The Bridge - an impression
This is where it all began -on top of that arch. Or is it?
Perhaps it all began when the amoeba learned to divide.
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
Sunday, May 07, 2006
"Zero de conduit"
.
When Derek displayed his medals under the glare of the bedside lamp I did not know what to say.
They were actually his dad’s medals, which he won in the war (2nd World War, that is). When I say ‘won’ I don’t mean the Victoria Cross or the George Cross – they were Campaign medals: the Africa Star was one – I can’t remember the others. But Derek was very proud of them, and he started to tell me about his dad.
They were never close. But now that he’s dead, Derek wishes that he had taken the time to get to know him better. Trouble was, him being away for five years – those formative years between Derek being five and ten – while he fought Hitler. (Why did they not give him a ‘Defeating Hitler’ medal?). Still, the vagaries of the military awards system are not really my responsibility – though practically everything else seems to be.
Derek says he thinks he was a bit of a disappointment to his dad, in his adolescence. He wasn’t one for football and rugged outdoor activities, Derek. If he had made up for it by being good at school, that would have helped. But he hated school. He ran away – twice. In the end they let him leave, before taking his exams (GCEs). He had a string of jobs before, going into the Air Force.
Later, much later, he went back to studying and eventually got a place at university. But even now, with a couple of degrees and diplomas and what not, Derek still feels some kind of failure by ducking out of school all those years ago.
I told him, forget it mate. I hated school too. Talk about ‘child abuse’ – I think school abuses children. The whole system. And as for some of the so-called teachers! I remember I used to stay for ‘school dinners’ and one day I found a big beetle in my salad. I called the teacher on duty and she took my plate away, later bringing it back and saying there was never any beetle there. But there was – not only me, but boys sitting on either side of me had seen it. But we just had to shut up. School! Don’t talk to me about school.
But to get back to Derek. I now know why he is in here: OCD – ‘Obsessional Compulsive Disorder’. That illness where you keep repeating things, like counting or touching things. Or, for some people it is forever washing their hands.
Derek keeps getting these ‘bad’ thoughts. Well sometimes they may not be really bad, but they are somehow ‘wrong’. And he can’t move on until he has got rid of the thought and replaced it by a more ‘acceptable’ thought. Sometimes it’s praying. He keeps saying these prayers in his head. But there again, if he has the ‘wrong’ thought whilst he is praying, he has to keep repeating the prayer until he can shift the thought and replace it by another one. Can you imagine how tiring, how fatiguing that must be? He’s on medication and also is having CBT (Cognitive Behavioural Therapy).
Freddie tells him that he thinks too much. ‘But how can I stop myself thinking?’ he asks. ‘ I keep thinking, how can I stop thinking? But that just involves more thinking.’
I thought about this for a moment. ‘That’s a bugger.’ I said.
Later, in the privacy of my room (I’ve got my own room back, by the way), I thought about Derek, and how alike we were in many ways: both hating school, for example. And yet so unalike in others.
But when I got into bed I started to think about Anastasia.
When Derek displayed his medals under the glare of the bedside lamp I did not know what to say.
They were actually his dad’s medals, which he won in the war (2nd World War, that is). When I say ‘won’ I don’t mean the Victoria Cross or the George Cross – they were Campaign medals: the Africa Star was one – I can’t remember the others. But Derek was very proud of them, and he started to tell me about his dad.
They were never close. But now that he’s dead, Derek wishes that he had taken the time to get to know him better. Trouble was, him being away for five years – those formative years between Derek being five and ten – while he fought Hitler. (Why did they not give him a ‘Defeating Hitler’ medal?). Still, the vagaries of the military awards system are not really my responsibility – though practically everything else seems to be.
Derek says he thinks he was a bit of a disappointment to his dad, in his adolescence. He wasn’t one for football and rugged outdoor activities, Derek. If he had made up for it by being good at school, that would have helped. But he hated school. He ran away – twice. In the end they let him leave, before taking his exams (GCEs). He had a string of jobs before, going into the Air Force.
Later, much later, he went back to studying and eventually got a place at university. But even now, with a couple of degrees and diplomas and what not, Derek still feels some kind of failure by ducking out of school all those years ago.
I told him, forget it mate. I hated school too. Talk about ‘child abuse’ – I think school abuses children. The whole system. And as for some of the so-called teachers! I remember I used to stay for ‘school dinners’ and one day I found a big beetle in my salad. I called the teacher on duty and she took my plate away, later bringing it back and saying there was never any beetle there. But there was – not only me, but boys sitting on either side of me had seen it. But we just had to shut up. School! Don’t talk to me about school.
But to get back to Derek. I now know why he is in here: OCD – ‘Obsessional Compulsive Disorder’. That illness where you keep repeating things, like counting or touching things. Or, for some people it is forever washing their hands.
Derek keeps getting these ‘bad’ thoughts. Well sometimes they may not be really bad, but they are somehow ‘wrong’. And he can’t move on until he has got rid of the thought and replaced it by a more ‘acceptable’ thought. Sometimes it’s praying. He keeps saying these prayers in his head. But there again, if he has the ‘wrong’ thought whilst he is praying, he has to keep repeating the prayer until he can shift the thought and replace it by another one. Can you imagine how tiring, how fatiguing that must be? He’s on medication and also is having CBT (Cognitive Behavioural Therapy).
Freddie tells him that he thinks too much. ‘But how can I stop myself thinking?’ he asks. ‘ I keep thinking, how can I stop thinking? But that just involves more thinking.’
I thought about this for a moment. ‘That’s a bugger.’ I said.
Later, in the privacy of my room (I’ve got my own room back, by the way), I thought about Derek, and how alike we were in many ways: both hating school, for example. And yet so unalike in others.
But when I got into bed I started to think about Anastasia.
Saturday, May 06, 2006
An idea after all?
Derek said to me ‘There was so much swept under the carpet in our marriage we had to have a “mind the step” sign at the living-room door’.
I haven’t mentioned Derek before. Mainly because he is such a quiet chap. Never says much. That remark is completely out of character (or so I thought). He keeps himself to himself – in fact I have no idea why he is in here. He looks perfectly normal - apart from a strange taste in ties (he always wears one). He acts normal: you never hear him shouting or arguing with the staff; he never complains. A mystery. An enigma. Old Derek.
He suddenly came out with this comment when, for some reason, I found myself talking to him about Georgina, and all the trouble I had had. He asked me why I married her, and I said ‘Because she was there’. It was meant as a kind of joke, but when I said it I realised how much truth there was in it.
Then he said this bit about ‘sweeping stuff under the carpet’. And I could identify so much with that. Metaphorically of course - One of the abiding memories of my time with Georgina is the rattle of the Hoover around my chilly legs (every door in the house open) as I tried to complete the Times crossword - No, there was not much chance of physical dust accumulating at ‘Winoryn’. That’s the name of the house, the marital home. But by God, the mental dirt, the emotional detritus piled up by the day. I once suggested that we go to – what was then called – ‘Marriage Guidance’. Georgina said she did not believe in washing her dirty linen in public. I replied that it was better to do that than not wash it at all. She made no comment, and the subject was never mentioned again.
But this idea of Anastasia’s – I’ve been thinking about it. If the lesbian is divorcing me I could do worse than marry the elongated Scandinavian. She’s a bit younger than me, and no doubt would want to go out clubbing and stuff. But that’s ok. In fact it might be quite exciting: waiting for her to come home smelling of booze, cigarette smoke and perfume. And then – assuming of course she DOES come home - we go to bed, and she tells me all about what she has been up.
Tolerance. That's what's needed for a happy marriage.
Derek has asked me to come to his room after tea - he wants to show me something.
I haven’t mentioned Derek before. Mainly because he is such a quiet chap. Never says much. That remark is completely out of character (or so I thought). He keeps himself to himself – in fact I have no idea why he is in here. He looks perfectly normal - apart from a strange taste in ties (he always wears one). He acts normal: you never hear him shouting or arguing with the staff; he never complains. A mystery. An enigma. Old Derek.
He suddenly came out with this comment when, for some reason, I found myself talking to him about Georgina, and all the trouble I had had. He asked me why I married her, and I said ‘Because she was there’. It was meant as a kind of joke, but when I said it I realised how much truth there was in it.
Then he said this bit about ‘sweeping stuff under the carpet’. And I could identify so much with that. Metaphorically of course - One of the abiding memories of my time with Georgina is the rattle of the Hoover around my chilly legs (every door in the house open) as I tried to complete the Times crossword - No, there was not much chance of physical dust accumulating at ‘Winoryn’. That’s the name of the house, the marital home. But by God, the mental dirt, the emotional detritus piled up by the day. I once suggested that we go to – what was then called – ‘Marriage Guidance’. Georgina said she did not believe in washing her dirty linen in public. I replied that it was better to do that than not wash it at all. She made no comment, and the subject was never mentioned again.
But this idea of Anastasia’s – I’ve been thinking about it. If the lesbian is divorcing me I could do worse than marry the elongated Scandinavian. She’s a bit younger than me, and no doubt would want to go out clubbing and stuff. But that’s ok. In fact it might be quite exciting: waiting for her to come home smelling of booze, cigarette smoke and perfume. And then – assuming of course she DOES come home - we go to bed, and she tells me all about what she has been up.
Tolerance. That's what's needed for a happy marriage.
Derek has asked me to come to his room after tea - he wants to show me something.
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
Bubble bubble, toil and trouble
We are bubbles, rising to the surface of the seething, boiling cauldron of Life. Some bubbles grow bigger, float, and gleam in the sunlight for a while. Others never make it beyond a a brief blip on the steaming surface.
But we all go pop in the end. And fall, and return to the explosive, gaseous mass from whence we came, making way for other bubbles to rise and take our place.
But hey, not to worry. Because a bit of us, at least, must go to forming new bubbles, and so we are resurrected. Again and again
– until the pot boils dry.
But we all go pop in the end. And fall, and return to the explosive, gaseous mass from whence we came, making way for other bubbles to rise and take our place.
But hey, not to worry. Because a bit of us, at least, must go to forming new bubbles, and so we are resurrected. Again and again
– until the pot boils dry.
Sunday, April 30, 2006
Calls may be recorded for training purposes
‘Allo – is that you Georgie?’
‘Yes, it’s me Anastasia. What do you want? I’m surprised you have the nerve to phone me after what you did.’
‘Well, that is for why I am telephoning, Georgie. I am so sorry for the debunkle of that weekend. But it is that horrible wife of yours you should be venting your angrification on and no mistakes’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘It was she, that devil incarcerated – she made me do it Georgie. And that is the honesty, which is being the best policy and all that.’
‘Oh, come off it. She didn’t make you bend over me and wiggle your assets in my face.’
‘Ah, but that is where you are being wrong. She is threatening me with exposure to the officials on account of my illegality in your country – my lacking of the work permit – if I am not going along with her wicked schemings.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘Oh but yes, it is the truth I am telling you. And you should be thanking your lucky stars your little Anastasia did not go along with the rest of the plan that evil bitch had worked up for you.’
‘I don’t wish to know.’
‘All right, so I am not to be telling you. Let it be sufficient to announce that it involved a can of that squirty cream you are always having for your tea times in England, and some tinned strawberries – PLUS a bicycle pump!’
‘Good God!’
‘Yes, you may well be invoking the name of the almighty, Georgie. But I stood on my principles – especially when she was wanting the video of the degrading spectacles.’
‘Videoing!!’
‘Oh yes. And since she was intending to be involving in the frollickings, that disgusting cleric – the Cecil person (what is always trying to get his hands up my skirt) was going to be operating the camera.’
‘Oh no – I am devastated.’
‘You would have been if your little Anna had not been putting her feet down firmly, and risking the deportation into the bargaining.’
‘Well I suppose I should thank you for that.’
‘You are quite welcoming – but if you would like to repay a favour?
‘Go on.’
‘Only I was thinking… if you were to marry me it would be solving the legal problems with which I am currently experiencing. Plus, it would be one in the earhole for darling wifey, eh. How about it? We would not need to consecrate the marriage if you did not want to.’
‘What! That is a preposterous idea. For one thing I am already married.’
‘Yes, but you won’t be in the state of matrimony for long, will you. The old cow has already started the divorcing procedures. Come on Georgie. What you say, hey?’
I WAS ABOUT TO DELIVER AN ANGRY RETORT TO THIS OBSCENE SUGGESTION WHEN THE LINE WENT DEAD. BUT NOT BEFORE I RECOGNISED AMANDA’S HEAVY BREATHING.
‘Yes, it’s me Anastasia. What do you want? I’m surprised you have the nerve to phone me after what you did.’
‘Well, that is for why I am telephoning, Georgie. I am so sorry for the debunkle of that weekend. But it is that horrible wife of yours you should be venting your angrification on and no mistakes’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘It was she, that devil incarcerated – she made me do it Georgie. And that is the honesty, which is being the best policy and all that.’
‘Oh, come off it. She didn’t make you bend over me and wiggle your assets in my face.’
‘Ah, but that is where you are being wrong. She is threatening me with exposure to the officials on account of my illegality in your country – my lacking of the work permit – if I am not going along with her wicked schemings.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘Oh but yes, it is the truth I am telling you. And you should be thanking your lucky stars your little Anastasia did not go along with the rest of the plan that evil bitch had worked up for you.’
‘I don’t wish to know.’
‘All right, so I am not to be telling you. Let it be sufficient to announce that it involved a can of that squirty cream you are always having for your tea times in England, and some tinned strawberries – PLUS a bicycle pump!’
‘Good God!’
‘Yes, you may well be invoking the name of the almighty, Georgie. But I stood on my principles – especially when she was wanting the video of the degrading spectacles.’
‘Videoing!!’
‘Oh yes. And since she was intending to be involving in the frollickings, that disgusting cleric – the Cecil person (what is always trying to get his hands up my skirt) was going to be operating the camera.’
‘Oh no – I am devastated.’
‘You would have been if your little Anna had not been putting her feet down firmly, and risking the deportation into the bargaining.’
‘Well I suppose I should thank you for that.’
‘You are quite welcoming – but if you would like to repay a favour?
‘Go on.’
‘Only I was thinking… if you were to marry me it would be solving the legal problems with which I am currently experiencing. Plus, it would be one in the earhole for darling wifey, eh. How about it? We would not need to consecrate the marriage if you did not want to.’
‘What! That is a preposterous idea. For one thing I am already married.’
‘Yes, but you won’t be in the state of matrimony for long, will you. The old cow has already started the divorcing procedures. Come on Georgie. What you say, hey?’
I WAS ABOUT TO DELIVER AN ANGRY RETORT TO THIS OBSCENE SUGGESTION WHEN THE LINE WENT DEAD. BUT NOT BEFORE I RECOGNISED AMANDA’S HEAVY BREATHING.
Saturday, April 29, 2006
The word on the ward
is that Freddie got into a fight. In a Christian bookshop. Something to do with an argument with a Fundementalist (Creationism v Evolution) This happened when he was away at that conference – I haven't seen him since he came back so I don't know if he's got a black eye or anything.
She’s right, you know. Amanda. I have mucked things up. Why did I do it? Why do I always do it? I want to be different – I really do. But is it all in the genes? Beyond my control?
Perhaps I should have jumped. When I was on the bridge. At the top of the arch. Near that big red lantern. Instead of letting old Sam the copper talk me down. Which reminds me – he hasn’t been to see me for a while. Perhaps he has other fish to fry. Or, he has found more fertile ground in which to sow his seeds?
Enough of the metaphors.
Amanda wants me to talk about my childhood – specifically my mother. I really would like to examine this time of my life, but I am a bit scared. Our household was strange (although I did not think so when I was growing up). For example – I got my name from someone who lived with us at the time I was born. I don’t remember him and everyone was a bit vague when I asked later. All I know was that he came from Liverpool and was not a relative.
Now why would you name you son after a lodger? If indeed he was a lodger. I’d love to know who he really was, but all the people who might have been able to shed light on this shadowy figure are long dead.
But Liverpool is not the main focus of our intended archaeological dig – Amanda and me. No, it is much closer to home. And who knows what might come crawling out from under the big flat stones that have been carefully laid over my past.
The reason Amanda wants to talk about my mother is, of course, obvious: my relationship with my mother has become a model for how I see and relate to all women.
Oh, I’m off to bed!
THE NEXT DAY
Up in the night, I was. With wind. It’s the IBS. But also I do not believe I am getting proper food. A baked potato for your lunch? A piece of soggy pizza and a bit of cauliflower-cheese for your tea? How would you like it?
Anyway they are letting me out for the day. To go and see my boat. Well I have rather let it drift (?) - what with being in here and all that has happened to me. Neglected it. So I am going down there to open the windows, fill the water tank, generally check it over. Also to take on board provisions (not a word to Amanda). I must also try and find my sextant. I do not have GPS on my boat, but the way I see it, if ‘steering by the stars’ was good enough for Columbus, it is good enough for me.
I would not choose go today to – what with it being a Bank Holiday and all that, but I need to pay the mooring fees and the office is only open weekends now. Not like the old days when that other chap was in charge. Can’t remember his name now. He was there EVERY day but he buggered off, suddenly. I often wonder what happened to him.
That’s Life though, isn’t it – people let you down. There is no stability, no continuity.
(to be continued)
She’s right, you know. Amanda. I have mucked things up. Why did I do it? Why do I always do it? I want to be different – I really do. But is it all in the genes? Beyond my control?
Perhaps I should have jumped. When I was on the bridge. At the top of the arch. Near that big red lantern. Instead of letting old Sam the copper talk me down. Which reminds me – he hasn’t been to see me for a while. Perhaps he has other fish to fry. Or, he has found more fertile ground in which to sow his seeds?
Enough of the metaphors.
Amanda wants me to talk about my childhood – specifically my mother. I really would like to examine this time of my life, but I am a bit scared. Our household was strange (although I did not think so when I was growing up). For example – I got my name from someone who lived with us at the time I was born. I don’t remember him and everyone was a bit vague when I asked later. All I know was that he came from Liverpool and was not a relative.
Now why would you name you son after a lodger? If indeed he was a lodger. I’d love to know who he really was, but all the people who might have been able to shed light on this shadowy figure are long dead.
But Liverpool is not the main focus of our intended archaeological dig – Amanda and me. No, it is much closer to home. And who knows what might come crawling out from under the big flat stones that have been carefully laid over my past.
The reason Amanda wants to talk about my mother is, of course, obvious: my relationship with my mother has become a model for how I see and relate to all women.
Oh, I’m off to bed!
THE NEXT DAY
Up in the night, I was. With wind. It’s the IBS. But also I do not believe I am getting proper food. A baked potato for your lunch? A piece of soggy pizza and a bit of cauliflower-cheese for your tea? How would you like it?
Anyway they are letting me out for the day. To go and see my boat. Well I have rather let it drift (?) - what with being in here and all that has happened to me. Neglected it. So I am going down there to open the windows, fill the water tank, generally check it over. Also to take on board provisions (not a word to Amanda). I must also try and find my sextant. I do not have GPS on my boat, but the way I see it, if ‘steering by the stars’ was good enough for Columbus, it is good enough for me.
I would not choose go today to – what with it being a Bank Holiday and all that, but I need to pay the mooring fees and the office is only open weekends now. Not like the old days when that other chap was in charge. Can’t remember his name now. He was there EVERY day but he buggered off, suddenly. I often wonder what happened to him.
That’s Life though, isn’t it – people let you down. There is no stability, no continuity.
(to be continued)
Thursday, April 27, 2006
Amanda castigates me
‘Well, you certainly fucked that one up’ Amanda is furious. ‘The time and effort I spent persuading that weird wife of yours to have you back for the weekend and what do you do? You’ve not been in the house five minutes and you’re making a grab for the big Swede’s tits.’
‘It was actually the following morning’ I demur.
‘Don’t get clever with me, George – I’m just not in the mood’. Angrily, she yanks a packet of cigarettes out of her coat pocket. (Oh yes, she is wearing her status symbol: white coat - complete with name badge - no doubt to emphasise the seriousness of the situation).
After several vicious jabs of her thumb the lighter still fails to ignite. She throws it across the room – narrowly missing my head. ‘Have you got any matches?’ she demands.
I smile, what I believe to be an “old fashioned smile”.
‘Oh no, of course, you wouldn’t have’. She takes the cigarette out of her mouth and stares at me.
I begin to feel uncomfortable, so I decide to go on the offensive. ‘I was set up – entrapment, that’s what it was.’
‘Oh, please. Don’t start making excuses.’
‘No, listen. The lesbian is behind all this. She must have told Anastasia to wear that provocative negligee – and to bend over me like that.’
Amanda is twirling the unlit cigarette between her fingers. ‘You just don’t understand the female psyche, do you!’
‘I gather that is meant to be a statement rather than a question, so I won’t bother to answer it.’
She regards me, coolly. ‘I bet you never looked at the “goodgirlzoot” website I told you about.’
‘Ah, well, that is where you are wrong, see. I did look at it! Poetry – isn’t it? The sort that doesn’t rhyme. And before you say you don’t believe me, I have written down one of the pieces – in my journal.’
That shook her. She’s snapped the cigarette in two. Shreds of tobacco all over the place. A cigarette looks quite disgusting when it’s broken in half.
‘Where is it? Let me see it.’ She is sitting up now, leaning forward.
‘Ah, no, you’re not getting hold of THIS journal – but I will write it down for you.’
‘What!’ Incredulous. ‘You mean to say you’ve remembered it?’
‘It was actually the following morning’ I demur.
‘Don’t get clever with me, George – I’m just not in the mood’. Angrily, she yanks a packet of cigarettes out of her coat pocket. (Oh yes, she is wearing her status symbol: white coat - complete with name badge - no doubt to emphasise the seriousness of the situation).
After several vicious jabs of her thumb the lighter still fails to ignite. She throws it across the room – narrowly missing my head. ‘Have you got any matches?’ she demands.
I smile, what I believe to be an “old fashioned smile”.
‘Oh no, of course, you wouldn’t have’. She takes the cigarette out of her mouth and stares at me.
I begin to feel uncomfortable, so I decide to go on the offensive. ‘I was set up – entrapment, that’s what it was.’
‘Oh, please. Don’t start making excuses.’
‘No, listen. The lesbian is behind all this. She must have told Anastasia to wear that provocative negligee – and to bend over me like that.’
Amanda is twirling the unlit cigarette between her fingers. ‘You just don’t understand the female psyche, do you!’
‘I gather that is meant to be a statement rather than a question, so I won’t bother to answer it.’
She regards me, coolly. ‘I bet you never looked at the “goodgirlzoot” website I told you about.’
‘Ah, well, that is where you are wrong, see. I did look at it! Poetry – isn’t it? The sort that doesn’t rhyme. And before you say you don’t believe me, I have written down one of the pieces – in my journal.’
That shook her. She’s snapped the cigarette in two. Shreds of tobacco all over the place. A cigarette looks quite disgusting when it’s broken in half.
‘Where is it? Let me see it.’ She is sitting up now, leaning forward.
‘Ah, no, you’re not getting hold of THIS journal – but I will write it down for you.’
‘What!’ Incredulous. ‘You mean to say you’ve remembered it?’
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
I call this picture ‘Right thumb at 8.06am’
I usually take a camera to bed; you never know if you are going to meet someone in your dreams you’d like to snap.
I didn’t last night though; instead I chopped off a mouse’s head with a soldering iron. And its tail. But the tail had a life of its own; it kept jumping about. Most unpleasant.
Anyway, in case you’re thinking this is Amanda’s bedside cabinet, it isn’t. Nor is it the one in my room at St Botolph’s. No, it is my son Sydney’s room in which I awoke this April Saturday morning.
You see, I was allowed home for the weekend. It is all part of Amanda’s sex therapy. And no – it was not so I could have wild tumultuous sex with Georgina (or Anastasia). I was specifically required NOT to have sex with either of these two ladies – or anyone else.
It was an exercise in ‘relationships’: spending two days in the company of females without having sex – or even talking about sex. Amanda believes I need to learn how to relate to women other than on a sexual basis.
She says I have been using sex to avoid intimacy! Can you imagine that! What a load of bulshit!
Anyway I thought I would take the opportunity – see how things went, if you know what I mean.
But do you know what the bitch had done! Briefed the two females in question, beforehand. Now, I knew there was no chance with Georgina, but Anastasia! Well I had sort of hoped.
The Swedish tart brought me breakfast in bed, the first morning (Saturday). I thought – hello, this is looking promising. But she said ‘Now then Georgie boy’ - I will kill her if she calls me that again - ‘I have, for the special treat, brought your breakfast. But the treat ends there. There is to be none of the hanky pankering. Amanda’s orders. So even though I am wearing my black flimsy nightware, with the pink bows, it is for the strictly “look but don’t touch” purposes’.
Well, I have never felt so insulted – or disappointed. But as she leaned over me with the tray, I thought I would try a quick grope.
‘Naughty boy’ she admonished, as she grabbed my wrist in a bone-crushing grip. And before my fingers could touch white Swedish flesh, she had twisted my arm and forced me back onto the pillow. And, with her face an inch from mine, she whispered ‘Anna will have to punish Georgie now.’
‘Wow’ I thought. ‘Things are looking up’.
Then she tipped the contents of the tray onto my chest. I yelled as the hot coffee soaked through my pyjama jacket. Luckily, the cold milk from the cornflakes took out some of the sting, but as I shot bolt upright, scrambled egg, sausage and tomatoes (tinned) slid down my stomach and under the sheet. What a mess.
And then, in the midst of my distress, a hyena entered the room. Well that is what it sounded like. Jerking my head up, I saw the lesbian standing in the doorway, screeching with laughter. ‘Go on girl, serves the bugger right’ she howled.
Retaining my dignity, I scraped a handful of soggy food off my person and threw it at her. I missed, of course, causing more laughter from both of them. They then left the room, still hooting at my discomfiture.
The rest of the weekend didn’t go too well. I’m glad to be back.
Saturday, April 22, 2006
WHO' S WHO?
If you were walking down the street and you saw a man beating his wife with a big stick. And a policeman intervened, and the man turned on him and began hitting him over the head with his stick – what would you do?
And if, watching all of this was a group of children, all roaring with laughter, what would you think?
Welcome to Professor Codman’s Wooden-headed Follies: the Punch and Judy Show.
[Punch (noun)- a grotesque, hook-nosed, humped-backed buffoon, the chief male character of the Punch and Judy puppet show.] Dictionary definition.
In a red and white striped canvas booth, Professor Codman crouches, out of site, manipulating his grotesque wooden puppets – caricatures of real people. And as Punch smacks heads with his stick he shrieks, in his hoarse voice ‘That’s the way to do it… that’s the way to do it.’
He’s very politically incorrect, is our Mr Punch. The children love him.
He gets his comeuppance though: he gets eaten by a crocodile!
But he always returns at the end of the show, to take a bow.
Unlike Professor Codman – you never see HIM.
Now, the question is: how much of Mr Punch is Professor Codman? And how much of Professor Codman is Mr Punch?
Amanda (for 'tis she who speaks) raises herself on one elbow and looks down at me. ‘Well? What do you think?’
I stare up at the ceiling. ‘This sex therapy I’m having – does it come as part of the package or is it an extra?’
‘I was asking you about Professor Codman; don’t avoid the question.'
And if, watching all of this was a group of children, all roaring with laughter, what would you think?
Welcome to Professor Codman’s Wooden-headed Follies: the Punch and Judy Show.
[Punch (noun)- a grotesque, hook-nosed, humped-backed buffoon, the chief male character of the Punch and Judy puppet show.] Dictionary definition.
In a red and white striped canvas booth, Professor Codman crouches, out of site, manipulating his grotesque wooden puppets – caricatures of real people. And as Punch smacks heads with his stick he shrieks, in his hoarse voice ‘That’s the way to do it… that’s the way to do it.’
He’s very politically incorrect, is our Mr Punch. The children love him.
He gets his comeuppance though: he gets eaten by a crocodile!
But he always returns at the end of the show, to take a bow.
Unlike Professor Codman – you never see HIM.
Now, the question is: how much of Mr Punch is Professor Codman? And how much of Professor Codman is Mr Punch?
Amanda (for 'tis she who speaks) raises herself on one elbow and looks down at me. ‘Well? What do you think?’
I stare up at the ceiling. ‘This sex therapy I’m having – does it come as part of the package or is it an extra?’
‘I was asking you about Professor Codman; don’t avoid the question.'
Friday, April 21, 2006
Having it off
I’m having it off tomorrow. The plaster. Remember? 2nd and 3rd metatarsals? Anyway, I am looking forward to going out for a hobble.
I am pretty glum tonight. I feel I am not in full control of my life. They keep telling me to learn to ACT rather than react. And I know that is good advice. It is just difficult at the moment. BUT I WILL DANCE AGAIN – especially now the plaster’s coming off.
So goodnight to all you bloggers – all over the world. Different time zones. Different climates. Not forgetting those in good old England.
Sleep well, people.
I am pretty glum tonight. I feel I am not in full control of my life. They keep telling me to learn to ACT rather than react. And I know that is good advice. It is just difficult at the moment. BUT I WILL DANCE AGAIN – especially now the plaster’s coming off.
So goodnight to all you bloggers – all over the world. Different time zones. Different climates. Not forgetting those in good old England.
Sleep well, people.
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