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.
Sunday, July 15, 2007
Friday, July 13, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
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?
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?
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, July 09, 2007
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 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.
Saturday, July 07, 2007
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…
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…
Monday, June 25, 2007
I AM UNDONE
They say things always look better in the morning - except sunsets. Well, things looked a bloody site worse the following morning, when I read the report in the Cotswold Crier.
POLICE SWOOP IN FARTING ON THE HUMP
Police were, last night, called to an address in the sleepy Cotswold hamlet of Farting on the Hump. On arrival, after assessing the situation, armed backup was requested.
Neighbours in this usually peaceful backwater of rural England were woken from their beds by ‘the sound of racing motorcycle engines, shouting and swearing, the crash of breaking glass, and, at least one gunshot.’ according to Mrs E. T. Pyle of ‘The Old Forge’.
She told our reporter that she had only just got to sleep after a lengthy and strenuous session of Tai Chi with husband Arthur. Upon drawing back the bedroom curtains, she was greeted by ‘a site I would never thought to have witnessed in Lummock Lane: the road was full of policemen in those black jackets and baseball caps, like you see on the television. There were blue lights flashing all over the place from all the police-cars and vans. A fat man (or it may have been a woman, it was hard to tell from that distance and in the dark) appeared to be handcuffed to the handlebars of a motorcycle combination. She was shouting abuse at an officer who was sitting on the kerbside holding his head. The fat man/woman was using words I have never heard in all my years I service in the WRENS..
A young woman (very tall) was being wrestled into the police van. She was shouting “Fascist Swine” in what sounded like a Scandinavian accent. Then I saw another woman being led out of the house by two Policemen with machine guns. This woman was singing loudly – in German. Having spent two happy years in the naval port of Hamburg I immediately recognised that stirring anthem of the Nazi Party – the Horst Wessel song. I started to sing along – only to be called back to bed by my husband. I don’t remember any more.’
The police have refused to make any comment except to say that they would like to interview Sydney Turner (son of the absentee owner of the property, Mr George Turner, author and local eccentric, currently residing in St Botolph’s Psychiatric Hospital.) Mr Turner junior was allegedly seen leaving the house by the rear garden gate, in the company of a young woman. Police will not give the name of the witness to this sighting but this newspaper has reason to believe it was a Mr Alf Perkins, returning from one of his nightly patrols in Bramley Bottoms. As a leading member of the local ‘Home Watch’ Alf regularly patrols these woods (haunt of courting couples) with his night-scope, looking for anything suspicious.
Police have, however, confirmed that Mrs Georgina Turner (estranged wife of George Turner) was arrested and later released on bail, pending further enquiries. Three other women – who the police are refusing to name – are being held in custody.
I am undone! I shall never again be able to hold my head up high in Farting on the Hump. And it’s all that man’s fault.
POLICE SWOOP IN FARTING ON THE HUMP
Police were, last night, called to an address in the sleepy Cotswold hamlet of Farting on the Hump. On arrival, after assessing the situation, armed backup was requested.
Neighbours in this usually peaceful backwater of rural England were woken from their beds by ‘the sound of racing motorcycle engines, shouting and swearing, the crash of breaking glass, and, at least one gunshot.’ according to Mrs E. T. Pyle of ‘The Old Forge’.
She told our reporter that she had only just got to sleep after a lengthy and strenuous session of Tai Chi with husband Arthur. Upon drawing back the bedroom curtains, she was greeted by ‘a site I would never thought to have witnessed in Lummock Lane: the road was full of policemen in those black jackets and baseball caps, like you see on the television. There were blue lights flashing all over the place from all the police-cars and vans. A fat man (or it may have been a woman, it was hard to tell from that distance and in the dark) appeared to be handcuffed to the handlebars of a motorcycle combination. She was shouting abuse at an officer who was sitting on the kerbside holding his head. The fat man/woman was using words I have never heard in all my years I service in the WRENS..
A young woman (very tall) was being wrestled into the police van. She was shouting “Fascist Swine” in what sounded like a Scandinavian accent. Then I saw another woman being led out of the house by two Policemen with machine guns. This woman was singing loudly – in German. Having spent two happy years in the naval port of Hamburg I immediately recognised that stirring anthem of the Nazi Party – the Horst Wessel song. I started to sing along – only to be called back to bed by my husband. I don’t remember any more.’
The police have refused to make any comment except to say that they would like to interview Sydney Turner (son of the absentee owner of the property, Mr George Turner, author and local eccentric, currently residing in St Botolph’s Psychiatric Hospital.) Mr Turner junior was allegedly seen leaving the house by the rear garden gate, in the company of a young woman. Police will not give the name of the witness to this sighting but this newspaper has reason to believe it was a Mr Alf Perkins, returning from one of his nightly patrols in Bramley Bottoms. As a leading member of the local ‘Home Watch’ Alf regularly patrols these woods (haunt of courting couples) with his night-scope, looking for anything suspicious.
Police have, however, confirmed that Mrs Georgina Turner (estranged wife of George Turner) was arrested and later released on bail, pending further enquiries. Three other women – who the police are refusing to name – are being held in custody.
I am undone! I shall never again be able to hold my head up high in Farting on the Hump. And it’s all that man’s fault.
Saturday, June 02, 2007
“That there’s some corner of a foreign field…”
Thank you Mr Adams for your – I am sure well intentioned – words of advice.
I would like to say, however, that I am prepared to go wherever I am sent, to fight for Queen and country – even in those inhospitable lands to the East. (If our young prince was ready to go to Iraq – though, in the end, he didn’t – I am sure I am.)
Anyway, Georgina says that the desert air would be good for my sinuses.
When I was a lad, Lawrence of Arabia was my hero. I can see him now (as portrayed by that fine actor, Peter O’Toole) racing across those sand dunes on the back of a camel. I would be honoured to follow in the hoof-prints of that great man. I shall not be found wanting.
I am reminded of those lines from the musical ‘White Horse Inn’
"Where the desert sand is
Nice and handy
I’ll be full of grit…"
I would like to say, however, that I am prepared to go wherever I am sent, to fight for Queen and country – even in those inhospitable lands to the East. (If our young prince was ready to go to Iraq – though, in the end, he didn’t – I am sure I am.)
Anyway, Georgina says that the desert air would be good for my sinuses.
When I was a lad, Lawrence of Arabia was my hero. I can see him now (as portrayed by that fine actor, Peter O’Toole) racing across those sand dunes on the back of a camel. I would be honoured to follow in the hoof-prints of that great man. I shall not be found wanting.
I am reminded of those lines from the musical ‘White Horse Inn’
"Where the desert sand is
Nice and handy
I’ll be full of grit…"
Thursday, May 31, 2007
NOW HEAR THIS
Let’s get one thing straight: I am not a transvestite. And I am certainly not a transsexual.
A transsexual is somebody who wants to BE the opposite sex to that which they were born. I do not want to be a woman. You would not catch me forking out £20,000 for some very painful surgery in a dubious clinic in Dubai. And anyway you can’t be sure it will be successful, can you. And if it wasn’t – then where would you be! Talk about not knowing your elbow from your arse… that would be the least of your worries.
And as for being a transvestite: that is someone who gets erotic pleasure from cross-dressing. I do not get any erotic pleasure from dressing as a woman - well, hardly any.
Why do I do it, then?
Well it is not because I am effeminate. I could have joined the Marines, you know. I passed all the tests. But then it occurred to me that I might have to kill someone! I couldn’t do that! I’d much prefer to discuss the matter in a civilised manner. I mean most things can be sorted out over a cup of tea – don’t you find? But then, I suppose that’s more the job of the diplomats than the Marines. And I failed the Civil Service examination. Well no, that’s not true: I passed the exam but failed the interview. And you know why that was? I’ll tell you: it was because I had not been to a public school. (For the benefit of any foreign readers – for example Americans – our ‘public schools’ are actually private schools. And very elite private schools at that.) And believe me, the ‘old boys network’ is still going strong in this country.
And that brings me nicely to why I do dress as a woman: it is a protest: a protest at the unfairness of everything. You don’t choose the family you are going to be born into. We are thrust arbitrarily into this world, without so much as a ‘by you leave’, ‘kiss me Hardy’, ‘Mind the step’ – and have a set of genitalia thrust upon us, which we did not choose. And so we are forced into a gender role. Well, I am protesting against this ‘luck of the draw’ stereotyping.
I dress as a woman to show that I can do so – if I choose. Because choice is what it is all about. Of course I do not don the attire of the female sex every day: it depends upon how I feel. I mean, I may wake up one morning and think: what a lovely sunny day. I do not wish to be constrained by trousers – I shall wear a dress. Having so decided, it seems obvious to complete the ensemble, including shoes, wig, make up, nail varnish (I have lovely nails).
Equal opportunity is the watchword. And in pursuance of this I insisted on being allowed to join the Sisterhood. The only person to vote against my acceptance was my dear old step-mum. There’s a family loyalty for you! Of course, she is mad at my dad for going mad. But that’s not my fault is it?
I’ve been thinking: I may re-apply for the Marines. The uniform would really suit me.
A transsexual is somebody who wants to BE the opposite sex to that which they were born. I do not want to be a woman. You would not catch me forking out £20,000 for some very painful surgery in a dubious clinic in Dubai. And anyway you can’t be sure it will be successful, can you. And if it wasn’t – then where would you be! Talk about not knowing your elbow from your arse… that would be the least of your worries.
And as for being a transvestite: that is someone who gets erotic pleasure from cross-dressing. I do not get any erotic pleasure from dressing as a woman - well, hardly any.
Why do I do it, then?
Well it is not because I am effeminate. I could have joined the Marines, you know. I passed all the tests. But then it occurred to me that I might have to kill someone! I couldn’t do that! I’d much prefer to discuss the matter in a civilised manner. I mean most things can be sorted out over a cup of tea – don’t you find? But then, I suppose that’s more the job of the diplomats than the Marines. And I failed the Civil Service examination. Well no, that’s not true: I passed the exam but failed the interview. And you know why that was? I’ll tell you: it was because I had not been to a public school. (For the benefit of any foreign readers – for example Americans – our ‘public schools’ are actually private schools. And very elite private schools at that.) And believe me, the ‘old boys network’ is still going strong in this country.
And that brings me nicely to why I do dress as a woman: it is a protest: a protest at the unfairness of everything. You don’t choose the family you are going to be born into. We are thrust arbitrarily into this world, without so much as a ‘by you leave’, ‘kiss me Hardy’, ‘Mind the step’ – and have a set of genitalia thrust upon us, which we did not choose. And so we are forced into a gender role. Well, I am protesting against this ‘luck of the draw’ stereotyping.
I dress as a woman to show that I can do so – if I choose. Because choice is what it is all about. Of course I do not don the attire of the female sex every day: it depends upon how I feel. I mean, I may wake up one morning and think: what a lovely sunny day. I do not wish to be constrained by trousers – I shall wear a dress. Having so decided, it seems obvious to complete the ensemble, including shoes, wig, make up, nail varnish (I have lovely nails).
Equal opportunity is the watchword. And in pursuance of this I insisted on being allowed to join the Sisterhood. The only person to vote against my acceptance was my dear old step-mum. There’s a family loyalty for you! Of course, she is mad at my dad for going mad. But that’s not my fault is it?
I’ve been thinking: I may re-apply for the Marines. The uniform would really suit me.
Saturday, May 26, 2007
I am painting toe-nails when Georgina – sorry Charlie - rushes in to confront with the news of Sydney.
So startled am I that I knock over nail varnish onto foot of Greta.
‘DUMKOPF’ she is bellowing in such powerful German voice, which is sending shivers up Swedish spine.
It is my turn on toe-nail painting roster (how can you have word meaning ‘male chicken’ which is also meaning list of what to do and when to do it? – stupid English language!) but I say to Norah, who is waiting next in line with stockings already removed, ‘You will have to hold your spit, girl, whilst I get my head around this turning of events.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I am great believer in sanctimony of marriage, but this marriage of which I have been a part, in a sense, is the absolute pants. And when I am thinking of that poor boy which is turning into transvestite right under our very noses and behind our backs, because of the absolute crappy parenting – well I am getting so mad.
I could see how confused he was what with the shitty role models he had. That is why I am helping this adolescent boy by filling his sexual proclivities on all those rainy afternoons. Well now the swallow has come home to roost, as they say. Flown back on the nest of his dear mama – who has now come out as lesbian. What a bummer eh!
But what am I going to tell his father, when visiting him in psycho ward? George is already unstable: such news might send him off rocker completely. Frankly I am feeling out of my depth, which is unusual for me, being such tall person.
Meantime I feel it my duty to help lad regain rightful sexuality; not that there is anything wrong with being transvestite (don’t want Beaumont Society on my tail – joke) in fact I have been helping him with make-up and advising on shoes, so he don’t walk like hooker after hard night.
Anyway, enough cogitating (new word I learn) for now. We are expecting 'surprise' visit from Myra person, plus her sink-estate companion whose name I am forgetting. Georgina – bugger! I mean CHARLIE – has ordered house on red alert. All leave cancelled. I am to be posted in attic as ‘look-out’. I ask if Sydney (Cyd) can keep me company, but his mother say ‘not on your nellie’ – which I believe to be quaint English euphonium meaning ‘fuck off’.
Ah well, 'Let's get once more into the breeches' as your Shakespeare would have it.
So startled am I that I knock over nail varnish onto foot of Greta.
‘DUMKOPF’ she is bellowing in such powerful German voice, which is sending shivers up Swedish spine.
It is my turn on toe-nail painting roster (how can you have word meaning ‘male chicken’ which is also meaning list of what to do and when to do it? – stupid English language!) but I say to Norah, who is waiting next in line with stockings already removed, ‘You will have to hold your spit, girl, whilst I get my head around this turning of events.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I am great believer in sanctimony of marriage, but this marriage of which I have been a part, in a sense, is the absolute pants. And when I am thinking of that poor boy which is turning into transvestite right under our very noses and behind our backs, because of the absolute crappy parenting – well I am getting so mad.
I could see how confused he was what with the shitty role models he had. That is why I am helping this adolescent boy by filling his sexual proclivities on all those rainy afternoons. Well now the swallow has come home to roost, as they say. Flown back on the nest of his dear mama – who has now come out as lesbian. What a bummer eh!
But what am I going to tell his father, when visiting him in psycho ward? George is already unstable: such news might send him off rocker completely. Frankly I am feeling out of my depth, which is unusual for me, being such tall person.
Meantime I feel it my duty to help lad regain rightful sexuality; not that there is anything wrong with being transvestite (don’t want Beaumont Society on my tail – joke) in fact I have been helping him with make-up and advising on shoes, so he don’t walk like hooker after hard night.
Anyway, enough cogitating (new word I learn) for now. We are expecting 'surprise' visit from Myra person, plus her sink-estate companion whose name I am forgetting. Georgina – bugger! I mean CHARLIE – has ordered house on red alert. All leave cancelled. I am to be posted in attic as ‘look-out’. I ask if Sydney (Cyd) can keep me company, but his mother say ‘not on your nellie’ – which I believe to be quaint English euphonium meaning ‘fuck off’.
Ah well, 'Let's get once more into the breeches' as your Shakespeare would have it.
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