NEVER GET BETWEEN A HIPPO AND WATER

Last night I took a Harley Davidson motorcycle on the bus – on the top deck! It was surprisingly easy; the only slight difficulty was getting it round the bend in the stairs. And the motorcycle had a dog attached – yes a dog! A small one, fastened to the handlebars with a strap.

Of course it was a dream: a strange one? Actually not so strange because I had been considering buying another motorbike, and then thought, why bother – why not travel by public transport? The dream solved the dilemma by allowing me to take the bike on the bus. That’s what dreams do. And the dog? Ah well, that is something else.

I probably told you this, but I have a Diploma in ‘Therapeutic Dream Work’. I could paper the wall with the certificates I’ve got (clever bugger!). It might be an improvement on the eight layers of decorator’s delirium presently covering the walls of Hector’s bedchamber.

Yes, that is where I spent last night – alone. So, Anastasia, you need not have worried after all. I might as well be a monk – actually, I’d probably have more fun as a monk. I mean, I guess there’s not a lot of money in monking these days, but look at the perks! (No, I am not going to make jokes about ‘what fun does a monk have? Nun!’ Extremely bad taste)

It has just occurred to me: when I talked about Myra playing songs from The Singing Detective I did not mean that she played them on her concertina – oh yes, she has such an instrument, and very versatile she is too – you should hear her rendition (with original vocals) of Percy French’s smoking-concert ballad, Abdul Abulbul Imir and (one of my favourites) Come back Paddy Reilly to Ballyjamesduff.

But I digress.
I felt a twinge of anti-climax when Myra said I could have Hector’s room for the night, although she did add ‘until we can negotiate alternative arrangements’. This was accompanied by a mysterious smile – so make of that what you will!

On entering my brother’s bedroom, the first thing that struck me was the smell: testosterone. Oh yes, you can smell it – well, anyone with a trained nostril can.
But as I looked around the room I thought, what a prize twonk! In the corner near the window was a pair of oars – that’s right oars. He’s afraid of water – I know that for a fact. And as for the rugby ball – well granted he has played the game, but only at lower-school level, and he hated getting his shorts dirty.
But what really irritated me was the stuffed fish in a glass case, above the bed. Can you imagine! I don’t know what kind of marine specimen it might be, but it’s over three foot long and I am sure my brother didn’t catch it. I think he imagines himself as Ernest Hemingway!

And then his bookcase! When I go into someone’s house I always look at their bookshelves; you can tell a lot about a person by the books they have on their shelves (even if they don’t read them). Two volumes immediately caught my eye: The Encyclopedia of Unusual Sexual Practices (with illustrations) by Brenda Love, and A Defence of Masochism (no pictures) by Anita Phillips. (I opened this last one at random and read

“Masochists are pluralists, and have a largeness of spirit, an expansiveness. They can easily project themselves outwards and empathize with others, although they may sometimes want to protect themselves from their own susceptibility… are always moving out of themselves with a mixture of curiosity and intense pleasure in enveloping a fresh version of the world.”

Sounds a lot like me!

(The next two pages were stuck together – that’s Hector all over: he always was a sloppy eater; he probably spilled porridge whilst having his breakfast in bed).

Oh yes, and another book I noticed was The Delta of Venus by Anais Nin. Now, I am quite partial to a bit of Anais, even though she, allegedly, wrote this collection in an attempt to impress Arthur Miller – or was it Jean Paul Sartre?

So this is a sample of my brother’s bedtime reading. Nothing wrong in that. One man’s meat is another man’s poison – and all that. But the book that I selected, to calm my mind before sleep came, was GESTAPO by Rupert Butler. A thumping good read.
Anyway, if those women let me have his bedroom for a second night I intend to explore further this most interesting collection.

On a shelf, there sits a large duck, made out of some furry material. It looked so alone up there, I thought of taking it to bed with me, but Hector’s teddy-bear, Woggle (I remember him from childhood) was sitting on the pillow and he and the duck might not have got on very well.
There is also a large old-fashioned wardrobe in the room. Well, not so much a wardrobe as a brooding presence. I was afraid to open the door, for fear of what might lurk in its dark depths. There are two other pieces of furniture: a ‘tallboy’ of the same vintage as the wardrobe, and an armchair. This latter is very comfortable: old, dark brown leather, all polished by the pants of its many occupants over the years. It stands in the bay window, which overlooks the garden (more of that later).
Oh, and there is a wicker bedside cabinet with a glass top, on which stands a lamp and an old alarm clock; one of those with a huge brass bell on top. Wonderful. On opening the door (the knob came off in my hand) I discovered a bottle of whisky (two thirds full) and a whisky tumbler – which was nice.

Actually, come to think of it, that smell in H’s bedroom might have been Fiery Jack embrocation; the two smells are easily confused.