When you and I were young

No words come tonight.
 Confusion fills my head.
So I have been listening to Jazz.
Don't click here if you don't like old Jazz

Altruism: does it pay off?

*************************************************8

Confusion. That’s what I’m feeling this morning. A head full of confusion is what I’ve got. And a lot of it is due to getting up, then deciding it was too early, and going back to bed. A mistake. Like ordering that second bottle of wine.


I had two short nasty dreams. Same theme. I am ‘out of it’. An outsider. I struggle to find out what is going on. There is a college party but I don’t know where it is, or what time they meet. A friend gets impatient with me when I ask him for details. This ‘friend’ is a boyhood pal who was so shy and timid in real life. He is now a clergyman but in the dream he is a popular party-goer. When I press him, he says they are meeting 'at twelve' in the ‘George’ (a pub, but also a dream pun, which it would take too long to explain here.) What? I say, you mean midnight? Of course, he replies. He doesn’t ask me to go with him.
 I decide I’m not going to go because ‘I always end up alone at these ‘do’s’.Why should I put myself through all that again?’

But the confusion is perhaps the worst part: How come he is so popular and ‘well-in’. He has only been at this college for a few months, while I have been here years. What am I doing wrong? What is it that I lack – that others have in such abundance?

I wake feeling depressed.

Once again, I find myself blaming the ‘only child’ thing. I think that when you are an only child you have nothing the measure yourself against, nothing to relate to. You don’t know where you ‘fit in’. You wonder what you are ‘for’, what your place is in the scheme of things. Consequently you grow up not knowing who you are – and that is the fount of your basic insecurity.

Of course, I am talking about myself. How can I presume to speak for everyone who has grown up as an ‘only child’. Nevertheless, I do believe that we share certain personality traits.

It’s well after noon, and I am still in my dressing down. Isn’t that decadent?
I shall finish this cup of coffee (I’ve already eaten the piece of chocolate) and then take a shower. Some mornings it is a real effort to have a shower, so I put it off for as long as I can; in this case by sitting here at the computer.

I have been given permission to go out this afternoon and see my friend, Jim (I’ve spoken to you before about him, Anna). He has been kicked out of his flat and is currently residing at the Salvation Army Hostel. Actually, I understand the facilities there are quite excellent. You have to pay, of course, but the rooms are clean and the food is good. I have made a mental note of this, in case I too am homeless at some future date.

How are Brian’s phlegm levels? I hope you are using that antiseptic hand gel stuff. I don’t want you catching his nasty germs; coming from Sweden you may be more vulnerable to English bugs.

Looking forward to seeing my (germ free) Anna

Love

George

Funny noises with the mouth

************************************************************
A thought occurred to me this morning:


Perhaps before we had language we had other ways of communicating. And then as language developed these older methods fell into disuse, and were eventually "forgotten".

Evolution depended on survival. Could it be possible that we developed "telepathy" – which may, at its most basic level, may have been just the communication of raw feelings: fear at the impending approach of some predator, transmitted as a danger signal to other members of the tribe; grief; sexual desire; love, even; the ability to make our presence felt to others. As we evolved so may our skills:  the transmission of visual images (still and moving) and other  non-language communication.

Now, in our highly sophisticated world of language, we have lost sight of, or "forgotten" these earlier skills – perhaps they have atrophied, like our tail when we finally came down from the trees, and we are just left with a vestigial “psychic coccyx”. (It would be interesting to mount a study to see if there is a correlation between the length of the coccyx in humans and their ‘psychic’ ability).

Nevertheless, inn our technological age, when someone experiences a sudden inexplicable "knowing", we either dismiss it out of hand or we label it "supernatural’"Of course there is no such thing as "supernatural". If it exists, then it is natural.

I wonder,  is it coincidence that people with the least developed language skills seem to be the ones most likely to experience this "psychic" phenomena? I am thinking of adults, but young children often have "imaginary" friends. (My daughter had one – his name was "Mancroft"). Of course this may just be imagination… on the other hand, it could be that young children have not yet been educated out of these other ways of seeing and experiencing.


Another (completely unrelated) thought:

 Did Pope Julius II call Michelangelo "Mick"?
I like to think so:


You sent for me, Your Holiness?


Yes I did, Mick. Come in and shut the door. Take a pew.


Thanks, boss. That was a great sermon you preached last Sunday, boss – the camel and the eye of a needle stuff. That’s one in the eye (if you’ll pardon the pun) for the wankers (sorry, Bankers). Yes, Boccacio was right -


Never mind all that, Mick. It’s about this little job you’re doing for me.

What job would that be, boss

The painting of the Sistene chapel, of course.


Oh, yes, I’m really cracking on with that.

But that’s the point Mick, you’re not cracking on with it.


How do you mean?


Well, don’t you think you’re spending just a little too much time on the ceiling?


Pardon.

I cannot risk Mass in there with you on your back up on that scaffolding. It’s a Health and Safety issue; you do see that, don’t you?’ What if you fell and injured one of the congregation? We’re in a “compensation culture” now, you know, Mick. It’s more than my job’s worth.


I mean, admittedly it’s very nice – all those cherubs and stuff, although personally, I would have preferred something simpler - a plain eggshell blue, for example.  But the thing is Mick… well, I’m not trying to tell you your job – but I was round there yesterday, and you haven’t even sanded down the doors yet!

What?


And then there’s the window-frames and the pews, and the stonework’s going to need a good going over with the wire brush.


Excuse me, Your Holiness - I just quoted for the ceiling.


Now, no excuses, Mick. Remember how you came knocking on my door, with all the spiel “ Just in the area – got a load of paint over from the last job – noticed your chapel could do with a touch up - cash in hand – no VAT.”
We're talking about the chapel, Mick – the whole caboodle.’


Nah! Sorry boss, not at that price.

Well, you don’t get paid until you finish it – the complete chapel.


Now hang on, Your Holiness – we had a contract. A verbal one, admittedly.


(Laughs) Well, you know what they say Mick – a verbal contract’s not worth the parchment it’s written on.


(Mumbles under his breath) Yeah, well you Popes aren’t exactly renowned for paying up anyway… I’ve been done before…


What was that?


I was just saying… I’ve been up there so long; I’m nearly done for. All I want is a fair price for the job.


I’m trying to run a church here, Mick. And what with the overspill from St Agnes’ after the arson, I need every bit of space I can get. I'm sorry, Mick, but it's the whole chapel - or no payment.

 ‘You drive a hard bargain, boss. Tell, you what: my brother’s just been laid off; the recession’s hit the road building real hard. He’s usually on the “black stuff”, but he can turn his hand to anything. How about if he helps me with the downstairs stuff? Another five florins, and we have the job completed Sunday week?


Done.


***************************************
I agree with you, Anna about the selling sex thing. I acknowledge that half an hour is not long to form a meaningful relationship; an hour would be better, although more expensive.


But that is not the point. What about all those ugly folk, who cannot attract a mate? The socially inept? The chronically shy? The psychologically damaged? How would they be able to satisfy their sexual urges if it were not for thes ladies? These "escorts", "call-girls", "prostitutes" - whatever label you wish to append - perform a service, fulfil a need.
In an ideal world (or so we have been brought up to believe) we should all "entitled" to a  loving, meaningful  relationship, with the trust, caring, companionship and  intimacy that this implies.
It is another lie, of course. This is not ours "by right"; we may be lucky, and achieve it. Most people don't. Some, by accident of birth, uprbinging, life trauma, never even stand a chance.

I think Brian's cold may have come at the right time - for you, Anna, not for him. It has alerted you to the downside - the incredibly down side - of marriage. And believe me, phlegm would be the least of your worries.

Anyway, don't come to see me until Brian's cold is better. (If one person catches a cold in here it goes through the whole place.).

I am working on the fiscal problems I mentioned and hope for a good outcome; an outcome that will benefit both of us.

Looking forward to seeing you - post phlegm.

Love

George

Oh Georgie. How much I love you, but you do talk a load of bullshit, sometimes. (I learn word bullshit off Brian. I think it is a splendid sounding word. Like slut, and trashy.). But left brain, right brain - why is it you making such big deal over this? After all, you have right hand and left hand. And you may use different hand for different purposes. But you don't go on about it - do you?
I am telling you previously, you think too much.

And what is there wrong for paying for sex? Nothing is wrong I am telling you. Lady who is friend who used to work with me in video industry becomes escort person. She tell me that she say to client who is nervous and say he feels guilty - she say, Look, honey. You get hungry, right? You go to restaurant for big satisfying meal, right? Well, you don't feel guilty about such behaviour do you? Just because you pay for this satisfying meal? No, well sex is just appetite, like what is food. So you satisfy appetite, and say - My, I am feeling so much better after that - I will leave tip for this nice kind lady what has been serving me. (Mostly, she say clients do not leave tip because they have paid in advance and afterwards wish to exit from premises as quickly as possible by the back door route.) Never mind.

You would be surprised, say my friend, how repressed and with silly notions in head, men can be. One young gentleman say to her - I find this hard to do because I think sex should be a part of love - I mean it should only be done in loving relationship with someone. And how can I form  loving relationship  in half an hour? (which time is all he have paid for - he could have have  full hour but  is too mean, but my friend do not tell him this). My friend tell him - Look at it like you was learning to drive motor-car. You do not go first out and buy brand spanking new vehicle what you might easily crash. No, instead you go for lesson with professional instructor. And you do not say to instructor - I cannot have lesson with you in this car because it is not my car. I do not own it. I have not formed loving relationship with this vehicle. You use car for purpose. And everybody is happy.

Now this man, Mr Freud. Is he not man who say all girls want to have sex with father? And all boys want to have sex with mother? I do not know if I wanted to have with my father, because I never meet him. He buggers off when I am born. Much later do I have sex with mother's boy-friend, but this is not the same.
Anyway, I think people too fussy about who to have sex with. It is no big deal I think. Having sex, I mean. It is just another way of being friendly.

I am glad you do not kill Mr Spider. Of course, you chuck him outside and some bird might come and spear him with sharp beak, then eat him. Then cat come and eat bird. But his is just nature. This is way God designed world - so everything eat each other. That way keep population down.

And all these dreams what you keep having - why not do have erotic dream once in a while? Thinking of me? This would be more healthy than dreams you do have. All this failing exam stuff.

Brian has severe cold in head. He has much what you call catarrh (do I spell correct?) and also great quantities of the phlegm. (What a bloody silly word is this - why do you not spell like you say - which is flem?) Anyway I say to Brian - Kindly dispose of phlegm when you are alone. Because this is not a pleasant business at all. Also I say - Better go back sleeping on Japanese plank which you call futon, because I do not wish you to be blowing your germs up my nose in night. Brian understands and complies with my request.

I am beginning to reconsider again this marriage thing because a wife might be expected to involve self in all sort of unpleasant duties, regarding bodily functions and person hygene of husband. And though I am familiar with workings of Brian's body - and love him too (but not like I love you), I am not sure if this would fill me with joy. I like dressing up as nurse and wearing of rubber gloves, but this only is for play and in fun situations.

Sometimes life can be complicated. But best thing is to forget about it.

I cook pasta tonight. This is adventurous for me because I do not use microwave. Instead I boil pasta in pan for certain minutes. Then I open tin of tuna and deposit on pasta. Finally, I garnish with tomato sauce, from bottle. I am sure Brian will love this meal and it will help to make cold better.

Good news you are giving me about possible home. I still think marriage is preferred solution but am willing to consider other options.

Until next we meet

Your Anna

DORIS - AND A SPIDER

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

I awake to hear Doris Day asking me to take her back to the Black Hills of Dakota.
Hang on Doris – I need a pee. And straightaway I am out of bed and into the bathroom. But there is a spider, frantically trying to climb out of the washbasin. Of course washbasins are not designed to facilitate the easy exit of spiders, so he keeps slipping down. But he doesn’t give up. In fact he redoubles his efforts when he hears my approach.
I don’t like killing anything, so I get a glass and a piece of paper and scoop him up. He doesn’t like it; he doesn’t realise it’s for his own good.
Then, I open a window and tip him outside – to freedom.
I have a pee then hasten back to the bedroom – but Doris has gone!

I’ve been having those dreams again, Anna: the “failure” dreams. They are becoming more frequent. It was exams again. The “teacher” was reading out the results to the assembled students. (I was an adult and it was like college or university). When she read out mine, a group of girls at the front gave out a sympathetic gasp. I was embarrassed. I had done badly in “English”: my best subject.
Later, I confessed to the “teacher” – ‘I just have not put the work in’. I felt so dejected, ashamed.
And then, there was Doris – with an invitation. And now she is gone.

I try to analyse these dreams. I know that my unconscious mind is telling me something: something I urgently need to attend to – or perhaps just accept, and face. But what?
My “failure” was years ago: grammar school. Since then (academically, at least), I have been successful. So what is it my unconscious mind is telling me? Perhaps the “academic” setting of the dreams is a metaphor – but a metaphor for what?

I wish Freud were here.

Or even you, Anna.

Where are you?

Calling A for Anna –
Come in A for Anna -
Are you receiving me?
OVER.

Things are never quite what they seem. And even if they were, how would we know?

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

I overhead part of a conversation last night, between Clive and Eric. There is a path just below my window which, the evening being quite hot, I had opened wide. Clive and Eric, taking a late evening stroll, had paused for a cigarette.


Eric was apparently telling Clive of the time he visited a massage parlour. He had just split up from his wife and was feeling lonely. He told Clive how he had been so nervous – this being his first time – but the girl had put him at ease, and the whole experience turned out so much better than he could ever have hoped.

‘Well, I would never pay for sex’, said Clive.
There was a pause, and then I heard Eric reply, ‘Oh, we all pay for sex. Sometimes with our dignity… sometimes with our freedom… sometimes with our heart. Often with all three.’

I suddenly felt I was eavesdropping on some really personal stuff, and I was about to close the window, when they moved on, leaving that fragment of conversation hanging in the air, along with a faint whiff of cigarette smoke. (It’s funny, but although I do not indulge myself, I often find the smell of cigarette smoke quite pleasant, seductive, even.)

I retired to bed in a thoughtful mood.

I sometimes see my mind as a washing machine, with all sorts of bits and pieces sloshing around inside. And me, sitting with my eyes glued to the glass window, the porthole of my consciousness, watching different items swirl into view. While some pieces never make an appearance, other items appear twice, or even more. It’s all a bit random. As my mother used to say, “Random is, as random does.” Well, she might have – I can’t remember.

Anyway, all I am saying is that I may possibly repeat myself, If I do, just think of it as the same bit of clothing coming around again.

I was thinking – when are you doing anything else? I hear you ask, Anna.
Well anyway, it occurred to me that the prevailing view – the official, the accepted view of the world, of reality and how things are, is predominantly a left-brain view: the view of the scientist. Now I am not knocking science – I have the utmost respect for the scientific method as a tool for finding out about things. But I sometimes wonder whether there might possibly be another reality apart from this mathematical, logical, rationality… or whether reality can ultimately be reduced to ones and zeroes. OR, perhaps these two realities are just different aspects of one reality. And that maybe we are not giving enough weight to the right brain reality. This is a clumsy way of putting it but it’s the best I can do whilst drunk. No, I am not drunk, Anna. That was just an excuse.

I don’t like that dark green cabbage either. No wonder you didn’t eat it. I always think it looks like it is suffering from deep-vein thrombosis, and I shudder at the thought of my stomach (and then my bowel) having to deal with it. But I do like that other sort of cabbage – is it called “Spring Cabbage”? – the one that is light and delicate, and very tasty.

I think you are right in expecting Brian to move his motorbike out of the back bedroom. But I think you are even more right in thinking carefully about whether you really want to get into this marriage thing. By the way, I don’t think Purple Cow actually meant that marriage caused her to develop a rash. What she said was that she was allergic – and that, I think, was a sort of metaphor. Your rash (which I do remember you telling us all about) was something quite different – and responded well to the antibiotics, as I recall.

And, Anna, please do not write me off as suitable partner material. Note that I say “partner”. What need have we for this marriage thing? There are other ways around your little problem of illegal sojourn in our country. After all, you have been here for… how long is it now? And no one has bothered you, come looking for you, have they? And another thing: do not be so sure that I cannot offer you a home. I have decided that I am going to sue my (ex) wife for possession of the holiday cottage we  owned. The one by the sea… on Wosser Point. You remember – you and I spent a weekend there. I know it was a long time ago but surely you cannot have forgotten that weekend!

When Georgina and me divorced, I felt so guilty that I did not bother to fight her over the cottage. (Georgina eventually got all the money from the sale of Wynorin – our marital home.) My solicitor told me I was a fool – but you know me… soft hearted. Well, I have changed: no more “Mister Nice Guy”.

Anyway I have a meeting with my solicitor tomorrow. (That was the news I had for you, which got overshadowed by the mushroom cloud of your marriage bombshell.) I shall take my ex wife to court for what is rightfully mine.

I am off to bed now because I want to be fully alert for tomorrow’s meeting.

Set your sights a little higher than Purley, my love.

Goodnight



George

I do not wake up in a house because I wake up in  flat. This is council flat what has two bedrooms, but second bedroom does not have bed. Instead it have all the bits of Brian's motor-bicycle, on floor. This because no garage is there to this flat. And although flat on ground floor Brian is unable to get motorbike in in one piece so he dismantle it. This is not satisfactory. Not only for Brian, because if he want to ride machine he must take outside and re mantle before he can use, but also if marriage is happening.
I tell Brian, if we marry I want room to myself, personally. No problem, says Brian, I will remove bike - all bits of it -  and also clean oil off linoleum.

But I also remind Brian that my mind is not yet made up on this important venture. No problem, says Brian. Take the time you need. (I find irritating how he have habit to say - no problem, all the time.)  But never mind. I have known in past several gentleman with much worse habits)

Anyways, what I am telling you, Georgie, is that nothing has been settled - nuptually speaking. (I do note what Purple Cow is saying, about marriage bringing her out in rash. I myself have sufferred from these problems - as I have told you previously in this blog.)

Thing is my sweet, I am worried about being departed back to Sweden where I am being pursued by authorities on little matter of tax discrepancies. Of course, if you were to be in postion to offer the institution of marriage to myself then no problem would there be. (see how I get into Brian's 'no problem' habit. I must get out of same habit.).

But do not distress yourself, my lover, things have a way of working themselves out, if we give them a lttle time.

Brian cook dinner last night - for the treat, so he tells me. Not much of treat. He did that cabbage which is very dark colour of green and has great thick veins which are reminding me of the duck's web foot. I cannot eat this muck. The lamb chop was okay, and he bought bottle of wine, so dinner tasted better as we progress.

I will close now as sun shines on Purley and I will take short walk to laundromat.

Aching for you, as ever,

Your Anna

You can get there from here – in fact 'here' is the only place you can get there from.

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

I am talking to myself, really, Anna. I woke up this morning and looked around my room, and I thought: Well, this is where I am. And to go anywhere, here is where I must start from.

And then I remembered Spike Milligan’s words: Everybody’s got to be somewhere. And I thought of Purple Cow, waking up in Athens, and R.J. Adams, waking up in Decatur, and Liz and Liya Lolita, and Propoquerian and all the other bloggers, waking up wherever they wake up. And last – but by no means least – I thought of you, my Anna, waking up in a house in Purley.

But not only do we all wake up in our own physical space, we also wake in our own mental space: where we are in our own heads. And no one can know that place – only ourselves. And that is also where we have to start from. (I know, Anna, that, as a student of English, you will be aware that I keep ending a sentence with a preposition - but see below*)



There is much I would like to say, about you and Brian, and your intending nuptials. But you, too, have to start from where you are – physically and mentally – and only you know that. So I will shut up (which is not like me, as you know!)

But I really cannot leave it at that. So I will, instead, draw your attention to Purple Cow’s comment!

Your ever-loving, non-advising but extremely marriage-shy

George

*Winston Churchill once had a draft speech returned to him by one of his aides, respectfully pointing out that the Prime Minister had ended a sentence with a preposition. Within the hour the speech was back on the civil servant’s desk with a note from Winston: This is the kind of bureaucratic interference up with which I will not put.


I also like this 'bedtime story'

Little girl: Mummy, I want to be read to.
Mummy: Which book do you want to be read to from?
Little girl: Alice in Wonderland.
Mummy: Oh. What did you chose that book to be read to from for?

Oh, Georgie. I laugh so much my knickers fall down! (They don’t really – this is expression we Swedish girls have when something of great hilarity happens.) What I laugh at is your story of the button-up flies – even though I think you are telling most of this from the imagination. And of which father do you speak? Your biological father or the husband of your mother?

Never mind – it is of no consequence.

You are such a worrier, Georgie – about state of world and people in it. Why not do you take what best bits you can, and enjoy. Like for example if you are hungry and you have apple, just because this fruit is a bit knocked, and brown in parts you would not throw away - but instead spit out the bad bits and eat the rest.

Also I do not know why you should wish to watch this Jeremy person who helps people wash in public their dirty linen. Why not do you watch instead jolly programme, which will make you laugh (but not cause knickers to fall down! – little Swedish joke). Myself I do not watch much the television, even though Brian has giant screen – nearly as big as wall - preferring as I do Radio 4 of the BBC, which is entertaining and educating at one and the same time, and helps enormously my English language speaking.

Now to what we are discussing at the last visit of myself and Brian (only Brian stay outside in car due to sensitive nature of topic). Brian has been promoted to Inspector of buses. This does not mean he inspects mechanical workings of the buses – no, he sees that there is driver for each bus and drivers do job properly and buses run on time, and also deals with complaints of miserable passengers. This is very responsible job, for which Brian get paid much more money.

Well, Brian have idea that this is good time we should get married (Brian and Anna). This would only be marriage of connivance, as you say. It would not involve rearing of ugly head of sex, because as you know Brian is of the persuasion that favours male company –he is gay. But he says to me that since I already do housework and buying of food for cooking in the microwave and such things, why should not I have status of proper wife. Then the buggers from Immigration dept would not be coming looking for me to bung me on next boat to Sweden.

I say to him – and what is in it for you baby. And he say – well, we could go together to official functions of bus company - now I am inspector - as respectable couple, and also benefits would be  in income tax allowances and various other ways. So how about it? Says Brian.

Do not you think this would be a good idea, Georgie? It would not affect our relationship, which is as lover and soul-mate, and romantic with much sex. While Brian would be free to pursue men (I think he has given up on Winston who is likely to be detained for the pleasure of her majesty for some time to come in the future).

Anyways, I do not yet decide to accept this generous offer of Brian. But what am I to do? I would much better liking to be living with you, my Georgie, but you still are in loony bin and have not house which to offer home to a girl. So this is problem.

I hope I have spelt out well the main things of which we talked, and would like very much to hear a similarly well spelt out reply – instead of all that ‘bugger me’ and ‘never heard anything like it’ and ‘don’t tell me’ and ‘where is the cheeky bugger?’ And then you having to be restrained by loony bin attendants for your own safety – and that of Brian.

So please be writing soon, my lover (well optimistically I hope for this)

Your Anna

Emotions are feelings, after you have thought about them.

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


AND I CERTAINLY HAVE BEEN DOING SOME THINKING, after you exploded that bombshell on the front porch of my mind.

How many more shocks can my bruised and battered psyche take? That’s what I would like to know. I just don’t understand this world any more – I really don’t. What happened to all the innocence of my childhood? Fishing for tiddlers in Mulvey’s Pit. Flying model aeroplanes on the back field. Hanging around the street lamp on misty November evenings. Playing ‘fuck’ in Alfie’s mum’s bedroom.

Where has it all gone? Swallowed up in the great maw of yesterday.

Alfie is long dead. But he makes frequent appearances in my dreams. I don’t know what happened to Maisie – she never turns up in my nocturnal wanderings.

When I look at the photograph of that happy carefree boy, rowing on the river Dee, I think: was it all written in his brain - what was going to happen – like some script, waiting to be acted out? And if he had known then, could he have re-written the script?

Society is coming apart at the seams. What happened? When did it all start to go wrong?
I blame television. When we got our first set – black and white, of course – I knew it was the opening of the floodgates. As I sat there in my buggy, watching those flickering images, I remember thinking to myself: This is not right: little people in boxes, jumping around, pulling faces. Of course, at that time I lacked the language skills, not only to understand what these fiendish puppets were saying but, more importantly, to apprise my parents of my grave misgivings about the effects of this devilish box of tricks on a young mind.

And I was right. I always was a forward thinker, but even I could not have foreseen the depths to which this new medium would take us. And then, of course, we have television’s bastard offspring: the home computer. All right – it allows us to communicate with people the other side of the world; it means you and I are able to talk to each other when we cannot meet face to face. But we are responsible people – well I am. When I hear on The Jeremy Kyle Show how people abuse one another on Facebook, washing their dirty linen in public, I think: When I was a lad you didn’t even wash your dirty linen in private – not that that was a good thing, because it wasn’t. But I have discussed this in a previous paper – or maybe it’s a paper I have yet to write.

I also blame the invention of the zip fastener. Once upon a time, trousers had button flies. Okay, it could be a bit of a nuisance on cold winter days, when your fingers were frozen and you were dying for a pee – but we managed. That was the pioneering spirit of those days. Then came the zip fly.

Now, the potential hazard of a hastily zipped fly is well documented and, in any case, that is not my point. Quite the opposite, in fact. The real danger lies in the unzipping rather than the zipping. Statistics show that the birth rate in Britain increased dramatically with the introduction of the zip fly. Consider. If you find yourself in the position where sex is about to rear its ugly head (perhaps not the most appropriate metaphor), one swift zip and everything is to hand.

Whereas with the button fly… Well, having to wrestle with each separate button took time – not to mention the initial decision: whether to start with the top or the bottom button (there are plusses and minuses for each method). And in that time you might pause to reconsider the whole business. Indeed, I have known trousers whose buttons were so recalcitrant that the wearer would give up and say – Sod it. Let’s go and have a coffee. And I remember my father telling me that he once owned a pair of trousers (I cannot mention the brand name) that were said to have done more for contraception than the Durex factory.

I have been re-running our conversation most of the night, and I really cannot believe I heard you properly. (we did keep getting interrupted by Clive and Eric). So, before I say something I might regret, will you please spell it out in writing, so that I can be sure that I have understood you correctly.

Urgently awaiting your reply,

An anxious George.