A confidential report

Wetherby here: Inspector Wetherby, West Brentshire Constabulary. It should have been CHIEF Inspector by now - but I wouldn’t join the Masons. It’s not just because I am a Roman Catholic – I’m well lapsed. Nor is it because I would feel ridiculous with my trouser leg rolled up and my breast bare – heaven knows, in my time I’ve … but never mind that now.
No, it is because I do not believe in secret societies, no matter how much they might further one’s career.

They talk about me in the station, you know. ‘He’s been passed over more times than the Red Sea’ – that’s what they say, behind my back. In fact that’s what caused the nervous breakdown: six weeks in a private clinic in Swindon – and I’m still not well. They tried to tell me I was suffering from ‘paranoia - aggravated by an unusually high alcohol consumption.’ Cheeky buggers.

But I digress. I have been given access to this blog by my dear friend (and, at the moment, unfortunately - prisoner) Georgina Turner.
Have you ever been in a police cell? It is not a pleasant experience – even I find it quite distressing when I have to visit occupants of the ‘lock-ups’ (as we call them) to help jog their memories.

Anyway, to ‘cut to the chase’ as they say, nowadays: Georgina has asked me to tell you that she is keeping up her spirits despite her parlous situation – and is optimistic of a favourable outcome. I am doing everything in my power to make her stay here as comfortable as possible: ensuring she has a supply of books, writing materials, fluffy lavatory paper… that sort of thing.

Naturally I am not at liberty (bad choice of words) to give you the details of the charges pending against my friend. But I can say that the most serious is to do with harbouring illegal immigrants. It’s a sore point these days: the government is fed up of getting a battering in the press every day. And that report of two of them working as cleaners in the Home Office - well, you can imagine the stink that caused. So we’ve got to make an example of somebody.

I don’t know what’s happening to our two ‘illegals’ – Immigration hauled them off to Paddington Green Maximum Security Facility. Well it’s all this terrorism scare isn’t it. Personally I don’t think these two are terrorists. The Swede, of course, I know quite well. I almost got to know her a lot better one night in Sainsbury’s car park, but a 999-call put paid to that. Truly, “A policeman’s lot is not a happy one.”

The other one – the German – looks like a Bader-Meinhof reject. If she’s a terrorist I’m a pantomime dame! (Actually I was a pantomime dame once – only an amateur production of course, but I got good reviews) Where was I….? Oh yes - the ‘firearm’ that all the fuss was about? Turned out to be a replica Luger, didn’t it - the sort you can buy down Chapman’s Arcade any day of the week. In fact I got one for my young nephew Timothy’s sixth birthday. He goes round ‘shooting’ everybody – bless him.

The fat woman: we’re doing her for assaulting a police officer: PC Williams. Actually, Tyrone is black and we thought we could have got her on a charge of racial abuse as well. But the CPS says No. Damn shame that.

As for that dopey lad (Sydney) and his girlfriend – we’re not even looking for them. Don’t tell anyone though.

But to get back to Georgina – which I am about to do when I’ve finished my mug of cocoa – I am sure she will be all right. She’s seeing her brief in the morning: Harry Sheene. He could get Stevie Wonder a driving licence!

There aren't many jokes in the Bible - have you noticed?


I have been advised that I should answer no questions. It is not right that I should have to give a complete case for myself until charges have been made and properly explained, and until there are other people around to check that questions put to me are fair and legal. I will say nothing until I am advised to do so by a fully qualified legal advisor.

Well, quite

"You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence."

Thursday, 19th July, 2007

EARLY MORNING -

LOUD KNOCKING -

NO NEED TO LOOK OUT WINDOW -

BUT I DO -

JAM SANDWICH CAR -

UNIFORMS -
I MAY BE GONE FOR SOME TIME .

A strange afternoon

AND ADVICE CAME - in a clerical collar, encircling the neck of the Reverend C. Harcourt-Burridge, or - as he likes to be called by his flock – ‘Cecil’. (Technically he doesn’t have a flock at the moment, the bishop having suspended him “pending an investigation.” He isn’t supposed to talk about it but it’s common currency in the Jolly Pervert) He called around three in the afternoon, on his way back from said pub. I could see he was tired and emotional: he fell over whilst trying to remove his cycle-clips.

He said he had come to see if he might borrow George’s snooker-cue: the tip having come off his own, and he had an important match that same evening. Actually, I think that was an excuse, and really he had called because he was in need of solace (and, truth to say, so was I). I said I would see if I could find the aforesaid snooker implement, and led him gently towards the sofa. He was asleep before I could remove his shoes.

Whilst my guest was sleeping I occupied myself with the Telegraph crossword. Having completed this in my usual 9 minutes, I turned to the front page. The main story was about that Bill failing to get through parliament: the one giving the police 90 days to hold terrorist suspects without bringing them to trial. I should jolly well think so, too! Why should the police be restricted to 90 days? They should be given an indefinite time (as, I understand, they have asked for) to keep people in the cells until they have enough evidence to ensure a conviction. And I would say to those pinko liberals, whingeing on about ‘civil liberties, the police don’t arrest people who are not guilty.

But wait a minute - they arrested me! Well ok, so they make the occasional mistake, but not about terrorists.

I woke Cecil up with a mug of black coffee, and told him about George’s letter.
He volunteered to drive me over to Swindleford himself. He advised against taking a room in the hospital, saying that the Star and Garter, in the town centre, had an excellent reputation for comfort and service; if I were agreeable, he would go on the Internet and see if he could book two rooms.

It is at times like this that one learns who one’s true friends are. I gladly accepted his kind offer, insisting of course that I pay for both rooms (and dinner) since he was giving so generously of his time. He demurred at first, and then reluctantly agreed. As he was leaving he asked if I might give him a small advance towards the cost of the petrol as he was waiting for a cheque to clear. I gave him twenty pounds, and he left by the back garden.

When he had gone, I poured myself a large gin and settled myself on the sofa – which was still warm. I fell asleep and had this dream.

I am in some kind of cathedral. It is beautiful but I have had enough of it, and am looking for the exit. The ‘cathedral’ is on several floors, with numerous corridors and rooms, and I cannot find the way out. Each route I try, each door I open leads on to another corridor or into another room.
I am getting a bit worried, when I meet George. He tells me to follow him – he knows the way out. I am sure that he does not, but I follow him anyway.
I suddenly find myself on a kind of balcony overlooking the knave, and down below George is talking to a man in a grey mackintosh. He shouts to me, excitedly ‘This is Mr…..’ and he seems to be pleading with the man to show us how to get out of the place.
When I get down the ‘man’ has become a tiny figure, lying on the floor, with arms and legs outstretched. I stamp on him viciously – again and again – and I flatten him, as if he were a rag doll.
Then I realise that this is a dream. I tell George and he says – yes, and I am in it to show you the way.
No – I say – but because it is a dream I can will the cathedral to disappear.
I make a real effort and the place just dissolves. It’s gone – I say. And I find that I am crying. But it isn’t with relief or happiness. Before me is a sort of grey industrial wasteland. In the distance I see old factories and derelict buildings.
And I realise I am still trapped.


Now what do you make of this? I think I may ask George about it when I visit him: he's got a diploma in 'therapeutic dreamwork', you know.

A matter of great import

I do not intend to be drawn by your scurrilous, comment, Mr Adams; all I will say is that it is typical of you to kick a girl when she is down.

But I have more important things to worry about. This morning, on coming downstairs, I found, lying on the mat amidst the final demands, an envelope in an all too familiar hand. It contained a letter, which I reproduce here, in full:


Dear Spouse

Since the mountain won’t come to Mahomet, then Mahomet must perforce come to the mountain, by the only means at his disposal, i.e. the written word.

We had haddock for tea last night and I thought of you. I am not implying that you look like a haddock – nor indeed smell like one. No, the question of your resemblance to such fish is not the issue here. It is the fact that haddock is the only thing I can remember you cooking for me – or at least, the only thing that was edible. The culinary arts were never your forte.

I am not lonely, but am disappointed that you have not been to visit. The nursing staff has changed since my last sojourn in Heartbreak Hotel: I now have a key-worker: Clarice, a dusky lady who hails fro Jamaica. She tells me I should visit Kingston, “A fine city.”

I was embarrassed, not to say dismayed to read about the unseemly goings-on at Wynorin. (I think we should change the name of the house!). Clarice smuggled me in a copy of the Cotswold Cryer and I could hardly believe what I was reading. Are you running some sort of coven? Are you a cult? Much as I deplore such activities, if you need a character witness at your trial you can count on me.

I would like you to visit me, as there is a matter of great import I wish to apprise you of. It is not something I can put in writing; let us just say that it concerns a certain lady psychiatrist whose first name begins with ‘A’.
I know it means a long bus ride but I can get you a room here for the night. I don’t mean in with us lunatics: they have a couple of rooms for visitors who have travelled a long way (and also who may wish to enjoy conjugal rights!!!).
What do you say?

I must close now, as Clarice is here to give me a hand massage. They look after your physical as well as your mental needs in here. I have been suffering severe arthritis in the fingers of my right hand - probably due to all the writing – and Clarice gives me a good seeing-to with the essential oils around this time in the afternoon.

Cheers

George

P.S. How are you?

Now what am I to do? Should I undertake the long bus journey? What can the ‘matter of great import’ be? Should I stay overnight?
All these – and other – questions are racing around in my head, befuddling my poor brain. I need some advice.

Where did we go wrong?

Getting born? - as George once suggested.
Why do we hurt others so much, when we don’t really want to? I think there are very few real villains; yes there are some, but not many. We hurt others through ignorance, carelessness, the need to survive, maybe – but not malice. We blunder through life and, as they say, “shit happens”.

George used to say he did not believe in ‘original sin’ “My sin is pretty unoriginal” he said. And he was right.

It was 8.30 when I awoke this morning. First decent night’s sleep I’ve had in ages – well, ever since… you know. I haven’t heard anything from the police; I suppose they are “pursuing various lines of enquiry”, like they say on television. Of course, we didn’t make the telly – I think we would have qualified for a 45-minute slot on a local newscast but the floods took all the airtime. Anyway, the local paper was bad enough. I don’t want to think about it. I’ve had an attack of piles! I’m sure it’s all the stress. Still, they feel better now, fingers crossed.

I think about George. It was unwise to start to look at bits of his writing. I should have just burned the lot. But as I say, it has been raining for days. The lawns are underneath two inches of water. George wasn’t much of a gardener – come to think of it, he wasn’t much of a ‘anything’ really. I don’t mean that in a nasty way. I mean he sort of dabbled in all sorts of stuff. A ‘Jack of all trades’, he spread himself too thinly. Here, I’m talking about him as if he were dead – which he definitely is not!

I would go and see him, only I hate hospitals – especially psychiatric hospitals. They tell you that you cannot ‘catch’ a mental illness. But how can they be so sure? I mean with all those crazy vibrations buzzing around, it’ like a force field? It could be potentially dangerous – like when you put your credit card down near a powerful magnet.

Which reminds me of the reason I need to see my husband: I am going broke, slowly but surely. (I have had no response to the stuff I advertised here – perhaps I should try eBay, except I don’t know how to work it.)
And here I am sitting on a wedge of money (the house) which I cannot get at because he needs to sign the necessary papers. I know he is supposed not to be able to make any decisions like that, but all the same I think I should pay him a visit. Of course I am concerned about his health, too.

I’ve always been concerned about his sanity. I’ve just come across something written on the back of an envelope:

“She had to have the doctor in the middle of the night. And in the morning she just had to have the postman”.

See what I mean?

I feel lonely. I know I am ALONE but you can be alone and not feel lonely. So why do I feel lonely? I wish you were here now, Anna.

The early years

I was a virgin when I met George. I thought he was. It turned out to be just incompetence. But I have to say he improved dramatically during our years together, came on by leaps and bounds, you might say. Of course he got in a bit of extra practice here and there.

He had his own view of marriage: he once said to me ‘The chains of matrimony are so heavy they require two to carry them – sometimes three’ I did not realise, at the time, that is was a quote he had picked up somewhere – as was so many of his pronouncements. But to give him his due, he did come up with some original stuff as well. And in the early years he made me laugh too. I can’t remember just when the laughing stopped.

He’d been married before, although only for three months. He described it as ‘a marriage of inconvenience’. But it had ‘spawned a sprog’ as George put it: the redoubtable Sydney; Syd was brought up by his mother, a crane-driver from Newcastle, with little or no help from his absentee father - although George always referred to him as ‘my boy’ (with the hint of a tear).

Of course I knew none of this, that Monday morning. Indeed it was quite a while before the story came out, in dribs and drabs, as our relationship blossomed. (I am not sure the word ‘blossomed’ is entirely appropriate in the context of George and me – let’s just say ‘grew’).

I mentioned how the staff at the medical centre had labelled George as a hypochondriac. He was, but he really did suffer from depression – as I was to find out, to my cost. I just didn’t know what to do when one of these bouts ‘descended’ (his word). I used to get the Hoover out. I find vacuuming so therapeutic in times of stress.

He said I never understood him, never understood his depression. And looking back, perhaps he was right. But it wasn’t my fault was it? He said he couldn’t help being depressed. Well, I couldn’t help not understanding depression.

Still, we jogged along. But jogging is not enough – is it? You need the occasional sprint. And sprinting was definitely lacking in our relationship.

I know I said I would not read this stuff I am throwing out, but I just turned over that sheet of A4 and found this written on the back:

My God’s bigger than your God

If the so-called ‘Holy Books’ (The Bible, The Koran, The Upanishads etc.) were just accepted as a distillation of human wisdom, gathered over the ages and in different parts of the world. And if we could drop the ‘Holy’ bit and empathise the human element we would be far more tolerant and receptive to change. We could also weed out the more dangerous precepts contained in these writings which arise out of fear – fear of a (non existent) supernatural deity.

We could disregard the commands of competing deities to go to war in their various names, to fight to prove which God is the most powerful, the more ‘right’.

And instead of ossifying these writings at a certain point in time, they could be continually updated in the light of new evidence, of increased wisdom. We might even make them available on the Internet, in interactive form.

Well, how’s that for another dollop of nonsense! There is no date on this piece of paper, so it could have been written any time. It might even have been written during the months he was shagging the Swede! So how can you attach any credibility to this high-flown philosophical stuff, when it is written by a man whose morals are so loose they are falling apart? “By their deeds, so shall ye know them.” – says the Good Book. And you can’t say fairer than that, can you?

I don’t know where he’d got the wheelchair from; it certainly wasn’t NHS issue. It looked like a relic of the First World War. And the man pushing it might have served in that same war.

The canvas and wood contraption creaked its way towards me, tacking from side to side like a yacht in a strong headwind, as one or other of the iron-spoke wheels gave out a protesting squeal.

When it reached the desk its occupant leaped nimbly out. ‘Morning – I’m George Turner. Am I too early?’

I was too stunned to tell him he was half an hour late for his ‘urgent’ appointment. I stared at the old gent who was hanging on to the handles of the wheelchair and seemed to be having trouble breathing. He was a funny colour and looked seconds away from cardiac arrest. ‘Are you alright?’ I enquired, anxiously.
George answered for him. ‘Henry? He’s right as rain. Fit as a fiddle. Never had a day’s illness in his life. That right Henry?’
Henry clearly had difficulty speaking.

‘Well, take a seat then’ I gave what I hoped was a caring, yet professional smile.
Henry sat down in the wheelchair.
‘No, no – you can’t sit there. I meant on the bench’. I gestured vaguely.
The old man beamed at me. He didn't seem to understand. A small queue was beginning to form, and I started to panic.

Marjorie came to my rescue. ‘That’s ok. I’ll put him in a corner where no one will fall over him’. And then, to George, ‘What’s with the wheelchair, George?’
‘My walking stick’s gone in for a service’ he replied.
Marjorie pulled a face.
‘Actually, I am suffering from planchafistitis he continued.
I looked blank,
‘Policeman’s foot’ said Marjorie. ‘Well, at least that’s a new one for you, George.’ And, without waiting for a reply, she hauled the wheelchair and its octogenarian occupant across the room to a place of safety, and I was now able to concentrate on the planchafistitis sufferer.

My first impression was of someone recently returned from a world cruise: tanned and fit. I had to admit that, although quite a bit older than me, he was attractive in a raffish sort of way. (In fact I was to tell him later – much later – that, with his Zapata moustache he reminded me of a successful Greek gun-runner. And he – much later still - was to remind me that this was the only time I had referred to him as ‘successful’).

But I am getting ahead of myself. On that Monday morning my only concern was to get this eccentric off my hands. ‘Take a seat please, Mr Turner, and wait for Doctor Shiva to buzz.’
‘Call me George,’ he said, ‘everybody does’. And he leered at me, before going to sit next to a young single mum, and striking up a conversation with her toddler before his bum had hit the seat.

But I did know. Or I should have known – after that first encounter.
I was twenty-one, and had just got a job as part-time receptionist at the Barnfield Medical Centre. One Monday morning I got a phone call from this maniac. I can still remember the conversation, almost word for word:

Maniac: I want to make an appointment with Dr Plankton.
Me: Dr Plankton is on holiday. Is it urgent?
Maniac: Matter of life and death.
Me: (alarmed) I could fit you in with Dr. Doboman?
Maniac: No – we don’t get on. The man’s a fool. What about the old Irish Biddy? She
seems to know her onions.
Me:(coolly) If you mean Dr O’Mara, she has left the practice. (pause while I scan the vdu)
I see that Dr Shiva has had a cancellation – if you could get here for ten o clock?
Maniac: Well, ok – providing you can supply an interpreter.
Me: I beg your pardon.
Maniac: Only joking, love – see you at ten. By the way, you’re new aren’t you?
What's your name?
Me; (startled) Georgina
Maniac: Well, talk about coincidence! I’m GEORGE – George Turner. Although actually,
I don’t believe in coincidence; I favour Jung’s synchronicity. Something has
brought us together this Monday morning.
Me: (trying to regain control of the situation) Well, ten o clock then, Mr Turner?
Maniac: I can’t wait – Georgina!

As I put the phone down I could see Marjorie, the other receptionist, giving me this funny look.
'What' I said.
‘Turner? George Turner?' her eyebrows raised.
'Yes, why? Do you know him?'
She gave a tired smile. 'We all know him, love. George is our resident hypochondriac.'
‘But he said it was a matter of life and death’ I protested weakly.
‘He usually does, love – and it’s always some vague ache or pain – or depression. Just wait – you’ll see.’

He turned up, half an hour late – in a wheelchair.

I’m burning all his ‘writings’: diaries, journals, notebooks, letters, short stories, plays, unfinished novels, loose sheets of paper filled with his scrawly handwriting – the lot. A big bonfire in the garden. A conflagration. And I shall dance around the flames, naked.

Or, I will do when it stops raining. It has been the wettest July on record. People flooded out of their homes. Furniture floating down the street. What a mess.
Of course, they’re blaming global warming. Global warming my arse! It’s a design fault. I mean, what can you expect when you create a world in seven days? You’ve got to cut corners. I bet that was the real story behind old Noah and the flood: inadequate drainage provision!

Six bin-bags of his stuff, I’ve got. Here in the kitchen. Waiting for the water level to go down in the garden. I don’t read it. Just shovel it into the bags. Well, I tell a lie – I do read the odd (‘odd’ being the operative word – no wonder he’s locked up) bit that catches my eye.

I found this written in longhand, on a sheet of A4:

Behaviour is ‘right’ or ‘wrong’ only in relation to a desired outcome. For example: applying the front brake to my motorcycle, when banked over, cornering at speed, is only ‘wrong’ if my desired outcome is to stay on the bike. If I want to fall off it is the ‘right’ thing to do.

Most people can see this easily enough but when it comes to morals, religion, ethics the issue becomes cloudy. But it is only cloudy to those who refuse to think.

A desired outcome may be the adherence to a set of rules we choose to call ‘morals’ or to a code of practice called ‘religion’. ‘Morality’ usually means the set of rules the majority choose to adhere to (or rather to profess to adhere to). Religions (the many and various – and often conflicting) are just systems of rules with the added benefit (?)of a supernatural dimension: the backing of a higher authority, usually called ‘God’.

So on what basis can we work out a system of rules that will help us to be happier, more fulfilled, more able to live in peace and harmony? The key phrase here is ‘work out’ – not the uncritical acceptance of ‘the word of God’ as interpreted by a Moses or a Mohammed or their priests down the years.

If we accept the theory of evolution then surely we should strive for behaviour that favours the continuance of this process. This means having the courage to cut loose from supernatural saviours. A good motto might be ‘Don’t blame God, he wasn’t there’
Accept that reason is a better bet that faith. That science is a better way of finding out about the world than reading ‘holy books’ - science, as John Diamond says in this book ‘Snake Oil’ being about ‘…trying things out to see what happens, and discovering that those things which happen over and over again are true’.

I happen to think this is a good way to live. And that such a practice is more likely to lead to tolerance, cooperation and harmony in the world than blindly following some faith or dogma merely because it has been handed down over the centuries.

You hear people prating on about the ‘fact’ that the world is in such a state because we have ‘strayed from the path’, discarded religion, rejected the teachings of Go. Well if this religion (pick your own variety) was so good, why would we want to discard it? Religion has had a few thousand years to sort things out – it clearly hasn’t done so. It’s time to try something else.
What a load of pernicious bullshit.

I mean, we all know right from wrong, don’t we? It is something we learn at our mother’s breast. Well, in my case bottle. Mother did not believe in breast- feeding. Said it would ruin her figure. She was in the chorus line: The Bluebell Girls.
I’m not saying I had an unhappy childhood: disturbing is a more accurate description. My adolescence was worse. That was why I married George at such a young age (me, not him) to get away from it all.

Little did I know…