GEORGE - BULLETIN

As promised, here is an update on George’s progress.

The director of psychiatry (Dr Foggatty) says it is too early to make predictions, but George seems to settling in and accepting the treatment programme and general regime.

A typical day for George:

6.30 am Wakened and given medication
7.30 am Breakfast
9.00 am Cognitive Behavioural Therapy (one and a half hours)
Followed by rest period – then light exercise.
12.00pm Medication
12.30pm Lunch
2.00pm Occupational Therapy: His instructor, Janet, says George shows a
remarkable talent for creative sculpture. At the moment he is
working on a table-lamp in the shape of a female torso (and head),
made out of chicken-wire and ‘art roc’. He will not, of course, be
allowed to do the wiring, but Janet says that in all other respects he
should be encouraged to develop his creativity.
4.00pm Medication
4.30pm Tea

The evenings are his own. He spends a lot of time reading (there is an excellent
Library) and writing – he is encouraged to keep a journal detailing
his feelings, moods etc.. He can, of course, write letters, but so far
has shown no inclination to do so. George is not allowed to watch
television or have access to the Internet.
9.30pm Medication followed by light supper and bed. Lights out 10.30pm.

George may receive visits but so far has made no requests. Anyone wishing to see him must apply in writing to the director.

So, as you can see, the old sod is being well cared for – at the tax payers expense. So perhaps all you do gooders, banging on about ‘human rights’, will now shut it!

THE ARTS PAGE

Hi – I have been assigned the task of elevating the tone of this publication by the introduction of an ‘Arts Page’. This is something for which I am singularly fitted: although ‘blog’ policy demands that I do not reveal my name, I will just say that at my old school (a well known educational establishment for young ladies, which begins with ‘R’ and ends with ‘n’) I was president of the literary society and edited the school magazine.
I spurned the offer of a place at Oxford University, believing it to be an institution dedicated to the perpetuation of the class system in this country, ensuring that power remains in the hands of a bourgeois elite.
As a ‘gap year’ I worked in one of my father’s shoe factories, somewhere up north – I can’t remember the name of the place. Unfortunately, the cold and the damp did not suit my chest and so I moved back to London to pursue a career as a literary critic.

Anyway – to business. The idea is, that from time – depending upon the demands of my busy schedule – I will take a piece of writing, a poem in this case, and ‘de-construct it’. (I will explain what it means). Okay?



A poem by the post-modernist, Walter Thrugg, called simply

The City.

Winter skids across an autumn sky
In the thick air
Glue streets stick the fronts of
Black terraces to
Shattered pavements
While smoke-stack hatted men conjoin listlessly
On windy corners to moan
Incessantly
Over better days, over the moon, over bar the shouting
And vituperating dogs strain snarling at authority’s leash
In a gnashing of mistaken loyalty –
And nurses grease perambulator wheels
Surreptitiously, in the park
While waiting for their lovers -
When a penumbriacal moon stoops down
To comfort denizens of forgotten alleyways
Recognizable only by the whites of their eyes
Flashing like well-sucked gob-stoppers
In the stygian gloom.

And this is the city?
And I, a city dweller?

Be gone

-----------------------

In this poem Walter is railing against the desperate meaninglessness of life in a Northern industrial city.

The skidding autumn sky needs no explanation.

The ‘smoke-stack hatted men’ is a metaphor for the factory workers, miners, road sweepers and all the others who give freely of their labour – and illustrates the starkness, the grimness of working class existence.

The ‘vituperating dogs’ strain at the leash of capitalism, which is, at the moment, holding the workers in check out of ‘mistaken loyalty’ (this leash is strained to breaking point and will soon snap).

The ‘denizens of forgotten alleyways’ is a metaphor for working class women, who have to share communal wash-houses in stinking alleyways. Grinding poverty, back-breaking work over ‘dolley-tub’ and ‘mangle’ leave these women with neither energy or time to indulge in ‘lovers’ – unlike the nurses in the park, with their crisp-white uniforms and shiny faces.
(‘grease the perambulator wheels’ is of course a sexual allusion – let us be under no illusions about that – these lackies of the upper classes would not soil their manicured hands with machine oil)

Walter ends with a cry of anguish: Is this the city? Am I a city dweller? He has been brought face to face with the dreadful reality – and his complicity in it. He wants to be gone.

Attention

GUTEN TAG! This is the first time I have had the honour to address the great British public via this wonderful Internet.

Under the rules of the Sisterhood - and I am a great believer in rules - I am not allowed to give my name. Suffice it to say I am from a country with strong ties to your Royal Family.

And now to business: Discipline. Discipline (and that is my speciality) is what is needed, and has heretofore been sadly lacking on this blog. It is my role to remedy this state of affairs. A healthy mind in a healthy blog – that is my mission statement. The George person would not be in the position he is in now if he had taken himself in hand at an earlier date.

I shall be publishing a strict regime of exercise and diet on the blog but in the meantime I have instigated a callisthenics session every morning for the Sisters Some are less enthusiastic than will be good for them! For example, a certain Swedish lady prefers to lie in bed fiddling with her iPod. (I think I have spelled that correctly, having a good command of the English language, unlike the aforementioned lady – but let us not dwell upon that.)

We need an iron will to succeed (to paraphrase that great countryman of mine, Nietzsche). I am here to provide that will. And as for the threats – veiled and otherwise – let these people be warned: you will be biting off a bigger chunk of liverwurst than you can chew!

That will be all for now: I have to attend band practice tonight: I am taking the trombone solo in ‘Lohengrin’. Wagner – now there was a composer!

Response to R J Adams

‘We’ are not holding the person known as ‘George’.

As we said, he has been removed to a place of safety. Admittedly one of our members countersigned the necessary documentation, but it was with his best interests at heart.

It was vital that he be extracated from the spiritually toxic environment into which he had allowed himself to slide.

Now, with rest, regular meals – and of course medication – the prognosis of a complete recovery is realistically achievable.

It is, however, good to know that he has not been forgotten by his friends. Any messages of ‘good wishes’ will be forwarded via our secretary (hon) Greta.

DOMESTIC VIOLENCE ?

There is no such thing as domestic violence. You cannot domesticate violence. A fist in the face hurts just as much in the kitchen as it does in the street. Violence is violence is violence - and should be treated as such, whether the perpetrator is male or female. Calling it ‘domestic’ creates a separate category: a type of violence which is somehow not quite so bad: an almost cosy sort of violence - a traditional feature of hearth and home.

We realise that men can be victims of family violence: We are all too familiar with the excesses of Lizzie Borden! We are also aware of emotional violence (practised by both male and female), where the scars don’t show, but often last longer. This will be the subject of a separate article.


Remorse

She took a flat-iron
To Brian –
Destroyed his good looks,
No denyin’ -
Then she parted his hair
With the leg of a chair –
When the police came, she started cryin’.

Long time no seeing

Well what a turn down for the bookies and no mistaking. I am not able to give my name because we are speaking now with the one voice – the voice of the Sisterhood.
Oh yes.
Not either am I also able to advise of the situation of the man ‘George’ – suffice it to say.
He is personna non gratified around these parts.

But anyway I am glad to be opportuning to talk to you in the flesh – so to speak.
Our organization is growing by the yard. Sisters Norah and Greta being our latest recruits.

Our sister in charge, Georgina – no, I mean CHARLIE – wants the blog to have more of a political slope. We have just had the local elections and we have all voted – except me (for reasons I am unable to divulge at this moment in timing – and no, it is not because I am too young, though often being asked to produce identity when purchasing the alco-pops down the wine-bar).

Anyway it seems poor old Mr Blair’s lot have not done so good. People are saying it has much to do with Iraq conflagration – personally I do not know. My brother, Sven, he call the Middle East the arsehole of the world, so what, I am asking myself, is why Blair wanting to go poking nose in there?
But I am not a political animal, and no doubt is easy to snipe from the sidelines but when you got to run the show is different matter. It must be very difficult so I do not understand why anyone want the job – especially the Brown person who seems to have a nice number going, handling all the cash without any of the responsibility. But Greta says that power is the ultimate aphrodisiac. I say, well that is as may be, babe, but where you find time in that game for the hanky panky? That is what I ask. She refer me to Mr Plunkett (man with dog) who she says managed to put it about even with worries of Homely Office plus difficulties with vision.

I am even less au fate with the American politics, but the Bush man seems a good, clean living person - bit different from the Clinton person - always blowing his saxophone - and he is pal of Tony’s, so maybe he find him a job when he quits No 10 Downing Street. He probably feels sorry for his pal having to live in a Terraced House while he lives in a big white mansion.

Well I think that is enough of the politics for now.

It is a warm, sunny May day and I am going to divest myself of my clothing and bathe in the sun. The man next door, they say is paediatrician – well maybe if he watches me for a bit it take his mind off his unhealthy thoughts. Always thinking of others, that’s been my undoing – several times. But never mind: all in a good cause, eh?

The man ‘George’ (not his real name) has been removed to a place of safety. The site will, however, retain the name – at least for the time being. This decision has nothing to do with our founder member ‘Georgina’ who has sold her Max Factor and from henceforth wishes to be addressed as ‘Charlie’.

The content will, of course, undergo drastic changes. We aim to stick a finger in the dyke – so to speak – and stop the poisonous stream of innuendo, sexism and cultural stereotyping (barely concealed under a cloak of ‘blokish’ humour) which has issued from this blog under the aegis of the aforementioned 'George'.

One last point: Although different members will contribute to these pages, there will be no individual by-lines. This is because we are a co-operative and speak with one voice: the voice of Sisters Under The Duvet.

Oh, and one final point: Dark forces are at work and there is a conspiracy to sabotage our efforts. And example being the ‘comment’ thingy has been removed so no one can post a comment. Also that clock counter thing has been erased also so we would not know how many people had visited the site.

So for the time being, Sister Greta has kindly donated the use of her e-mail address Greta_sturm@hotmail.co.uk for anyone wishing to comment. See that is another example of the dark forces: there should be an underscore between Greta and sturm, like this: Greta_sturm.

We will triumph over all attempts to muzzle us!

Up the revolution.

NEVER GET BETWEEN A HIPPO AND WATER

Last night I took a Harley Davidson motorcycle on the bus – on the top deck! It was surprisingly easy; the only slight difficulty was getting it round the bend in the stairs. And the motorcycle had a dog attached – yes a dog! A small one, fastened to the handlebars with a strap.

Of course it was a dream: a strange one? Actually not so strange because I had been considering buying another motorbike, and then thought, why bother – why not travel by public transport? The dream solved the dilemma by allowing me to take the bike on the bus. That’s what dreams do. And the dog? Ah well, that is something else.

I probably told you this, but I have a Diploma in ‘Therapeutic Dream Work’. I could paper the wall with the certificates I’ve got (clever bugger!). It might be an improvement on the eight layers of decorator’s delirium presently covering the walls of Hector’s bedchamber.

Yes, that is where I spent last night – alone. So, Anastasia, you need not have worried after all. I might as well be a monk – actually, I’d probably have more fun as a monk. I mean, I guess there’s not a lot of money in monking these days, but look at the perks! (No, I am not going to make jokes about ‘what fun does a monk have? Nun!’ Extremely bad taste)

It has just occurred to me: when I talked about Myra playing songs from The Singing Detective I did not mean that she played them on her concertina – oh yes, she has such an instrument, and very versatile she is too – you should hear her rendition (with original vocals) of Percy French’s smoking-concert ballad, Abdul Abulbul Imir and (one of my favourites) Come back Paddy Reilly to Ballyjamesduff.

But I digress.
I felt a twinge of anti-climax when Myra said I could have Hector’s room for the night, although she did add ‘until we can negotiate alternative arrangements’. This was accompanied by a mysterious smile – so make of that what you will!

On entering my brother’s bedroom, the first thing that struck me was the smell: testosterone. Oh yes, you can smell it – well, anyone with a trained nostril can.
But as I looked around the room I thought, what a prize twonk! In the corner near the window was a pair of oars – that’s right oars. He’s afraid of water – I know that for a fact. And as for the rugby ball – well granted he has played the game, but only at lower-school level, and he hated getting his shorts dirty.
But what really irritated me was the stuffed fish in a glass case, above the bed. Can you imagine! I don’t know what kind of marine specimen it might be, but it’s over three foot long and I am sure my brother didn’t catch it. I think he imagines himself as Ernest Hemingway!

And then his bookcase! When I go into someone’s house I always look at their bookshelves; you can tell a lot about a person by the books they have on their shelves (even if they don’t read them). Two volumes immediately caught my eye: The Encyclopedia of Unusual Sexual Practices (with illustrations) by Brenda Love, and A Defence of Masochism (no pictures) by Anita Phillips. (I opened this last one at random and read

“Masochists are pluralists, and have a largeness of spirit, an expansiveness. They can easily project themselves outwards and empathize with others, although they may sometimes want to protect themselves from their own susceptibility… are always moving out of themselves with a mixture of curiosity and intense pleasure in enveloping a fresh version of the world.”

Sounds a lot like me!

(The next two pages were stuck together – that’s Hector all over: he always was a sloppy eater; he probably spilled porridge whilst having his breakfast in bed).

Oh yes, and another book I noticed was The Delta of Venus by Anais Nin. Now, I am quite partial to a bit of Anais, even though she, allegedly, wrote this collection in an attempt to impress Arthur Miller – or was it Jean Paul Sartre?

So this is a sample of my brother’s bedtime reading. Nothing wrong in that. One man’s meat is another man’s poison – and all that. But the book that I selected, to calm my mind before sleep came, was GESTAPO by Rupert Butler. A thumping good read.
Anyway, if those women let me have his bedroom for a second night I intend to explore further this most interesting collection.

On a shelf, there sits a large duck, made out of some furry material. It looked so alone up there, I thought of taking it to bed with me, but Hector’s teddy-bear, Woggle (I remember him from childhood) was sitting on the pillow and he and the duck might not have got on very well.
There is also a large old-fashioned wardrobe in the room. Well, not so much a wardrobe as a brooding presence. I was afraid to open the door, for fear of what might lurk in its dark depths. There are two other pieces of furniture: a ‘tallboy’ of the same vintage as the wardrobe, and an armchair. This latter is very comfortable: old, dark brown leather, all polished by the pants of its many occupants over the years. It stands in the bay window, which overlooks the garden (more of that later).
Oh, and there is a wicker bedside cabinet with a glass top, on which stands a lamp and an old alarm clock; one of those with a huge brass bell on top. Wonderful. On opening the door (the knob came off in my hand) I discovered a bottle of whisky (two thirds full) and a whisky tumbler – which was nice.

Actually, come to think of it, that smell in H’s bedroom might have been Fiery Jack embrocation; the two smells are easily confused.

Pragmatism: does it really work?

I said to Myra ‘You know, thinking back to my time with Georgina, I realise now I was in an abusive relationship.’
She replied ‘All relationships are abusive – if they go on long enough.’

Myra and me – we’re more like brother and sister. Which is good, because I never had a sister. My brother used to dress up in women’s clothes – but that just isn't the same.
Anyway, Hector’s not even my brother! As I told you, he joined the family unit later – as a six-year-old boy. His origins were never explained to me.

I remember, when I was quite little, a teacher asked me if I had any siblings. I said no. I thought a sibling was some kind of pet: like a hamster or a guinea pig. I said to my mother: can I have a sibling for my birthday? I promise to feed it, clean it out, and stuff. She just told me to go out and play – by myself!

Last night I dreamt I was going to go to Vietnam for a holiday. I could do, you know; I have a bit of money stashed away that no one knows about. I’ve been saving it for a ‘rainy day’ but, let’s face it, it’s fairly pissing down at the moment. So perhaps I should, in the common parlance, just ‘go for it’.

In my dream there was an assortment of oriental types (mostly ladies), and I hadn’t even got as far as the airport! I got irritated because two of them were talking in Vietnamese, although I knew they could speak perfectly good English. I think it was to do with the pros and cons of the trip.

Anyway, my ‘sister’ and I had a most acceptable breakfast at a little café called The Green Door. Afterwards we had a stroll around the charity shops; I bought a pair of ‘tom-toms’ for £1 – I think I am going to take up drumming. Who knows, I might eventually have my own group! I wonder what I could call us?

Myra persuaded me to return to Briarwood. I thought well, until I book my passage for Vietnam, it is as good a place as any. Carole will be there of course, and I don’t fancy a ménage a trois. Still, any port in a storm, as my uncle Neville used to say. Unfortunately, he took the maxim literally - which led to a Court Marshal and his subsequent dishonourable-discharge from the Royal Navy. Still, it was a long time ago – 1943,
in fact.

Uncle Neville was my only ‘military’ relative; the others were miners – except my aunt Edna: she was a spot-welder.

Myra swung the sidecar expertly around a left-hand bend and there was Briarwood. Tears filled my eyes; the freezing wind had been whipping around the edge of the screen for the last four miles of open road.
‘I’ll lend you a pair of goggles next time.’ Said my driver.


When I climbed out of the ‘chair’ I saw Carole waving to us from the dining room bay window. She looked quite fetching in her white robe, her hair wrapped in a sort of turban made from a towel. How do women do that?
When she opened the door she smelled of bath essence and ‘essential oils’. And I thought that maybe a ménage a trois might not be so bad after all.

You have to take life as it comes. And if life gives you lemons… get a bottle of gin and make yourself a stiff drink. (Actually, that’s one of Myra’s aphorisms. Another one is ‘Better the devil you don’t know than a horse of a different colour’ – I don’t understand that one.)

We had a pleasant evening. But I felt rather sad. Myra played some songs from ‘The Singing Detective’ and they resurrected memories. One of them -‘It’s A Lovely Day Tomorrow’ - I always connect with Anita - the friend who hanged herself, so many years ago now. I loved Anita. I wasn’t in love with her, but I loved her.

Anyway, we had a few drinks, Myra, Carole and me, and then – I don’t know what time it would be – Myra suddenly announced – in a playful tone - ‘Well, I think it’s time for beddi-byes.’
‘Bloody Hell’ I thought. Because up to this time no mention had been made of sleeping arrangements. I was determined I wasn’t going to lie down with the fish again, but was in some trepidation as to the possible permutations of the bedchamber. So I said ‘I’ve left my pyjamas at the hostel’. At which they both burst out laughing. For some reason I found this quite unsettling.

Gridlocked

A wet and gloomy 8.20 morning. A million lavatories jettison their cargo, and the sewage farm braces itself, in trembling anticipation of the impending onslaught.

Of course, I slept with her, in the end. In the end cubicle at the hostel. Lionel was out selling the ‘Big Issue’, and Major Dunwoody – a man of divided loyalties - was conducting High Mass at the Praed Street Synagogue. So I was able to smuggle her in.

We didn’t have sex though. I have always considered ‘sleeping with…’ a misnomer. It used to be said that 70% of human life begins on the back seat of a Ford Cortina. And that is my point: you don’t have to sleep with someone to indulg in sexual intercourse. Conversely, you may sleep with a person without having sex. Myra and I slept together.

It took us 4 hours to drive the 10 miles to my temporary place of abode. I can see a time, not long off, when you will have to fill in a request form if you want to make a journey by car, and obtain a permit. This will be the only way to prevent total gridlock.
Anyway, Myra was so tired that I did not want her driving home in that state, so I suggested she stay here for the night. She accepted my offer.
I said to her, 'The trouble with motor-cycle combinations is that they have all the disadvantages of the motorbike without any of the advantages.'
'You've said that before.' She retorted, in a tired voice.
'No, but I mean, if we had been on a solo machine we could have gone down the outside of all that traffic - and been home in an hour'.
Myra looked at me in a way that made me think it best not to pursue that line of argument.

Uncle Mort, in Peter Tinniswood’s I didn’t know you Cared, said that when a woman falls asleep she doubles her bodyweight – and then you are struggling under a mountain of icicles… something like that, anyway. Be that as it may, I found Myra a quite congenial sleeping partner. ‘Pleasantly pneumatic’ is a phrase that springs – or perhaps limps – to mind.

We lay, side by side, in the narrow hostel bed, covers drawn up to our chins, like two dolls, carefully tucked in by some giant child.
Myra fell asleep as soon as her little round head hit the grey, standard issue pillow. I lay awake, counting the cracks in the ceiling and wondering what it must be like to be a woman.

I eventually succumbed to sleep: that phenomenon we take for granted, and yet the true purpose of which eludes our scientists; at least for the moment. When I awoke, a dismal dawn light was struggling through the net curtain.
‘Are you awake?’ I said.
‘Yes,’ replied Myra, ‘are you?’
And so we talked. We talked about marriage.

I asked Myra about her relationship with my brother; when first she had noticed things starting to go wrong ‘I think’ she said, ‘that it was our 2nd wedding anniversary: I asked Hector what he thought we should do to celebrate. He said, “How about going down to the Cenotaph and observing two minutes silence?” I knew then that things were not going to be “Happy ever after”. But there was Bonar to consider – Hector’s child from his first marriage. Well not marriage (as I am sure you know) relationship, to use current terminology. His mother suddenly dumped him on us, when he was six, while she went off to South America with that Polish circus performer. Of course she never came back, Bonar grew up into the prize twat he is today, and left. But we had sort of got into a habit and it was easier to continue than to make a clean break – which is what we should have done.
Instead, I bought a motorbike. That gave me an interest – and space, quite literally. Without that bike I think I would have gone mad.’
‘And what about my brother?’ I asked.
‘Well, he’d always had a hobby: other women. I didn’t really mind: we had not been sleeping together for some time. But lately, it has begun to get to me – I’m not quite sure why this should be, but it’s the reason why I blew my top that evening before Christmas – unjustifiably, as it turns out. Still he’s done it so often that he couldn’t really complain.’
'So you never had a child of your own?' I asked.
'No, it would not have seemed right - even in the height of passion we were never close.'

Myra asked me about Georgina, saying we seemed totally unsuited. I said ‘Aren’t most married couples?’
She said ‘But there must have been something – at the start, I mean?’
‘Sex.’ I said. ‘And that – as I am sure you know – soon begins to pall.
We were both twenty years old when we got married; we didn’t know ourselves, let alone each other. We really had nothing in common, only we concealed it – from ourselves and from each other. Later, we had to admit that we were two very different people – with not a lot to say to each other.’
‘So why did you stay together?’
‘Well, I suppose it was for the sake of the rabbits. But just when myxomatosis saw them all off, Sydney came along. He gave us a common interest. But of course, he grew up. And we were alone again – together but alone. Sad, really.’
Myra said nothing. So I continued. ‘I find many things sad. So much so that I sometimes wonder if ‘sadness’ is the norm, the reality. And the depressive, the person with the binoculars, who sees more clearly – and we come and muddy the lenses with our drugs, so his view will be cloudy – but he will be happy. He will “fit in”.’
‘Nah’ says my bed-mate, ‘the depressive just needs his thermostat adjusting – thank God for good old Fluoxetine. But anyway, you’re out of all that now, aren’t you? I mean the divorce?’
‘I’m not sure where that’s up to – it hasn’t been finalised; what do you call it, decree absolute? That has not happened yet.’
‘But you do want a divorce?’ asks Myra.
‘I’m no longer sure what I want. My head is all muddled. Sometimes I feel like just giving up.’
‘Not another bridge job! Another railway line farce!’
‘No,’ I find myself saying. ‘I think I would be more likely to sink deeper and deeper into depression – suicide by degrees.’

‘You have to fight, George. It’s unpleasant, I know; it would be much nicer if people would be reasonable, tolerant, be prepared to listen, negotiate – but they’re not. Well, at least some people are not – usually those closest to you. So you have to stand up for your rights (actually, I don’t believe we have any “rights”, other than those we either negotiate or fight for.)
‘So, yours is the religion of the sword?’ I said, with what I hoped was a cynical smile.
‘No, the religion of “whatever comes to hand” bottle, brick, tyre-lever… ' She said, matching my sarcasm. 'You know what I mean, George. Ours is the religion of Pragmatism.'