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

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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