game and that?
Me: Snappy, indeed. But to get back to our topic: where does your religion fit in the three mainstream religions?
Myra: Christianity, Islam and Hinduism? Well it’s rather up to the novitiate. You see ours is more of a ‘pick and mix’ affair. You choose the bits you want and reject those you don’t. We are – quite literally – a broad Church.
Me: I see. And what about the name: Church of the Latter Day Sinners?
Myra: Well, we accept sinners into our church.
Me: But so does the Christian Church…
Myra: Ah yes, but their sinners are expected to repent. With us, repenting is optional.
Me: Well that is certainly a new slant on ‘forgiveness’.
Myra: Who said anything about forgiveness?
Me: Well I naturally thought –
Myra: If you go on forgiving folk you deprive them of the opportunity to learn from the consequences of the actions. That’s one of our central tenets. Remember, you were asking me about tenets?
Me: Y..e…e s. And it makes sense, in a strangely perverted way.
Myra: Perverts are welcome too.
Me: But you haven’t really told me anything about your creed. You do have a creed?
Myra: Again, the answer is yes, and no. We are a bit ad hoc as regards creeds. We do have certain tenets – and I have just given you one. Here’s another: spontaWe must strive toward spontaneity. But let me say a bit more about how our religion is structured.
Me: I wish you would.
Myra: Imagine one of those big sweet shops were they have a ‘pick and mix’ counter. You know, with all those plastic bins and the little shovels? The little children come in and help themselves: this kid a shovel-full of liquorice torpedoes, maybe half a shovel-full of dolly mixtures, just a few aniseed balls, a quarter shovel of mint-imperials – no fruity-chews, no chocolate raisins…. The next kid might favour the raisins but forsake the dolly mixtures… and so it goes.
Now, instead of a sweet shop, imagine a religion shop. Get the idea?
Me: So you mean The Church of the Latter Day Sinners is a sort of pot-pourri of all the other religions on offer?
Myra: In a way.
Me: But where does the structure come in if each member of the church is allowed to pick and mix like that?
Myra: I wield the shovel!
Me: What?
Myra: Well you wouldn’t want kids just shovelling away at the pick and mix, would you? You’d have liquorice torpedoes flying all over the bleedin’ place; mint-imperials rolling around the floor like ball-bearings, turning it into a roller-skating rink. Next thing you know: comes along some old lady – goes arse over tit. Crash bang wallop. Broken hip! Shopkeeper gets sued. What a palaver – can’t be having that.
Me: Well, since you put it –
Myra: Besides, you know what some of the greedy little buggers are like: they’d be making themselves ill. Say, choosing all them sickly chocolate mint creams, filling their bags (and their gobs) with all sorts of gooey muck. You need a responsible adult.
Same in the religion shop: they get to choose – but I am in charge of the shovel. And that’s were you get the structure. Fancy another Guinness?
Myra: (handing me a bottle) Here, get that down you.
Me: Thank you. (I take a sip of my drink – I’ve never drunk Guinness out of a bottle before)
Myra: Don’t sip – GULP… that’s my motto in life.
(Thus encouraged, I take a fair swig – and choke. Eventually I stop coughing and spluttering. And then a thought occurs to me…)
Me: Why did you have to let Perkins in? What about the cat flap?
Myra: Hector has nailed it shut.
Me: Why did he do that?
Myra: Because he’s a twat. Now, where were we?
Me: You asked me to think about a couple of questions, but I –
Myra: Oh never mind. Consider then more as Zen koans. You know, like: what is the sound of one hand clapping? Incidentally, there is a bit of Buddhism in my religion. Of course you know Buddhism is not a religion: it is more a philosophy, along with Confucianism. Actually, I am thinking of writing a book on Zen Buddhism.
Me: Really?
Myra: Yes, a sort of modern commentary, if you like. How about this for a title: Now and Zen? Snappy? What do you think? I mean you being in the authoring game and that?
Me: Snappy, indeed. But to get back to our topic: where does your religion fit in the three mainstream religions?
Myra: Christianity, Islam and Hinduism? Well it’s rather up to the novitiate. You see ours is more of a ‘pick and mix’ affair. You choose the bits you want and reject those you don’t. We are – quite literally – a broad Church.
Me: I see. And what about the name: Church of the Latter Day Sinners?
Myra: Well, we accept sinners into our church.
Me: But so does the Christian Church…
Myra: Ah yes, but their sinners are expected to repent. With us, repenting is optional.
Me: Well that is certainly a new slant on ‘forgiveness’.
Myra: Who said anything about forgiveness?
Me: Well I naturally thought –
Myra: If you go on forgiving folk you deprive them of the opportunity to learn from the consequences of the actions. That’s one of our central tenets. Remember, you were asking me about tenets?
Me: Y..e…e s. And it makes sense, in a strangely perverted way.
Myra: Perverts are welcome too.
Me: But you haven’t really told me anything about your creed. You do have a creed?
Myra: Again, the answer is yes, and no. We are a bit ad hoc as regards creeds. We do have certain tenets – and I have just given you one. Here’s another: spontaWe must strive toward spontaneity. But let me say a bit more about how our religion is structured.
Me: I wish you would.
Myra: Imagine one of those big sweet shops were they have a ‘pick and mix’ counter. You know, with all those plastic bins and the little shovels? The little children come in and help themselves: this kid a shovel-full of liquorice torpedoes, maybe half a shovel-full of dolly mixtures, just a few aniseed balls, a quarter shovel of mint-imperials – no fruity-chews, no chocolate raisins…. The next kid might favour the raisins but forsake the dolly mixtures… and so it goes.
Now, instead of a sweet shop, imagine a religion shop. Get the idea?
Me: So you mean The Church of the Latter Day Sinners is a sort of pot-pourri of all the other religions on offer?
Myra: In a way.
Me: But where does the structure come in if each member of the church is allowed to pick and mix like that?
Myra: I wield the shovel!
Me: What?
Myra: Well you wouldn’t want kids just shovelling away at the pick and mix, would you? You’d have liquorice torpedoes flying all over the bleedin’ place; mint-imperials rolling around the floor like ball-bearings, turning it into a roller-skating rink. Next thing you know: comes along some old lady – goes arse over tit. Crash bang wallop. Broken hip! Shopkeeper gets sued. What a palaver – can’t be having that.
Me: Well, since you put it –
Myra: Besides, you know what some of the greedy little buggers are like: they’d be making themselves ill. Say, choosing all them sickly chocolate mint creams, filling their bags (and their gobs) with all sorts of gooey muck. You need a responsible adult.
Same in the religion shop: they get to choose – but I am in charge of the shovel. And that’s were you get the structure. Fancy another Guinness?
Sunday, December 17, 2006
Is there anyone there?
Model on Myra's mantle.
It was a clay pipe that Myra was putting to such good use: like the ones I have seen in pictures of ‘boat-women’ on the canals of England in the early nineteenth century. I must say it suited her admirably, and I told her so. She offered to loan me one from her collection, but I declined.
I wasn’t sure how to broach the subject of religion, so I said ‘What do you think of death?’
‘I’m not too keen.’ She replied, taking the pipe from her mouth and billowing smoke up at the ceiling. (I noticed there was a big brown patch just over where she was sitting, so I deduced this must be her favourite armchair).
I pressed on. ‘No, I mean, what with your religion and that, I thought you would have some definite ideas about it – death, I mean.’
She regarded me quizzically. ‘What do you know about my religion?’
‘Well, nothing really, except Hector told me that you had started your own… religion.’
She puffed away at her pipe for a couple of minutes, reminding me of Harold Wilson: when he was Prime Minister, if anyone asked him a difficult question, he would spend an age getting his pipe going, while he thought of an answer. Myra’s pipe was going, strongly but she seemed to be employing a similar strategy.
Then suddenly removing the pipe from her mouth, she stabbed the stem in my direction. ‘That brother of yours is a fool. I don’t know why you let him speak to you the way he does; anyone would think he was the elder brother. I’m surprised you have anything to do with him.’
I was taken aback. ‘Well, blood’s thicker than water.’
‘Yes, but not as thick as creosote.’ She replied, mysteriously. Then, before I had time to consider the relevance of this observation, she went on ‘Are you sure he’s your brother?’
‘I’m not sure that we had the same father.’ I confessed.
‘Are you sure you had the same mother?’
The conversation was skidding out of control, so I attempted to wrench it back on course.
‘But to come back to religion - don’t you think we could do with a return to basic Christian values?’
‘You mean set up a new Inquisition? Mount a few Crusades? That sort of thing? She asked, innocently.
I was annoyed. ‘They are not the values of Jesus – they are examples of horrors committed in His name by ‘organised religion’. And the Christian Church doesn’t have a monopoly on barbarism and cruelty, you know. What about the antics of so-called ‘Muslim extremists? And I’m not talking about the ‘dark ages’, I am talking about, now: the twentieth, twenty-first century!’
‘Don’t get your hair off. – I do know that – I was just teasing you. So why are you so interested in my religion?
‘Well,’ I responded, ‘doesn’t religion profess to have the answers to all the important questions of life – like “death”’.
She laughed.
‘Okay, not just death – although we all would like to know what happens to us when we shuffle off these mortal coils – but the meaning of life: What’s it all for? How did it begin? How is it going to end? And, on a personal level – how should I live my life? By what moral code? All that stuff.’
‘I see.’ She said, her face hazy behind the smokescreen. I continued.
‘As a seeker after the truth, I am interested to know just what answers your religion provides to the above questions; what are its central tenets? How does it work in practice? And, importantly, does it make you happy?
The smoke cleared and I saw the look of annoyance on Myra’s face. Oh dear, I thought, I have offended her. But then I realised her pipe had gone out.
I did say that I would report verbatim my conversation with Myra. Perhaps so far I have not verbatimised enough, so I shall continue (for the present) in ‘script’ form.
(Myra knocks out her pipe against the heel of her boot – some brown claggy stuff falls into the hearth. She takes no notice but sets about refilling the pipe. She does the ‘Harold Wilson’ bit until it is once more belching smoke and sparks ceiling wards.)
Myra: Okay - fire away.
Me: Richard Dawkins defines a theist as someone who ‘… believes in a supernatural intelligence who, in addition to his main work of creating the universe in the first place, is still around to oversee and influence the subsequent fate of his initial creation.’ You know, he intervenes: answers prayers, forgives, punishes… that sort of thing – what some might call a personal God. Are you a theist?
Myra: YES… and again NO.
Me: But you either are or you are not.
Myra: Ah, well that’s where you are wrong, squire. You see my religion is a four-dimensional religion.
Me: I don’t understand.
Myra: Time: the fourth dimension. People make the mistake of thinking that things should be either ‘this’ or ‘that’; ‘good’ or ‘bad; ‘right’ or ‘wrong’. And this may be so at a given point in time. But at another point in time, the opposite may be the case.
Me: I’m lost.
Myra: My religion caters for the ‘lost’.
Me: All religions purport to do that. Are you perhaps a deist?
Myra: You mean, an intelligence etc. etc. but who leaves the creation to get on with it – once he’s set it up? Non-intervention? No miracles? No water into wine?
Me: Yes.
Myra: Again the answer is YES and NO.
Me: You’re not being very helpful. Or making much sense, I have to say.
Myra: Let me ask you a question: is there a difference between ‘God’ and ‘Religion’?
Me: Well, I –
Myra: And here’s a supplementary question: if there was incontrovertible evidence for life after death, would that prove the existence of God? Have a think about it, while I let the cat in.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
Tension at 'Briarwood'
When I entered my lodgings you could have cut the atmosphere with a chainsaw.
I didn’t have one, so I essayed a false jocularity. 'What’s up?’ I enquired breezily. Silence. Then Hector spoke. ‘Bonar’s been arrested.’
‘Again’ Added Myra.
‘Bonar?’ I was confused.
‘Our son’ retorted Hector – rather impatiently, I thought.
‘Your son’ Myra corrected him. Hector glared venomously at his small wife. I tried to get more information. ‘Arrested? What for? Drugs is it?’
‘Certainly not’ Hector turned on me. ‘Bonar wouldn’t touch drugs – he abhors that dirty business.’
‘People smuggling.’ Volunteered Myra. ‘Illegal immigrants, that sort of thing.’ She added, helpfully.
‘Oh dear.’ Was all I could think to say.
Carole interject at this point with ‘Anyone fancy a Chinese? My treat?’
‘That isn’t funny. Hector fumed.
‘Funny? What do you mean.’ Asked Carole, innocently. Myra helped her out.
‘He’s got involved with a gang of Triads in Liverpool.’
‘Oh dear.’ I said, again.
‘Will you stop saying “oh dear”, you dozy bugger.’ Hector shouted at me.
‘Now look here-' I began. But Myra jumped in and saved the situation.
‘Yes, I’m up for that, Carole, let’s have a Triad – I mean a Chinese.’
Hector snorted. (An unpleasant habit I have noted with my brother) and stamped out the room.
Later that same evening.
We had eaten our Chinese meal – a banquet, in fact. Myra drove down to the ‘Golden City’ on the bike, with Carole in the sidecar (since she was paying.)
The king prawns, barbequed ribs, spring rolls and sundry items that make up a Chinese banquet had raised Hector’s spirits. So when Carole suggested a trip down to the pub he accepted with alacrity. Myra declined, saying she had to do an oil-change on the bike. So I made the excuse that I was too tired to go out. (I wanted to take the opportunity of being alone with her so that I could quiz her about this new ‘religion.’)
Carole and Hector took a taxi to the Vole and Ferret, (Hector’s car being still ‘in dock’.) and Myra retired to the garage to carry out the oil-change.
I reclined in an armchair and stared at the aquarium – hoping to disturb the fish even more.
I must have fallen asleep because I was awoken by the smell of pipe tobacco. Myra had finished on the bike and was sitting opposite me, her pipe going nicely.
I am going to report our subsequent conversation verbatim – or as near verbatim as I can remember – because it had a profound effect upon me.
I didn’t have one, so I essayed a false jocularity. 'What’s up?’ I enquired breezily. Silence. Then Hector spoke. ‘Bonar’s been arrested.’
‘Again’ Added Myra.
‘Bonar?’ I was confused.
‘Our son’ retorted Hector – rather impatiently, I thought.
‘Your son’ Myra corrected him. Hector glared venomously at his small wife. I tried to get more information. ‘Arrested? What for? Drugs is it?’
‘Certainly not’ Hector turned on me. ‘Bonar wouldn’t touch drugs – he abhors that dirty business.’
‘People smuggling.’ Volunteered Myra. ‘Illegal immigrants, that sort of thing.’ She added, helpfully.
‘Oh dear.’ Was all I could think to say.
Carole interject at this point with ‘Anyone fancy a Chinese? My treat?’
‘That isn’t funny. Hector fumed.
‘Funny? What do you mean.’ Asked Carole, innocently. Myra helped her out.
‘He’s got involved with a gang of Triads in Liverpool.’
‘Oh dear.’ I said, again.
‘Will you stop saying “oh dear”, you dozy bugger.’ Hector shouted at me.
‘Now look here-' I began. But Myra jumped in and saved the situation.
‘Yes, I’m up for that, Carole, let’s have a Triad – I mean a Chinese.’
Hector snorted. (An unpleasant habit I have noted with my brother) and stamped out the room.
Later that same evening.
We had eaten our Chinese meal – a banquet, in fact. Myra drove down to the ‘Golden City’ on the bike, with Carole in the sidecar (since she was paying.)
The king prawns, barbequed ribs, spring rolls and sundry items that make up a Chinese banquet had raised Hector’s spirits. So when Carole suggested a trip down to the pub he accepted with alacrity. Myra declined, saying she had to do an oil-change on the bike. So I made the excuse that I was too tired to go out. (I wanted to take the opportunity of being alone with her so that I could quiz her about this new ‘religion.’)
Carole and Hector took a taxi to the Vole and Ferret, (Hector’s car being still ‘in dock’.) and Myra retired to the garage to carry out the oil-change.
I reclined in an armchair and stared at the aquarium – hoping to disturb the fish even more.
I must have fallen asleep because I was awoken by the smell of pipe tobacco. Myra had finished on the bike and was sitting opposite me, her pipe going nicely.
I am going to report our subsequent conversation verbatim – or as near verbatim as I can remember – because it had a profound effect upon me.
Sunday, December 10, 2006
Acknowledgements
Thank you Gerda for your information re ‘jogger’s nipple’; I shall pass on your comment to Carole – when she gets back from the pub. She has taken Hector to the ‘Vole and Ferret’ to try and cheer him up, after the news about Bonar (his son) which, as it turned out, was the cause of the ‘sombre mood’ prevailing in the house when I returned from the library.
And of course thank you Anastasia for your comment. You do realise that comments posted to my blog are ‘in the public domain’ (that means available for anyone to read). I would much prefer you to write a personal letter and convey it to me via the excellent postal service obtaining in this country.
Also you cannot have been reading my blog carefully, because I gave my address when I was talking to the library woman!
And, when you do write, make sure you use on of those stout manila envelopes that are particularly resistant to the steam from a kettle. And mark it clearly ‘PERSONAL’. I am sorry to say there are elements within this household to whom privacy is an alien concept.
And of course thank you Anastasia for your comment. You do realise that comments posted to my blog are ‘in the public domain’ (that means available for anyone to read). I would much prefer you to write a personal letter and convey it to me via the excellent postal service obtaining in this country.
Also you cannot have been reading my blog carefully, because I gave my address when I was talking to the library woman!
And, when you do write, make sure you use on of those stout manila envelopes that are particularly resistant to the steam from a kettle. And mark it clearly ‘PERSONAL’. I am sorry to say there are elements within this household to whom privacy is an alien concept.
Monday, December 04, 2006
nostrils
I had an excellent meal at Mrs B’s: leek and potato soup, homemade steak and ale pie and jam-sponge pudding – oh and a cup of coffee. I then took a leisurely stroll around the town. Aren’t there a lot of wheelchairs about nowadays! And also twin-buggies! There must be an awful lot of twins being born. Perhaps it’s due to all those fertilisation programmes.
Anyway I made my necessary purchases and still had time on my hands, so I re- visited the library. Same old faces around the newspaper table. I felt sorry for them. I mean it’s a shame they have nothing better to do than to while away their days in a public library.
I sat down at the one vacant seat. The man next to me was reading the Daily Telegraph and picking his nose! Picking his nose whilst reading the Telegraph!
I gave him a disapproving look. He must have thought I wanted the paper (which ordinarily I would have, but not after he had been reading it). ‘There you go, mate’ he said, and thrust the paper into my hands before I could say ‘no thanks’. He got up and shambled away in the direction of the lavatories. I put the broadsheet carefully down on the table.
I have always thought that it would be a good idea to have little cubicles in public buildings where people could go to pick their nose. They need not be elaborate affairs: a chair, washstand, paper towels. Then you could go and have a jolly good root up the old proboscis without offending other people and, importantly, avoiding the possibility of a pandemic.
Interestingly, have you noticed how many people pick their nose whilst driving? They think that because they are in a car no one can see them. I heard that it may shortly be an offence to pick your nose whilst driving a car – just like it is with mobile phones – because of the danger to other road users - and yourself.
There was a story in the newspaper (not the Telegraph) about a woman, driving one of those 4 x 4 Shogun things - probably coming back from the school run - and she was picking her nose, quite vigorously. Oblivious of the road surface – as is typical of 4 x 4 drivers – she hit a ‘speed bump’ at a fair lick. Her finger was rammed up her nostril causing such pain as to make her lose control of the vehicle. She mounted the pavement and, narrowly missing a traffic-warden, demolished a bus-shelter.
The warden, when he had recovered his composure, acted swiftly: whipping out his cell-phone he called both the police and ambulance services, and then went to the lady’s assistance.
She was still in the drivers seat, screaming , and with her right index finger firmly stuck up her nose. Seizing the problem digit, he attempted to wrench it free of its nostril niche. Unfortunately, being untrained in first-aid he was a over zealous. The lady had those long talons of fingernails which you get from constant manicuring and having an au pair, and this particular nail snapped off as her finger came free.
Luckily the ambulance arrived and she was rushed to the A & E Dept of the local hospital, where surgeons removed half an inch of crimson fingernail, lodged perilously close to the brain.
The police later charged her with ‘driving without due care’, and the local council presented her with a bill for a new bus-shelter.
I said that Christmas brings on my OCD. I should have said it exacerbates it. Really it there all the time these days – in the background. It starts from the moment I awake in the morning: intrusive thoughts, having to get the ‘right’ thought into my head before I can move on. Of course, mostly I can control it, but any special occasion, anything ritualistic makes it worse.
I try to think when it all started: I can’t remember being troubled by it before I started Grammar school, at the age of eleven.
On my way home, glumness descends with the darkness. I say ‘home’ - of course it’s not really my home, but where is my home: Wynorin – the marital home – has been sold by my erstwhile wife, and St Botolph’s was more refuge than home. Perhaps my home is in my head.
The cold and the wind and the rain drag my spirits further down, and when I reach Briarwood, beaten and bedraggled, they are in no way lifted by the sombre mood prevailing in that house.
Anyway I made my necessary purchases and still had time on my hands, so I re- visited the library. Same old faces around the newspaper table. I felt sorry for them. I mean it’s a shame they have nothing better to do than to while away their days in a public library.
I sat down at the one vacant seat. The man next to me was reading the Daily Telegraph and picking his nose! Picking his nose whilst reading the Telegraph!
I gave him a disapproving look. He must have thought I wanted the paper (which ordinarily I would have, but not after he had been reading it). ‘There you go, mate’ he said, and thrust the paper into my hands before I could say ‘no thanks’. He got up and shambled away in the direction of the lavatories. I put the broadsheet carefully down on the table.
I have always thought that it would be a good idea to have little cubicles in public buildings where people could go to pick their nose. They need not be elaborate affairs: a chair, washstand, paper towels. Then you could go and have a jolly good root up the old proboscis without offending other people and, importantly, avoiding the possibility of a pandemic.
Interestingly, have you noticed how many people pick their nose whilst driving? They think that because they are in a car no one can see them. I heard that it may shortly be an offence to pick your nose whilst driving a car – just like it is with mobile phones – because of the danger to other road users - and yourself.
There was a story in the newspaper (not the Telegraph) about a woman, driving one of those 4 x 4 Shogun things - probably coming back from the school run - and she was picking her nose, quite vigorously. Oblivious of the road surface – as is typical of 4 x 4 drivers – she hit a ‘speed bump’ at a fair lick. Her finger was rammed up her nostril causing such pain as to make her lose control of the vehicle. She mounted the pavement and, narrowly missing a traffic-warden, demolished a bus-shelter.
The warden, when he had recovered his composure, acted swiftly: whipping out his cell-phone he called both the police and ambulance services, and then went to the lady’s assistance.
She was still in the drivers seat, screaming , and with her right index finger firmly stuck up her nose. Seizing the problem digit, he attempted to wrench it free of its nostril niche. Unfortunately, being untrained in first-aid he was a over zealous. The lady had those long talons of fingernails which you get from constant manicuring and having an au pair, and this particular nail snapped off as her finger came free.
Luckily the ambulance arrived and she was rushed to the A & E Dept of the local hospital, where surgeons removed half an inch of crimson fingernail, lodged perilously close to the brain.
The police later charged her with ‘driving without due care’, and the local council presented her with a bill for a new bus-shelter.
I said that Christmas brings on my OCD. I should have said it exacerbates it. Really it there all the time these days – in the background. It starts from the moment I awake in the morning: intrusive thoughts, having to get the ‘right’ thought into my head before I can move on. Of course, mostly I can control it, but any special occasion, anything ritualistic makes it worse.
I try to think when it all started: I can’t remember being troubled by it before I started Grammar school, at the age of eleven.
On my way home, glumness descends with the darkness. I say ‘home’ - of course it’s not really my home, but where is my home: Wynorin – the marital home – has been sold by my erstwhile wife, and St Botolph’s was more refuge than home. Perhaps my home is in my head.
The cold and the wind and the rain drag my spirits further down, and when I reach Briarwood, beaten and bedraggled, they are in no way lifted by the sombre mood prevailing in that house.
Saturday, December 02, 2006
At the library
Fish got to fly, and birds got to swim,
Sometimes I think that life can be grim –
Can’t help worrying all the time.
Is it any wonder I am glum (I refuse to say ‘depressed’ - the word is becoming devalued) the way I am treated? But perhaps that isn’t the cause of my glumness; it may be just a question of genes – most things are. It would be nice to think we were born with a ‘clean slate’ but we are not. I’m getting a feeling of déjà vu now – like I’ve said this before. But that’s okay: some things are worth repeating.
Carole came back from her run, all sweaty, and complaining of ‘jogger’s nipple’. She sat down to her bacon and eggs, without showering! Nobody seemed to notice the odour – except myself.
I have always felt I was different. Don’t think I’m blaming anyone – I am not. We all do what we can: nothing more, nothing less. But that isn’t the point. What is the point then?
The point is: trying to understand. Trying to understand ‘us’, the human race. Because it is only by understanding that we may make things better. We are groping in the dark, but that is no reason to give up. We must try, no matter how disappointed we get sometimes; when the world seems just as bad, despite all our efforts. Because we are moving forward in this great evolution experiment - maybe only in inches rather than the feet, yards and miles we would like to move, but I truly believe we are moving forward.
Of course some people could be helped by a swift kick up the arse – and, who knows, it may be your duty to help them!
And it is no answer to sink back on the comfortable bed of fundamentalism’ – religious or otherwise; be wary of ‘easy’ answers; beware of false prophets. We need to think for ourselves; it’s hard work, but it’s the only way.
So if – like Tony Hancock – you “…go down with your gunship, spitting furious blanks at targets out of your reach, and beyond your imagination.” well, at least you will have had a go.
Not a bad epitaph that: He had a go.
By the way, Hector did bring that magazine back. I couldn’t see what it was called but it was shrink-wrapped!
I cleared off before Myra broached the subject of sleeping arrangements with Carole. I walked to the public library. I enjoy a walk. Also I love libraries. All those books: other worlds, waiting for you to enter, and get lost in.
The trouble with public libraries is that you get people loitering about in the warmth, because they have nowhere else to go. I went into the toilet and there was someone in one of the cubicles, smoking! In retrospect I think I should have challenged him. I didn’t – but perhaps I should have. What is the world coming to: smoking in a library!
I asked the attractive young lady at the counter if I could join, since I was temporarily resident in the area. ‘No problem’ said. When I gave her my address: Briarwood, 52 Balthazar Crescent, Colingbroke, HENDON, I thought I saw her face twitch slightly – but perhaps I imagined it.
I wonder why library staff all seem to be women? (I’ve just realised, the way I wrote that sounds like there are one or two here who may be men in drag - I don’t mean that, of course, just that you don’t see many men working in libraries.) Is it because women are better at being librarians? Classifying, cataloguing, stamping books an all that stuff? I’m not complaining: there are some quite lovely ladies working here: classy, refined. Even if you don’t go in the library, you may catch a glimpse of one or two of them, standing outside the back door, having a fag.
Anyway, I selected two books: Tipping the Velvet by Sarah Waters and An Honourable Deception ? by Clare Short. (I am not a political animal – as you know – but I thought it might be interesting to hear old Clare spilling the beans about what went on in Cabinet leading up to the Iraq war. I think I’ll read Tipping the Velvet first.
Another good thing about this library: they have a snack-bar where you can get a good cup of coffee and a very acceptable toasted teacake. They also have a computer suite with internet-access – I am sitting here now, typing this piece. They’ve got a few Christmas decorations up. Christmas! I am no Scrooge but I just cannot stand all this run-up to Christmas thing. It brings on my OCD. I would like someone just to surprise me and say ‘It’s Christmas morning!’ I’d happily go out on Boxing Day
and buy presents for everybody.
From here, I am going to a supermarket for my prunes and then to Boots the Chemist for my personal requisites. I shall probably take luncheon in a pleasant looking café –Mrs B’s –, which I passed on the way here. I am not going back to Briarwood until it gets dark.
Sometimes I think that life can be grim –
Can’t help worrying all the time.
Is it any wonder I am glum (I refuse to say ‘depressed’ - the word is becoming devalued) the way I am treated? But perhaps that isn’t the cause of my glumness; it may be just a question of genes – most things are. It would be nice to think we were born with a ‘clean slate’ but we are not. I’m getting a feeling of déjà vu now – like I’ve said this before. But that’s okay: some things are worth repeating.
Carole came back from her run, all sweaty, and complaining of ‘jogger’s nipple’. She sat down to her bacon and eggs, without showering! Nobody seemed to notice the odour – except myself.
I have always felt I was different. Don’t think I’m blaming anyone – I am not. We all do what we can: nothing more, nothing less. But that isn’t the point. What is the point then?
The point is: trying to understand. Trying to understand ‘us’, the human race. Because it is only by understanding that we may make things better. We are groping in the dark, but that is no reason to give up. We must try, no matter how disappointed we get sometimes; when the world seems just as bad, despite all our efforts. Because we are moving forward in this great evolution experiment - maybe only in inches rather than the feet, yards and miles we would like to move, but I truly believe we are moving forward.
Of course some people could be helped by a swift kick up the arse – and, who knows, it may be your duty to help them!
And it is no answer to sink back on the comfortable bed of fundamentalism’ – religious or otherwise; be wary of ‘easy’ answers; beware of false prophets. We need to think for ourselves; it’s hard work, but it’s the only way.
So if – like Tony Hancock – you “…go down with your gunship, spitting furious blanks at targets out of your reach, and beyond your imagination.” well, at least you will have had a go.
Not a bad epitaph that: He had a go.
By the way, Hector did bring that magazine back. I couldn’t see what it was called but it was shrink-wrapped!
I cleared off before Myra broached the subject of sleeping arrangements with Carole. I walked to the public library. I enjoy a walk. Also I love libraries. All those books: other worlds, waiting for you to enter, and get lost in.
The trouble with public libraries is that you get people loitering about in the warmth, because they have nowhere else to go. I went into the toilet and there was someone in one of the cubicles, smoking! In retrospect I think I should have challenged him. I didn’t – but perhaps I should have. What is the world coming to: smoking in a library!
I asked the attractive young lady at the counter if I could join, since I was temporarily resident in the area. ‘No problem’ said. When I gave her my address: Briarwood, 52 Balthazar Crescent, Colingbroke, HENDON, I thought I saw her face twitch slightly – but perhaps I imagined it.
I wonder why library staff all seem to be women? (I’ve just realised, the way I wrote that sounds like there are one or two here who may be men in drag - I don’t mean that, of course, just that you don’t see many men working in libraries.) Is it because women are better at being librarians? Classifying, cataloguing, stamping books an all that stuff? I’m not complaining: there are some quite lovely ladies working here: classy, refined. Even if you don’t go in the library, you may catch a glimpse of one or two of them, standing outside the back door, having a fag.
Anyway, I selected two books: Tipping the Velvet by Sarah Waters and An Honourable Deception ? by Clare Short. (I am not a political animal – as you know – but I thought it might be interesting to hear old Clare spilling the beans about what went on in Cabinet leading up to the Iraq war. I think I’ll read Tipping the Velvet first.
Another good thing about this library: they have a snack-bar where you can get a good cup of coffee and a very acceptable toasted teacake. They also have a computer suite with internet-access – I am sitting here now, typing this piece. They’ve got a few Christmas decorations up. Christmas! I am no Scrooge but I just cannot stand all this run-up to Christmas thing. It brings on my OCD. I would like someone just to surprise me and say ‘It’s Christmas morning!’ I’d happily go out on Boxing Day
and buy presents for everybody.
From here, I am going to a supermarket for my prunes and then to Boots the Chemist for my personal requisites. I shall probably take luncheon in a pleasant looking café –Mrs B’s –, which I passed on the way here. I am not going back to Briarwood until it gets dark.
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