Acknowlegements

I should like to thank:

Matildabonaparte
Undergraduate
R J Adams
Girlzoote
paige Turner (I don't recall having a twin sister (?) although I do vaguely remember being pushed around in a twin-buggy! But the other seat was empty!! What can this mean?
Your writing style seems vaguely familiar. Could we have met in another lifetime

Night

I am naked except for a black T-shirt, which is soaking wet. The reason it is wet is that I am standing in the pouring raid, in the middle of Liverpool. I am confused and frightened. It is night-time, and the few people who hurry by take no notice of me. Nevertheless, I am aware of my nakedness. But I don’t know what to do. I think I am on my way to the train-station, but I have left my brief-case at the university. I am afraid to go back to get it, but also afraid to go forward. I feel so vulnerable, and ashamed. How did I come to be in this place – LIKE THIS!

I continue to stand there. Rain plastering my hair; streaming down my face. Dripping off the T-shirt - which seems to have shrunk – onto my exposed genitals and thighs. Running down my legs and onto my bare feet, which are standing in a river of water, cascading down the pavement. Panic sets in. I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO.

With a supreme effort of will, I force myself to wake up. Another nightmare – on the same theme. Of course, I understand the symbolism - I have a Diploma in 'Therapeutic Dreamwork’ – but I can’t stop the nightmares.

Praise the Lord and pass the Prozac

Praise the Lord and pass the Prozac


I am feeling pretty bad tonight. My head is tight – like it is in a vice (Americans read 'vise'). Unpleasant. And I feel shaky. I am not sure I can cope with Christmas.

But the show must go on. It will go on anyway, with or without me.

One of the difficulties with depression (a much over-worked word – couldn’t we find another?) is that it is difficult to tell whether what you are feeling is a natural response to events and situations, or whether it is exaggerated, unrealistic.
A psychiatrist used the analogy of a thermostat which is ‘on the blink’ so to speak: it is over sensitive and reacts alarmingly to quite minor changes in temperature.

I once had a car whose brake-fluid warning light used to suddenly come on after driving a few miles. When I took it to the garage, a mechanic said: oh just ignore it – it's a well known fault with this model!

Am I a model with a ‘well known fault’, which should just be ignored?

Kiss me goodnight, Father Christmas

Kiss me goodnight, Father Christmas


The twelve days of Christmas

On the first day of Christmas
My true love said to me:
I’m leaving you.

So I cancelled the rest and flew to Spain to celebrate.

Only kidding. But as Christmas approaches, panic rises. And I alternate between being ‘down’ and hyper. I used to use alcohol to get through difficult times. I can’t do that now – what with all the medication and stuff.

When I was little, on Christmas Eve, my mother used to fill a pillowcase with all my presents – no wonder it was difficult to get to sleep.
You can see how tense I am becoming, making silly jokes like that.

I wonder if they will let me home for Christmas. I can imagine us all seated round the refectory table: The lesbian, Sydney and pregnant wotsname, the Swedish tart, my brother Hector (he usually turns up – with or without wife) and Cecil (the vicar) – we invite him because his wife goes home to her mother’s for Christmas. I never knew they celebrated Christmas in Bangladesh. Usually Inspector Wetherby drops in, and somebody has to run him home in the squad car.
In the evening we all go down the ‘Jolly Pervert’ for Christmas Quiz Night. It was on such an occasion that I first sampled Anthea’s dumplings – she puts a late supper on for all the regulars.

Actually Christmas in here is quite good: A neurosurgeon performs a frontal lobotomy on the turkey and everyone does a party piece. It could be my chance to get to know nurse Greta better!! Anyway, if I stay, I shall report on the proceedings.

The 'Electrical Room' was quite depressing - which is strange since its main purpose is to cure depression.

What used to be called ‘electroconvulsive therapy’ has now been replaced by ‘electronarcosis’. The drama of the former (what Jean Thuillier called ‘The Convulsion Pantomime’): the rubber straps, the gag, the burly male nurses holding down the twisting, grimacing, threshing patient when the electrodes are applied to his temples – all gone now. With electronarcosis you are slumbering pleasantly, courtesy of a little thiopentone sodium (Pentothol), injected into a vein at the fold of the elbow. A mild formulation of curare is then injected through the same needle. The muscles relax and the body goes slack and limp. It is only then that the electrodes are applied.
The treatment is essentially the same but, as Thuillier says, the addition of a few props makes the all the difference. ‘… the treatment of depression… is no longer a tragic sequence, but rather a diversionary interlude’

Even so, I don’t think I want a dollop of it. And I tell the good doctor that although I believe in the treatment (and I genuinely do because I have talked to people who say their lives have been ‘given back to them’ by wiring them up to the national grid for a few seconds) I would prefer to stick to the tricyclates and the MAOIs – for the time being.

Dr Singh says to me: We’ve been reading those books again, haven’t we! Which is it this time ‘Once few over the cuckoo’s nest’?
You’re a bit out of date, I reply. As a matter of fact it is a book called ‘Ten Years that changed the face of mental illness’ by Jean Thuillier.
Oh, he says, and goes away – presumably to talk to old Foggatty.

Later, Greta came round with the tea trolley. You know, I am beginning to fancy her. Not in the same league as the Swedish tart as far as looks go - but there’s something about a uniform...

Don't ask me: I'm a stranger here myself

‘Prior to the twentieth century, persons suffering from mental illness were thought to be “alienated”, not only from the rest of society but from their own true natures’

(‘The Alienist’ – Caleb Carr)

I have always felt alienated (Perhaps everyone feels the same – they just don’t write about it)

Like I have wandered onto a movie set, and someone has just thrust a script into my hands. Everyone else is a professional – they know what they are doing. I am an untrained amateur – and sooner or later they are going to find me out.

I sit and study the people in here. Are they all alienated?

Take that untidy, shambling figure over there. What strange union created him; what animal lust, what fierce uncontrolled passion. Or was it loving tenderness, two souls uniting in sublime intimacy. Perhaps it was all of these.

(would it help to know, as Laing puts it, whether you were born out of a good fuck – or a bad fuck?)

But that apparition over there: what complex cocktail of blood runs through his veins; what unknown genetic forces combined to twist that double-helix, the DNA code – the blueprint for his life on this planet.

A white-coated figure has gone over to talk to him. But he doesn’t seem to be listening; he is lost in some reverie of his own…


Someone is tugging at my arm. Oh, it’s doctor Singh. How long has he been here. I didn’t notice him walk up to me… I must have been lost in thought.

This too will pass

This too will pass -
Said my brother, in Madras,
As he shovelled down a plate of curried prawns.
And you know, the guy was right –
In the middle of the night
He passed enough to fertilize two lawns.


I find people generally unsatisfactory – especially relatives. Take my brother Hector, for example. Actually I think he is only my half-brother –
but that is another story.

He is nothing like me: he is boorish, insensitive and hopeless at relationships.

Readers of these chronicles will recall that he came to stay for a few days, and had it off with the Swedish tart. Talk about abusing hospitality!

Anyway, he has sent me a postcard (the lesbian must have told him I was in here) and he says he is going to come and see me. He must want something. Well he needn’t bother.

I penned that little piece of doggerel verse after an unpleasant incident just before we left India. (My father moved us all out there after the scandal) I include it here only to indicate the sort of person my brother turned out to be.

Oh – I have just looked at that ‘Sisters Under The Duvet’ website! This is frightful! I must see if I can get an injunction to stop her.

The days go skipping by
Like children
On their way home from school

All too soon
They will grow into years
And leave
Without waving goodbye

The coin has many sides

Yes/No? Either/Or? Black/White? Good/Bad? Right/Wrong?

No, no, no.

Why should there be only two alternatives? We box ourselves in with this restrictive habit of thinking.

“There are two sides to every story” – Wrong! There are MANY sides to every story.

Do you envy those who see only in black and white? Decisions are easy for them. But they miss so much.

True, they will never end up in this place. This place is for those who see an infinity of meanings in “good morning”: Is the morning REALLY good? Good for who? You? Me? The human race? And anyway, what is “good”? That which is good for you might not be good for me. Are you saying the morning IS good? Or are you wishing that I have a good morning? In the latter case, why restrict your good wishes to the first part of the day – what about the afternoon? Don’t you CARE what sort of an afternoon I have?

Yes, you can go too far the other way. Perhaps that is what the “black/white” lot are afraid of: afraid to explore meaning; afraid to open up their minds to “dangerous” ideas, their hearts to “dangerous” emotions; afraid of tipping over the edge, into madness.

But when you ARE mad, there is nothing to be afraid of. The mind has already burst its boundaries; it can fly.

Dory Previn expresses something of what I mean:

"I have flown to star-stained heights
On bent and battered wings"

hdyiuiwmmmsiibb

Confusion grows. Each question spawns more questions. “Answers” turn out to be mirages, shimmering on the horizon of the mind, in the heat of the brain. They disappear as you approach them.

Letter from my son

Dear George (I cannot bring myself to call you father, even after the result of the
DNA test)

I was horrified when mummy told me that you had been incarcerated in a lunatic asylum. We have never got on very well but I had no idea you were so mentally unbalanced. I am sorry.

Have you made a will?

On a personal note: Could you please sign the enclosed document which will add me to the insurance policy, so that I can drive your car while you are ‘inside’, so to speak.

What’s the food like in there? I imagine you are missing Anthea’s dumplings down the Jolly Pervert.

I would come to see you but Charlene is now 6 months pregnant and needs me by her side. You will be a granddad soon; that is if you don’t top yourself - your decision of course; we won’t feel that you are being selfish or anything.

A word of warning. Anastasia is continuing posting to that awful blog thing. You know the one ‘Sisters under the Duvet’ – the web address is www.brokeneenglish.blogspot.com. I am only telling you this because I have just looked at it, and I think you might have a good case for libel.

Chin up! - as the hangman said to the condemned man.

Sydney

Early hours

3.30 am. the early hours of on a can't sleep, dark and icy morning... a Victorian lunatic asylum, which is now called a ‘psychiatric unit’, somewhere in the northwest of England.

a time when - so it is said - your metabolism is at its lowest ebb. that is why secret police all over the world choose this time to knock on your door.

“ANNA MY LOVE,
IT’S TIME NOW, I’M SURE –
THERE, HEAR THE KNOck –
THIS TIME IT’S OUR DOOR”

(From ‘Anna, my Love’ by Harvey Andrews)

it is a time when 'time' itself seems to stand still, to congeal, and you see yourself as a fly stuck on one of those old fashioned 'fly papers' - you know you should get out of here but you can't move: you are trapped in sticky time.

not like those other occasions when time is greasy and slippery and skids past you, too quickly... you want to grab it, hold it back, but you can't.

it is a time when banshees howl at your windows, and all the securities you thought you knew slowly dissolve, like cubes of ice in a tumbler of whisky, and you realise that you are truly alone...

alone on a piece of rock whirling through space, gradually cooling - until it becomes so cold that it can no longer support life, but it still goes on spinning purposelessly into the void.

and the cold glacial winds of outer space tear across a scarred landscape where your house once stood... but now there is nothing.

nothingness is hard to imagine, but it waits, crouching in the dark just outside the circle of our campfire's light… and when the fire slowly dies, and then goes out – it swallows us

but soon, morning will come, and, as the sun warms this side of our rock, another day begins...

Sam

I have got ‘Restless Arse” Syndrome: it is like “Restless Leg” Syndrome (did you know that 1 in 10 Americans suffer from it?) except that it is your arse that won’t keep still. In my case it keeps heading towards the lavatory. Actually, the doctors call it “Irritable Bowel” Syndrome – but I think my phrase is more picturesque.

I was in the bathroom when they showed Sam in (not into the lavatory). He did not mind waiting.
He asked me how I was feeling. “Shitty” I replied. He was sympathetic.

When he had gone I thought about what he had said. It must be nice to have a faith – no, I really mean it - to be so certain of things; to KNOW that there is life after death. But not only that, Sam seems so happy NOW: his face is radiant when he talks about ‘giving his life to Christ’.
I am not knocking it. It is just that I find it so difficult: the Church thing. I just can’t go along with a lot of the language in the hymns and so on – it does not make sense to me. But Sam says don’t bother about all of that. That organised religion has just twisted and distorted the essential message of Jesus
And I do think Jesus was quite a guy. I mean when you read some of the things he said – well the things people SAID that he said – you know, they really make sense. Things like ‘The Sabbath is for the people, not the people for the Sabbath’ (I may have paraphrased a bit there – it is a long time since I read the bible). Now, I interpret that as: religion should be there to help people, not to condemn or threaten them with dire consequences if they do not toe the line. Religion should ‘fit’ the people, not the other way round. And that means the people of the 21st century, not a middle eastern civilization of 2000 years ago.
I said to Sam that when I looked back on some of my behaviour I was appalled, and that I used to think that I was ‘steeped in sin’. He laughed and said he did not think I was. That cheered me up a bit.
Anyway, we had quite a chat – me and old Sam. He asked me if I would like him to come again, and I said yes. Strikes me, the more people I have on my side, the better. I shudder to think of being totally reliant on the lesbian to get me out of here.

Interview

ST BOTOLPH

Hospital Trust


Form 2/547b – Interview/Transcript

DATE – 23rd Nov. 2005

DOCTOR - Singh R. W.

PATIENT – Turner G.


Dr. Singh Good morning Mr Turner, and how are we today?
Turner Well, I don’t know about you, but I am feeling pretty pissed off.
Dr Pissed Off?
GT Oh come on doc – not the ‘reflecting back’ bit, please. Remember
I’m in the trade too.
Dr Ok. Why are you feeling pissed off?
GT You know why.
Dr You tell me.
GT Because I’m locked up in here. There’s nothing wrong with me and I
want to go home.
Dr And you will go home – all in good time. But as for there being
nothing wrong…
GT Ok. So I was thinking of jumping off a bridge – I changed my mind. I
AM NOT MAD.
Dr No one said you were, Mr Turner.
GT Then why am I being kept in here – against my will?
Dr We want to help you.
GT And how do you think you can do that?
Dr We think you may be suffering from depression.
GT The old faithful, eh. And would that be reactive or endogenous
depression? Does it ever strike you psychiatrists that someone might have good cause to be ‘depressed’ as you call it? How about this for a diagnosis: ‘clinically pissed off’.
Dr You sound angry.
GT Of course I’m angry.
Dr Who are you angry with, George?
GT I am angry with you, with Foggatty, with myself, but most of all
doctor, I am angry with LIFE.
Dr With Life?
GT You’re doing it again! Yes, angry with the whole cold, meaningless
cruelty of the universe. We humans delude ourselves in trying to find
some purpose to life. There is none – except to obey the ‘selfish
gene’: blindly procreate and so ensure the continuance of the species.
Then we die and others take out place, and so the mindless farce
continues. We are cannon fodder for nature.
Dr But what about the good things of life: beauty, joy, love?
GT Oh sure. But they are far outweighed by ugliness, misery, hate;
not to mention the pain: mental as well as physical. Just look around
you, doctor.
Dr Are you taking your medication?
GT Oh yes. Greta sees to that. I wouldn’t want to argue with that one.
Dr I believe your wife has been to see you?
GT The lesbian? Yes – and do me a favour: don’t let her in next time.
Dr That is up to Dr Foggatty – anyway, you have another visitor.
GT Don’t tell me it’s the Swedish tart.
Dr I’m sorry?
GT Our ex au pair.
Dr Oh, no – it is one of the policemen who pulled you out of the river:
P.C. Beckett.
GT Oh, not the ‘Born Again’ Sam! Tell him I’m having insulin shock
treatment.
Dr He says there are some questions he needs to ask you.
GT He’s trying to convert me, you know.
Dr Mr Turner, he is a policeman.
GT Well, he’s not here on police business, I can tell you that… he’s
here on behalf of the Chief Superintendent in the sky.
Dr Is there anything you’d like to ask me before I go?
GT Yes: what was happening before the Big Bang?
Dr I am making some slight alterations to your medication – nurse
Kawalski will talk to you about it.
GT So no ECT yet?
Dr We use ECT only as a last resort.
GT That sounds like a threat. Play ball – or else.
[silence]
Now I suppose you will add ‘incipient paranoia’ to my diagnosis.
Dr Is there anything else you’d like to ask me?
GT No
Dr Well, then, Good Day Mr Turner. I shall see you again later in the
week.


Interview terminated – 10.45am.

I had no idea water could feel that hard. They told me afterwards I was lucky the bobbies were on hand: I stuck in the mud at the bottom. Three of them (Sam was one) dived in, and together they managed to extricate me and get me to the surface before I had ingested too much of the river. Anyway, I got off lightly as far as physical injuries were concerned: a broken ankle, bruised ribs and a fractured right wrist; I am learning to write with my left hand. I find this very interesting; the left being my ‘un-socialised’ hand means I am more directly in touch with my real self. Yes, I know it sounds a bit airy-fairy but it is true. I find that the stuff I am writing now has a different feel to it.

Diary extract – 22nd November

It’s quiet on the ward. I’m sitting by the window, looking out onto the lawn. It’s raining, and the gardens have that sad kind of beauty that makes you want to cry, and you don’t know why. Well, YOU may not know why, but the doctors do: you’re a depressive. They’ve diagnosed me as depressive – amongst other things. I know that because the staff nurse told me. She’s ok, Greta. A bit on the fat side, and she smokes a lot; but she’s got a lovely face.
I’m going to ask to see my notes. You can do that nowadays; they don’t like it, but you can insist.
Bernie, my observer for this shift, is sitting at the table in the middle of the room. He’s talking to Harry, but keeps glancing over to see if I am about to slit my wrists. Now Harry: he’s an interesting case. Used to be a teacher. Taught maths in a big secondary modern. It got to him – I should say the students got to him. Came to the point where he used to have a miniature of whisky before coming to school, and in the lunchtime he would be down the pub for three or four pints, to get him through the afternoon. In the end he had a breakdown: poured lighter fuel over his jacket and trousers and set fire to himself – in the middle of an algebra lesson.
I never liked maths, myself. Wasn’t any good at it. I thought whilst I was in here, old Harry might give me a couple of lessons: sort of help me and keep his hand in at the same time. But he won’t talk about what he used to do for a living, Can’t blame him really.
Paul has just come in; but I am going to ignore him. He says he’s God. I asked him how he got this idea. Well, it seems he used to pray a lot. Then one day when he was talking to God he realised he was talking to himself. At least that’s what he told me; but, as I said, they’re all mad in here.
– oh, I’ll have to stop now – here comes Freddy’s registrar: Doctor Singh...

THEM

Shadowy figures in my head, lurking, waiting until I am asleep to enact their crazy dramas
Sometimes they can’t wait, and I hear them just as I am about to drop off – the odd snatch of a phrase, sometimes just one word; whispers in the back of my head, occasionally a shout – which startles me.
Lately they have been getting bolder, and I hear them during the day – sudden, unexpected.
But it is in my dreams that they really come into their own: indulging their wild fantasies. But of course, it is not fantasy to them – only to me. For them it is reality.
Mostly I stand and watch – just on the edge of the action. But often they get me to join in, to play a part – maybe several parts. So that I am both spectator AND player.
The scenarios are becoming more bizarre; the plots more convoluted. And the violence is escalating.
And the terrible thing is… I know it is not ‘them and me’ – they ARE me. I am THEM.

SHE

SHE came to see me yesterday. I said to the charge nurse ‘I thought I was not allowed visitors’
He said ‘But this is your wife – your next of kin’
‘She’s no kin of mine I exploded’ He just smiled and showed her in.

She sat down and just looked at me for a while. ‘I suppose you thought that was clever’ she finally said.
‘No, it would have been clever if I had done the job properly’ I retorted.
She started to eat my grapes, and spit the pips into a Kleenex! How gross is that!
‘Do you mind!’ I expostulated, ‘Those grapes have been sent by a friend’.
She sneered. ‘I suppose you mean that ex Animal Rights Activist and part-time writer – the one that got you into all this Blogging business. Well, I will have a few words for him, if ever I meet him’
‘What are you talking about, woman’ I said, tiredly.
‘Well it’s all this blogging stuff that got you into this state. All those weirdos you link up with on the so called ‘information highway’. She sniffed, ‘If you ask me it should be called the ‘information dead-end – for no hopers.’
I maintained a dignified silence, although I was appalled to see R.J.’s grapes had almost gone. And then I had a thought – ‘Wait a minute, you talk about me, but aren’t you and that Swedish tart doing the same thing with your… what is it… ‘Sisters under the Duvet’?
She wiped the last of the grape juice off her chin. ‘Not any more, kiddo – she’s on her own now’
‘You mean you’ve kicked her out?’ I cried.
‘No – she can stay as long as she pays me rent but I want nothing more to do with the crazy bitch. The blog thing was her idea anyway’
I considered this information. ‘Why have you come here?’ I asked at length.
She began to repair her lipstick. ‘I want to raise money on the house. You can get one of those ‘Reversion’ things… you know… releasing equity or something, they call it.
I was aghast. She went on, calm as you like, ‘Anyway, since the house is in both our names I shall need your signature.’
‘Not on your life’ I shouted.
‘Shush, don’t get yourself excited dear – you know it isn’t good for you.’ She admonished. Getting up to go, she continued, ‘Oh, and I have seen Foggatty; you’re only going to get out of here if I undertake to be responsible for you – look after you’, she added with a grim smile. ‘Think it over, darling’ she called over her shoulder, as one of the nurses let her out of the ward.

I sank back in my chair, my mind numb. Has it really come to this?

self indulgence

The old building creaks and groans in its sleep. But I am wide awake. I am confused, and my confusion brings sadness. My ‘NHS’ pillow feels damp, and I realize I have been crying.
I am confused because I do not know who I am. Or rather, I am lots of people. Which one is really me? All of them? None of them?
I think I was hoping to find the ‘real’ me at the red lantern on top of the bridge. But the well-meaning, interfering cop prevented me. Ronnie Laing thought that it was often better to allow a person to ‘go through’ a schizophrenic episode (with support) and so come out the other side. Unfortunately the medics want to rescue us before we get to that point. Rescue us from what? From ourselves? But when you rescue someone from themselves you have robbed them of their most precious possession. Still, you have fitted them back in the world, and can tick of the ‘successful outcome’ box.
Old Freddie seems a bit different from the other medics I have encountered. We shall see.
I am in this big old hospital, surrounded by tormented souls, and yet I feel alone. I have always felt alone. But the fact that I have always felt alone does not mean it gets any easier.
I have recurring dreams where everyone has abandoned me – left, to go about their own business which does not include me. I am standing in a deserted street, late at night. I think I should go home but I am not sure how to get there; and I am not sure that I want to go there. I am still standing on the empty pavement when the dream ends.

Dr Foggatty

The brass plate on the door says ‘Dr Frederick Foggatty’, but the man furiously pedalling the exercise bicycle does not look at all like a doctor: He is wearing a mauve sweater with leather patches on the elbows, lime green corduroy trousers, sandals and red socks; there is a small hole in one of the socks. His beard and hair join in one wild, rusty tangle.
He climbs down off the bicycle and, dismissing the male charge nurse, walks over to a desk, so large you could land a helicopter on it; that is, if you could find a place between the high-rise stacks of beige folders that litter its leather landscape. There is one folder all on its own; neatly squared off in the centre of the big pink blotter; I guess that is me – waiting to be dealt with.
Motioning me to sit down, this large, untidy man moves behind the desk and lowers himself into his chair. He stares hard at me. I say ‘at me’; actually he seems to be looking over my left shoulder and, when he speaks, he seems to be addressing his remarks to someone standing just behind me. I glance round, but there is no one there. I think he has a slight squint.
He finally speaks, ‘Now then, how long has this hand-washing business been going on, Brian?
‘I’m sorry’, I reply, bewildered.
‘No need to be sorry, Brian. We all have our little foibles. Now I’m here to help you, so don’t be afraid’.
‘No – I mean, I’m not Brian – my name is George: George Turner.’
The doctor glares at the folder in front of him. Then, shuffling through the nearest deck of similar folders on his desk, he extracts the correct case-notes and begins to read. As he reads, he breaks off from time to time to scratch his head vigorously, then examine his fingernails, as if looking for something.
Whilst he is reading, I look around the room. There is a framed school photograph, about a yard long: rows of identical small boys, sitting cross-legged, and behind them taller boys, and behind them even taller boys. The back row look as if they must have been on stilts when the photo was taken. To the right of the photo hangs a large card with printing on it. It slopes at an angle, as if someone has knocked it whilst dusting. Tilting my head, I read: Anyone who goes to see a psychiatrist needs his head examining.
He finishes reading, and begins to ask questions. I am on my guard of course, but his gentle, almost soothing voice, seems to draw me; and before I realise it, all sorts of stuff is pouring out.
All too soon (now why do I think that) the interview is over. He walks back to the ward with me, talking all the time about an old motor-bike he is restoring. Patients we pass, on the way, call out ‘How do, Freddie’. And he replies ‘How do Tom’ or ‘How do Alice’, whatever their name is. Not exactly the usual sort of doctor/patient exchange.
Still, I look forward to my next meeting with him.

Visiting hours

I am not allowed visitors just yet. I am allowed mail but this is scrutinised by the staff before being passed to me. So far I have only had one mail (thank you 'girlzoot'). Perhaps the printer has run out of paper. They are very inefficient in the office here.

Another world

If the lunatics really are running the asylum, which would you rather be: a patient or a member of staff?



It was New Year’s Eve on the Locked Ward,
The lithium flowed like wine,
A psychiatrist from ‘G’ wing
Was singing Auld Lang Syne;
And sometime after midnight,
When sane folk are abed,
They started telling stories
And this is what they said:


I am being detained under the powers of the Mental Health Act, 1983 - Section 2, to be precise. This provides for “detention for up to 28 days for assessment of condition… this may be accompanied by treatment.”
Ah, but what kind of treatment? I have refused to take any of the medication they have offered, although I am prepared to talk, to anyone who will listen – including the other patients. They don’t seem such a bad bunch. They’re all mad of course: why else would they be here?
I am under twenty four hours surveillance. They call it “observation”. Anyway, the hospital rules refer to “the necessity of watchfulness at all times…in the interests of the patient’s own health or safety.” All this, demanding “a high standard of tactful guidance by nurses”. How do I know all this? I told you: I’m in the trade.
But they are not very tactful, most of them. They write everything down. Everything I do, even when I go to the lavatory. And of course they write down the fact that I am always writing. Talk about “Alice in Wonderland”. At night I have to leave my bedroom door open, and it’s hard to get to sleep with someone peering in. I’ve tried telling them I have no intention of attempting to take my own life. But they don’t believe me. Incredibly, they’ve put me in a room on the 4th floor. The 4th floor – and me a “jumper”!
Of course, I’m not really a jumper – more of a “slipper”. I’ve tried telling them that as well. Waste of time. You can see their point of view. What was I doing up on the bridge in the first place? Okay, so in the end I had decided not to do it. I was coming down. Unfortunately, I stepped on that patch of oil. An accident. Ah, but Jung says there are no such things as accidents; my psychiatrist is a Jungian.

The Dream

I am walking under water, slowly, awkwardly, because I am encased in a ‘deep-sea’ diving suit: thick, heavy rubber, the sleeves ending in clumsy gloves, a huge globe of a helmet, and on my feet, great metal boots. As I ponderously move my legs, I am aware that I am treading on all manner of nasty things: crabs scuttle away – some are not quick enough and I hear them crunch underfoot. There are other things too; I can’t see them but I can feel them: slithery, slimy abominations, they brush against my rubberised legs. And although I know that neither they nor the crabs can harm me, I am sweating with a mixture of fear and disgust.
The water seems to clear, and I detect a movement out of the corner of my eye. With difficulty, I turn my head. To my right, there is a large metal cage; inside are about a dozen creatures: although they resemble huge pike, these ‘things’ are hardly fish, for they have the snouts of crocodiles; sharp teeth gleam in their gaping red mouths as they snap their jaws. But the worst thing is their colour: grey, like dead flesh. The reptile fish appear to be decaying – yet they are still very much alive. They have seen me. Wild, bloodshot eye fasten in a malevolent stare, and they begin to butt against the bars. Suddenly, a door in the cage opens. Here they come. Heading straight for me. I think my suit will protect me but I am not sure. One of the ‘things’ has sunk its jaws into the rubber of my sleeve. I jerk my arm and shake it off. They are all around me now. I turn and try to get away. My legs move as in ‘slow motion’, my steel boots dragging in the silt. I am breathing heavily now, and I start to worry about my air supply: will the men ‘on top’ continue to keep turning the big wheel, pumping air into my helmet? What if they tire? Just stop pumping?

Then I am walking up a gradual slope, the water above me becoming lighter with each step I take.

If I should fall from grace

Stomach lurching. Wind rushing. Ears roaring. Blood pounding. Spinning. Falling. Terror. Help. Too late. SMACK..…………Pain. Blackness. Nothing.

Exit

I am feeling tired; not physically tired but mentally, spiritually tired. I just want to sleep. But I am not going to give up, not just yet.

‘Do you believe in free will?’ I startle the officer.
‘Er, well… yes I do. I believe we all have choices’ he says, at last.
‘Ah, but it all depends upon what you mean by “choice”. You may argue – you probably do – that I chose to climb up here tonight. Right?’ I don’t wait for him to reply – I don’t want to be interrupted. ‘But are not my actions the end result of a chain of circumstances: my genetic inheritance; environment; everybody I’ve ever met; everything that’s happened to me; every action, every reaction? A long chain, reaching back to when I was born; in fact before that. What does the bible say about the sins of the fathers being foisted upon the sons. Yes, I know it doesn’t say foisted but I think that’s more appropriate for our age and times’.
‘That’s the old ‘billiard-ball’ argument.’ Sam shouts back. ‘You might as well say that from the day the first organism managed to crawl out of the primal slime it was inevitable you would end up on this bridge tonight’.
I think about this for a minute. ‘That’s about the size of it’ I say, cheerfully.
‘So the outcome is already pre-ordained. There’s no point in talking about it then’.
‘Well, I didn’t ask you to come here’ I say. But I already know the answer to that. So does he. He replies.
‘Ah, but that too was written in the primal slime’
You know, I’m beginning to like old Fast-track. ‘What are you doing in the police force? You’re far too clever’. I think he is smiling; can’t really tell from this distance – he may just have cramp. Like I’ve got, again.
He sees that I’m in some sort of distress and starts to climb towards me. I wave him back. He stops. Gradually the cramp eases.
‘Look, why don’t you come down and we can have chat?’
‘What about?’
‘Whatever you like. We can continue this discussion about free will, if you like.’ Before I can reply, he continues. ‘There’s a flaw in the determinism argument, you know. I mean, yes, we do come with a load of baggage – genetic inheritance -‘man hands on misery to man’ and all that. And I agree that our environment – particularly family, in the early years - has a powerful effect. But what about you as an individual?’
‘How do you mean?’ I am intrigued now.
‘Well, you are unique. There has never been anyone else quite like you, and there never will be. In fact there cannot possibly be. Wouldn’t you agree?’
I think about this. ‘I suppose so, in the sense that I was born at a particular time and in particular circumstances. But what does that mean?’
‘It means that your uniqueness is the missing factor from the determinism argument. It is that uniqueness that makes change possible; that enables you to break the link with the past. Think about it. How else could the human race have evolved to the stage it has?’
You know, I think he might have something there. I have never thought of it like that before. I had a friend once who believed that sometime before we are born – while we are still in the womb – a ‘soul’ enters into us. And it is that soul that gives us our divine spark – our uniqueness. Has this bobby cottoned on to something really profound? I ponder on this for a while. ‘Are you saying that we have a soul? I ask.
‘Well, that’s one way of putting it. People tend to shy away when they hear “religious talk”. But these are just labels: people doing their best to describe something that is perhaps beyond description, beyond explanation – but nevertheless real.’
He’s got a point.
‘For example, Christians believe we are made in God’s Image. But I don’t think we should take that literally.’
‘No,’ I answer, ‘because if we took it to mean physically, what about all those poor sods who are crippled and deformed? What about dwarfs and hunchbacks?’
‘Exactly.’ Replies old Fastrack. ‘But if we took it to mean spiritually in God’s image, then that would make more sense. Wouldn’t it?’
‘Exactly how do you mean’. I am interested now.
‘Well, the God thing is just one way of putting it, but it would mean that we really were free to decide how we were going to live our life.’
‘You mean the ‘good’ or ‘evil’ choice’ I say, rather sarcastically.
‘I would put it more like choosing life rather than death’
I lean forward trying to see if he has a bible in his hand; he hasn’t. I try again. ‘But what exactly is the nature of this spirituality? That we share with God?’
‘I don’t think it’s something you can explain. You can only feel it’
I am a bit disappointed by his answer. ‘But that isn’t very scientific, is it?’
‘Why not?’ Are you saying that the only reality is that which we can apprehend by our intellect?’
‘OK. I suppose you are going to say that true science would expand to take in all phenomena; all ways of ‘knowing’?’
‘That’s about it’.
I am beginning to shiver. And I’m not sure it’s just because of the cold. He continues.
‘Do you have any children?’
‘Yes’.
‘Well, did you ever watch them when they were very young?’
‘Of course I did’ I am wary now.
‘And didn’t you think that they were something more that just the product of you and you partner?’
‘You mean just because you inherit your grandfather big nose, your mother’s taste for gin and your dad’s tendency to avoid work… it doesn’t mean you are a carbon copy?’
‘Exactly’
He is right or course. I often look at a young child in the street, with her mother, and think: you are more than the product of a…. I find it hard, even here up on the bridge to allow a word like shag to come into my mind. But it does.
No. Somehow the child transcends the parents – and when you see some of the parents… it’s just as well. My bridge partner is speaking:
‘And what about imagination? The ability to ‘see’ something before it has happened; which gives us the courage to take a leap into the dark? No. I would say that the past influences but it doesn’t determine.’

Suddenly I just want all this to end – somehow. I want someone to take the decision away from me.

‘If I come down you will arrest me’. I say, rather half-heartedly.
‘Why should I do that?’
‘Well, I’ve committed an offence, haven’t I?
‘Technically yes. But the paperwork! You wouldn’t believe it.’ A pause. ‘Look, me and my colleagues, we just want to get you down from there and then we can all go home… after we’ve had a chat’. He sort of tacks this last bit on, and I wonder what he means.
Holding tight to the rail, I take one last look at the sky. I’ll probably never get this close again. Not like this, anyway. And snatch of Dory Previn’s "Mythical Kings" is playing in my head - "I have flown to star-stained heights on bent and battered wings." Well, I’ve not actually flown, but I’ve come close.
I turn, and begin to ease myself slowly down the steel slope, sliding my right hand forward on the rail before I take the next step. Sam the bobby is standing there, watching me, anxiously. ‘Back off, Sam – I want to do this myself’.
Reluctantly he obeys. Turning, balancing gracefully on the narrow girder he walks to the wire, and jumps the six feet to the ground.
I feel strangely buoyant now. Confident, even. Maybe it’s the night air or the chat with this policeman – or both. But my head has cleared. The confusion that has clouded my brain for weeks has miraculously disappeared. I actually feel good.
The steel curve in front of me has become a wide road. I’m still holding on to the rail, but it’s dead easy now. My weight evenly balanced, I traverse the last few feet of the main arch, where the handrail ends. I straighten up to take the last few steps. Glancing down I see the little reception committee waiting for me. I smile to myself.
My right trainer hits the patch of oil.

The short arm of the law

He’s short for a copper. But of course now, what with ‘non discrimination’ and stuff, you can join the police whatever your height – I wonder if they have any dwarfs? Or midgets? Or what about one-armed policemen? Or WPC’s with a wooden leg? That would be true non-discrimination.
He swings himself up with an ease that shows his youth – he’s far more agile than me – and he’s on the girder. He picks his way delicately over the wire. ‘Watch out for that patch of oil’ I call out. There I go again, taking responsibility for everyone. I don’t know if he’s heard me.
In a matter of seconds he’s traversed that first sloping walkway – it took me minutes – and has reached the handrail at the start of the main arch. He stops, holding on to the rail. What’s he waiting for? A round of applause?
Suddenly, night turns to day. They’ve switched on the bridge lights. I find myself looking down a long, curving arc of steel, bolt-heads glinting in the electric glare. And fifty feet away, looking up at me, a rather small policeman with a strained, but determined expression on his rookie’s face.

That could have been me, thirty years ago. I applied for the police force. Got accepted too. Then, at the last minute, I got cold feet, and backed out. I don’t know that I would have made a good copper. I think I would have been too tolerant – me with my philosopher’s temperament. I would have always seen the other person’s point of view. And that is not a good trait for a policeman.

We stare at each other, for what seems minutes. Then,
‘Would you like to tell me your name?’
His voice is surprisingly melodious, and strong, for such a small person.
‘Not particularly’. I don’t want to encourage him.
‘My name’s Sam. Do you want to tell me what this is all about?’
‘Are you Jewish’ I call back.
‘No – why?’
‘Well, ‘Sam’ – short for Samuel; that’s a Jewish name’
‘ I’m C of E’
C of E. The old faithful. I’m C of E too. I was confirmed and all that. But it’s a long time ago. I’ve still got a photo though. I’m standing at the back of the group with a sort of sheepish grin. Come to think of it, I’ve got that same sheepish grin in most of the photos I’ve had taken. It’s almost like I’m apologising for being here. As if I am some kind of intruder, and shouldn’t be there at all.
I wonder if this Samuel person is a church-goer.
‘Do you believe in sin? I shout. He doesn’t reply; he’s thinking it over.
‘Well, I think we all know right from wrong’
Of course he would say that, he’s a policeman.
‘You speak for yourself’, I retort, ‘I’ve always had the greatest difficulty in knowing right from wrong.
‘Is that why you’re up there? Because you feel you’re a sinner?’
He’s inching slowly up the slope while he’s talking to me. He thinks I haven’t noticed.
‘Ok. That’s far enough’, in my sternest voice. He stops.
‘Well, we can hardly have a metaphysical discussion shouting at one another’. Oh, metaphysical. This must be one of their bright ones. What do they call them? Fast track? PC plod this month, sergeant the next, inspector the next. He’ll be Chief Superintendent within the year. Unless he cocks this one up.

‘No, that’s not the reason I’m up here’ In fact, I realise with a shock, it may be the real, the underlying reason.
‘So why are you up here then?’
‘Well, if you really want to know: I’ve travelled over this bridge hundreds of times; in a car; on a motor-bike; a push bike even. But always on the road. I wondered what it would be like to walk across over the arch, like’.
Sam ignores the sarcasm. ‘I came here from Birmingham. My dad got a job. When I first saw this bridge – I’d be about four – my dad told me that if you wanted to walk across, you had to climb the arch. I believed him. Funny what you believe when you’re a kid. Anything your parents tell you.’
Almost without thinking, I find myself saying ‘They fuck you up, your mum and dad…’
He finishes it off for me:
‘They may not mean to, but they do;
They give you all the faults they had
Then add some extra, just for you…’

I am impressed; a Philip Larkin fan! What did I tell you – he is fast track: a policeman who reads poetry. But the bugger’s started creeping up again. I make to put my leg over the rail. He stops. Sharpish.
‘Okay, Okay’.
I got him worried then. Fast track turns to slow lane if he loses a jumper.
I’m getting cramp now, in my right leg, the one on the side nearest the road. I flex my knee, taking care to hold tight to the red warning light. That’s better. Ignoring the policeman, I look up at the sky. I feel that if I reached up I could touch it. And all those stars; I know I keep going on about them but I’ve never seen them so close. And the nearest one is trillions of miles away – or so the astronomers tell us; they might be making it up for all I know. Still, it makes you think. Is there some divine plan? Some grand design? And if so, what’s my part in it? What’s this policeman’s part?
I glance down again. He’s sidled a few more inches up the arch. What does he think he’s doing? Trying to rescue me? From myself? He might at least have the courtesy to ask if I want to be rescued. But, you see, isn’t life like that? Always someone trying to rescue you from yourself: priests, teachers, therapists and, of course, policemen.
I look at my watch: two a.m. The tide will be starting to ebb. My hands are cold. I wish I hadn’t thrown my gloves away.

‘Isn’t there someone at home who will be getting worried about you?’
I’d almost forgotten about the copper.
‘I may be up here because I have nobody worrying about me. Didn’t they teach you better than that on the negotiator’s course?’ Silence. I bet he thinks I am a real smart arse.
‘I’m sorry’.
He sounds it too. His career might be hanging on this. Now I’m sorry, doubly sorry: sorry for the sarcastic comment, sorry for the uncharitable thought.
‘It’s ok. Actually I do have someone. But they won’t be worrying –they don’t know I’m here; not yet.
‘Is there someone you’d like us to get in touch with?’
‘The Dalai Lama – if you can reach him’.
‘Are you a Buddhist?’
‘I was being facetious’
‘I know’

Despite myself, I am beginning to like old Sam. This will not do. I must not be deflected from my purpose. But what is my purpose? For the first time tonight I am starting to have doubts.

Somebody down there likes me

One of the bobbies is shouting something at me. He’ll have to speak up. I haven’t got my hearing aid in. Mind you, I rarely wear it anyway. And I should do, really, because people can get quite irritated when I ask them to repeat things, two or three times.
There’s another car now. Coming from the opposite direction. It stops. More bobbies. They’re starting to put those red cones out in the road. Now what’s the point of that? They surely don’t think I’m going to jump down onto the road.

Do you believe in sin? My therapist doesn’t, but me? I don’t know. Mind you I’ve always felt guilty. I have sort of walked around with a cloud of guilt swirling around my head. Ready to alight on some deed or other, turning it into a mis-deed. The writer, Fay Wheldon, thinks guilt is a good thing because it acts as a spur to the conscience – something like that. I don’t agree. The kind of guilt I’m talking about doesn’t do anybody any good. I think you can learn from your actions – and their consequences – but that is not the same as guilt.
All this philosophising! A psychiatrist (another one) told me that I had the ‘philosopher’s temperament’. And I think he is right. I have always wanted to know ‘why’: why I am the way I am; why the world is the way it is; why some people are happy, and others sad; why some people go mad, whilst others remain sane: what is mad and what is sane? All these questions. Going around in my mind.
I can hear that bobby now; he must have turned up the wattage on the megaphone.
‘Come down off that bridge. Are you aware you are committing a criminal offence’.
Oh, that’s a good start, that is. He didn’t even call me “sir”. He must be straight out of the Joseph Stalin school of negotiating.

‘I am aware of that. officer.’ I shout back, ‘But that is the least of my worries’
There is a pause, while he consults with another bobby – probably his superior.
‘Why don’t you come down, sir. And we can talk about it’
Ah, I’ve got the “sir” now. And the tone has changed. They think they’ve got a “jumper”.
‘I can talk quite well from up her’, I shout. Actually, I can’t. I hate having to shout – it is so uncouth. And I am having to strain my vocal chords.
There is a small huddle of uniforms now. They seem to be discussing strategy. They may even decide to wait for a specially trained negotiator. They have them nowadays. That would be fun: professional negotiator versus professional therapist.

Silence. One of the bobbies is sitting in the car with the door open. He’s on the radio. Is he calling up a negotiator?

‘Come on mate, no matter what the problem is, we can sort something out.’
Mate! I’m not his mate.
‘Look it’s getting late and I’m sure you have got someone at home who’s worried about you.’
‘How do you know?’ I challenge him. ‘How do you know I’ve got anyone who gives a shit about me?’
Silence.

All the same, I feel sorry for this copper, for all of them. They’ve probably just come on shift. Hoping for a quiet night, so they can get their heads down in some lay-by. And here’s me deciding to go climbing. And now they have got to try and do something about it. Their job, their training demands that they try to talk me out of jumping. Personally, of course, they understand that the quickest way to resolve this embarrassing situation would be for me to jump. And yet, think of all the extra paper-work that would involve! No, it’s a tricky one, this.
Still, if I did jump they could whistle up the paramedics and – Hello! They already have! Here comes the “hurry-up wagon” as my Liverpool friend used to call it. Anyway, it’s zooming up the ramp, lights flashing, heehawing like mad. A bit over the top, I would say. Oh, rather inappropriate choice of words there.
I turn away from the scene below. The little group of “emergency services” (I like that phrase – so reassuring) has grown: police fluorescent green now enlivened by blobs of paramedic orange. My hands are still gripping tightly to the handrail, even though this makes me bend in a sort of crouch. I suppose from below it looks like I am about to jump. But I’m not. I’m looking at the stars.
They look so close. I feel I could reach out and touch them. I wish I knew their names. No I don’t. I read a poem once. “Blue Umbrellas” it was called. It was about how we diminish things by giving them names. How we “mar great works, by our mean recital.” I believe that. We stick labels on things and think we have got them pinned down; think that by giving them a name we understand them. When, in fact, the more we name and label, the further away we are moving from the reality. The Zen Buddhists know that, but you don’t get many of them around here.

Something’s happening down there. A figure has detached itself from the huddle. I can’t see too clearly, but it’s a policeman; he is striding purposefully towards the steelwork. Oh, I don’t believe it! He’s not going to climb up after me? He is!

Life is an acquired taste

I got married when I was twenty-one, an age far too young to get married. But I feel now that any age is too young to get married.
I had just come out of the army; Georgina had just come out of the cinema. We were both lonely, and clung to one another.
And now I am clinging to the steelwork of this bridge. I am much higher now and can feel the force of the wind trying to pluck me off the girder. But I’m feeling more confident. What I’m doing is, I’m pretending I’m one of the maintenance men working on the bridge. I’m a professional. It’s all in a day’s work to me. I actually begin to whistle. I can’t whistle very well. My auntie Nellie now, she could whistle. She would put two fingers in her mouth and emit the most ear-splitting shriek. She tried to teach me but I could never master it. I think I was too much the ‘little-gentleman’ when I was a boy. My mother always wanted me to be a ‘little gentleman’. And I was. George came along later.

I could be in an aeroplane now. I’m so high up. I hadn’t realised how far I’d climbed. I wanted to be a pilot. But I didn’t have the maths. You have to have the maths to be a pilot. And I didn’t have the maths. But I did have one flying lesson. And I also took a gliding course. I did very well. The instructor said I had a natural aptitude.

The curve in front of me is much shorter now. And suddenly the fear has gone. Now, isn’t that odd. I can look down without getting that bottom-dropping-out-of-my-stomach feeling. I look down onto the water, way, way down below. How many feet? Can’t be bothered to work it out. It’s beautiful: a silver mirror. No it isn’t. It’s water. The river: more beautiful than an old silver mirror.

It was all getting a bit flat and stale, when Sydney came along. He wasn’t planned. But the universe wasn’t planned. They say it started with a big bang. How very appropriate – a big fuck. And here we are, trying to make sense of it, when there is nothing to make sense of.

But I loved the little boy; we both did. Still do – each in our own peculiar way. And perhaps we still love each other, but it just isn’t working. It hasn’t been working for a long time. Good intentions are not enough.

I am close to the top now. The red light is dazzling me: a huge lantern thing. You wouldn’t think it was so big, from down on the road.
Suddenly there are lights down there: a car, going very slowly. Wait a bit. He’s stopping. It’s a police car: a dinky police car. And two coppers are getting out: dwarfs with flat hats. What are they doing? Are they looking for someone? George – you fool! They’re looking for you!
Torch beams begin to sweep over the girders; twin searchlights, criss-crossing, like in the war when they were trying to get an enemy aircraft in the cone of light where two searchlights cross. And then they find me: first one and then the other. And there I am, in the spotlight, centre stage.
Instead of an ‘ack ack’ barrage, a metallic voice opens up. One of the dwarfs has a loud hailer. This should be fun.

Towards a red light

Be careful. It’s been raining and the steel is slippery. Also it’s a bit windy when you get this high. I say ‘this high’: I have not yet begun the real climb. I am wearing trainers; not very expensive ones. Not Nike or anything like that. These are from Marks & Spencers – but I guess they’ll do the job.

SHIT! That was close. There’s oil on this girder. Patches of it. My left trainer just skidded and went over the edge. I’m hanging on. So tight my knuckles are aching. My right knee is down on the cold steel. It’s hurting like hell where those big knobbly bolt-heads are pressing into it. My chest is almost up against the girder. I’m clinging like some geriatric limpet to the arching superstructure. And I am sweating now, despite the cold night air. And frightened.
Slowly, very slowly, I bend my left knee and start to inch it back up. Now it’s against the steel lip. But my forearm is in the way. How did that happen.
I know what it is. When I slipped, my body flattened itself against the girder. Now I will have to straighten up. Shit and more shit. I’ll have to let go with my left hand while I get my knee back on the girder.
The wind seems to have increased in strength. I can’t do it. I can’t let go. I think I have stopped breathing. I will myself to slowly lift my body away from the safety of the steel and release my arm. I can now drag my knee, painfully, up over the edge of the girder. I hear myself breathing a prayer.

Do you believe in God? Does God believe in you? I think about God quite a lot.
The other day I wondered whether God was not a person, an entity, or a thing at all – but a process. And to look for God ‘out there’ or even within is futile. Just like trying to cut open the brain and look for the mind. It is not there, because the mind is a process not a thing.
I still pray though.

I look up again at the red light; it is nearer now. The bridge is on the final approach to Liverpool Airport. (Actually, it’s ‘John Lennon Airport’ now – I wonder what old John would have thought of that: I imagine him, up there somewhere – laughing)
Here comes an aeroplane now. He’s got his headlights on, and he is so low the beams pick out the steel tracery. I wonder if he can see me up here? If he does, I imagine he will radio ahead, and there will be a patrol car out here right quick. They don’t half get worried when someone climbs up on the girders. They close the bridge while they try to talk them down. And all the motorists are cursing and saying ‘Why doesn’t the daft bugger jump, and I can get home for my tea.’
For some reason I start to think about Georgina.

CLIMBING

The massive green girder arches away from me, up into the night sky. It must be getting on for one o clock. They turn the floodlights off at midnight. There’s just the red light on the very top of the arch. It is a warning to aircraft to keep away. But to me, it beckons seductively.

I crouch forward and grip the edges of the steel on either side. This is no good. I can’t feel the metal properly through my thick woollen gloves. I pull them off and throw them over the parapet. As if on cue, the moon slides out of the thick cloud cover, and I watch the gloves spiralling lazily downwards. Floating down, down. I am not very good at judging distances but it is a long way. And then I see them alighting gently on the water. Yes the tide is in. I thought it would be.

It’s funny how it is the little things in life, the ‘accidents’, which make all the difference. I mean you plan and plan, and have got things all worked out, and one day you walk down a street and bump into someone, a perfect stranger – and everything changes. Do you believe in coincidences? Or do you prefer Jung’s notion of synchronicity: When an inwardly perceived event is seen to have correspondence in external reality? Buggered if I know.

I take hold again of the steelwork. God it is so cold. But at least I can get a good grip now.

The girder, which forms the main left span of the bridge, is about eighteen inches wide. I had thought this would feel like crawling up a pavement, but I am surprised now how the width seems to have shrunk alarmingly. I inch my way slowly, forwards and upwards. The bolt heads sticking out of the metal give me a reasonable foothold, but I was never a climber, and I did not realise how difficult this would be.

I was talking about my mother earlier. Well I didn’t exactly bump into her as I was walking down the street, but she certainly had a great influence on my life. And, by extension, on the lives of those people I met later on. Funny, but I’ve never thought of it like that before. And of course, she is still influencing us all, even though she has been dead for years. But isn’t that what life is like? We all influence each other. I often think we are like pebbles on the beach. We get our shape by bashing into all the other pebbles around us; have the corners and sharp edges rounded as time goes by. Of course, we haven’t got as much time as the pebbles on the beach. Unless the process continues in the next life. If you believe in a next life. I want to. Believe in a life after death, I mean There is so much to do. You can’t fit it all into one lifetime, can you.

A time for decisions

It was quiet in 'Accident & Emergency'. Not at all like on the telly, with people shouting and swearing and abusing the staff. Just as well really, I was bleeding profusely.
'Don't be such a big-girls blouse', chided Carol, 'it's only a superficial scalp wound'.
Superficial or not, it needed 4 stitches - without anaesthetic.
The doctor - an Asian gentleman in a turban - said 'This may be a little uncomfortable'.
I now know that is medic-speak for 'This is going to hurt like hell'.

'I didn't mean to hit YOU, you know' said Carol. 'It was intended for that foreign bitch. You got in the way - and besides, it was only a small adjustable wrench'.

I did not feel like arguing; my head ached like mad and I thought I was going to be sick.

I wasn't sick, but I declined Carol's offer of a lift home on the scooter. I said I would send her a cheque for a new helmet - ruined now with all the blood and everything.

She said it didn't matter. But it is the least I can do. I know it is over now between me and Carol. Sad really. But she will soon find another head to fill her helmet.

Why does this always happen to me? There is a pattern here. Oh yes, I can detect a pattern. But what can I do about it?

I took a taxi. 'Where to mate?' said the driver.
'I'm not your mate' I replied. (I didn't really, but I would have liked to have done).
I was about to give him my address when a thought occurred -
'Just drop me at the bridge'
'The Bridge! You sure, mate? This time of night?'
'Yes mate' I was suddenly very sure.

A big notice said: "Climbing on the bridge superstructure is a criminal offence"
I usually obey notices. In fact a psychiatrist once told me that, at some deep level, I viewed all official notices as being written by my mother.
But mother must have been having a night off.

I carefully negotiated the ring of metal spikes, and began to climb.

A 5th wheel

I opened the door.

'What are you looking so angrified about? Are you not pleased to see your little Swedish playmate?' And she pushed past me into the flat.
'Now just a minute, Anastasia...' I began, but she cut me short.
'And where is she? The little Carol person? I am longing to meet her, isn't it' And she was into the bedroom.

I decided to be firm with her. 'Now look here. What do you mean by turning up like this? How did you know where I was? And how did you get here?'

'I am getting a taxi. I call that disgusting little man, who is always trying to see up my skirt, and say, take me urgently and quickly to the Nelson Mandella Gardens Estate.'
'But how did you know where -' The rest of my sentence was drowned in one of her ear- splitting shrieks, which she calls a laugh.
'You are forgetting that Georgina and I, we are the sisters under the duvet, and she tells me about your little hidey-hole. Although she is not knowing I am here now'.

In the silence which followed, as I tried to collect my thoughts, I heard the pop-popping of Carol's Vespa, fourteen floors below.

Musings on a Queen-sized bed

WOW! What a ride! I rolled over onto my back in Carol’s ‘Queen-sized’ bed, exhausted but exhilarated.

I shall have to get myself a scooter.

Carol had dropped me off at her flat (I still have a key) and gone over to her sister Janice’s. Her sister is having trouble with the man in the next flat. He has just been released into the community, and Janice says that he is standing at the door every time she goes out, and grinning and muttering to himself.

She says he is calling her obscene names, but she can’t catch what they are.
Personally, I think old Janice is paranoid. It saddens me how the working-class are so intolerant of their own kind. How depressing that the stigma (based on fear), attached to those unfortunate enough to have needed psychiatric help is till prevalent and strong in our so-called civilised society. And that mental health provision is still the Cinderella of the National Health Service.

The ‘Release into the Community Programme’ sounds fine in theory: closing the old Victorian asylums and reintegrating their occupants into the community. But so long as the populace at large continues to view those who have shown signs of mental or emotional distress as a group to be both feared and made fun of, it is never going to work.

And, let’s face it, the nutters have got to live somewhere.

Fortunately, not in my neck of the woods. Well, we have ‘Odd Billy’ but he is more of an endearing character than someone who is likely to rape your grandma. Oh yes, he is a familiar figure around the village; a short, stocky, bearded bloke who goes about in an old safari jacket, with a pair of binoculars slung round his neck. He claims to be an expert on wild birds. But he seems to spend most of his time down Foley Bottoms; a popular haunt for courting couples. Go down there any Sunday evening and you’re likely to trip over him (or Inspector Wetherby!) in the long grass.

My reverie was shattered by a sudden loud banging on the front door. I panicked. My God – not Gary. Surely he can’t have escaped again.

And then I heard the letter box metal flap go. And a shrill Nordic voice…

(to be continued)

Throw out the lifeline

Syd has done a runner – again. I went to take him his Horlicks last night, knocked on his door – no answer. Gently eased open the door. Room empty.
A cursory inspection quickly revealed that his suitcase was gone from under the bed (quite an interesting collection of magazines though – I will check them out later), and his wardrobe was almost empty. Scanning his bookshelf I could see that Thoreau’s ‘Walden’ had gone and, most significantly, his ‘Rupert Album’ – Millenium edition.

My heart leapt with joy at first, thinking that he had seen the light and scarpered, in order to avoid the pregnancy unpleasantness. Not so. As I turned round I saw, to my horror, scrawled on the mirror over his washbasin, the words ‘We have eloped’ (I have just realised that this shocking message was written in lipstick - a particularly virulent shade of purple. I would know this shade anywhere - so difficult to remove from white collars: the Swedish tart! What can this mean?)

I staggered downstairs, tears in my eyes. Once I had gained the sanctuary of my study, I reached for the bottle of Sjlivovica I brought back from Croatia. Pouring myself a large one, I grabbed the phone and rang Carol. I know I said I would not go back to that dreadful council estate, but at times like this a chap needs a shoulder to cry on.

As I was leaving the house, the lesbian and her paramour were cycling up the drive (they have bought a tandem – it is supposed to symbolise something) and I shouted to my dear wife – I don’t suppose you’re interested, but your son has eloped!

Oh my God! what am I going to do, Anna – she cried, leaping off the rear saddle. Unfortunately, in her haste she knocked over the bike and brought the tall Swede crashing to the gravel. Well, you should have heard the language (in Spanish of course).

I left them to it and walked out into the avenue. Carol was going to pick me up on her scooter. No trouble. She was on her way to the 'Social' to give 'em Hell - her giro hasn't arrived. She said she would bring Gary’s helmet, as his head was about the same size as mine.
Funny but I didn’t like that. I mean her knowing my head was the same size as her jailbird husband's. What else has she been comparing?

Sisters Unmasked

I have cracked the code. The address of Sisters under the Duvet is

www.brokeneenglish.blogspot.com

Sisters Under The Duvet

Forgot to mention (are you listening R. J.) When I was having that tete a tete with the big Swede and she gave me that clue 'A fractured tongue helps me along'... well, I got to thinking - 'tongue' could be referring to the old Chinese secret societies. You know, where they had assains called 'hatchet men' (that is where the term comes from). But then I thought, what would a long-legged Swede know about ancient Chinese secret societies.

But another meaning of 'tongue' is a language. Well, she has fractured English often enough! Hang on - another word for 'fractured' is 'broken' (as in leg). BROKEN ENGLISH..... nah, it couldn't be that simple - could it?

Back in Blighty

Syd met me at the airport and hit me with the news that his girlfriend, old thingy, is pregnant. at least that is what she's told him. He said 'Of course I am going to do the honourable thing.'
'You mean emigrate!' I expostulated.
'No, get married' he replied.
He is so naive, my son. God, I have tried. If he hasn't learned from me and the lesbian... I mean, what can a father do?

I don't know - I really don't. All I want is for people to be happy. And yet I seem to be surrounded buy emotional mayhem. Is it my fault? The trouble with me is that I can see everyone's point of view - except my own. Perhaps the Swedish tart is right, and I should go into therapy.

Speaking of whom, her and the lesbian were out when I got back. Syd says they have gone to join some protest about the proposed opening of a 'Sex Shop' in Evesham. Well, there's hypocrisy for you. You should see what the lesbian keeps in her top drawer -I never knew such things existed, and I can only guess their intended purpose.

There was a message from Carol on the answerphone: old Gary is back inside... and would I like to call round. No thank you. I'm not up for any more of that. Besides, her at the 'Jolly Pervert' has become quite friendly again. (You remember how she threw a wobbler when I refused to cart the lager kegs up from the cellar) She wants me to captain the quiz team again. She has me down for an intellectual - well I suppose I am really.
Some people say I think too much - and they may be right. Perhaps I should be more like Bishop Mahon in Ted Simon's 'Jupiter's Travels':

"I've given up thinking... I never did very much of it and now I don't bother at all. Just get on with it. Let the future take care of itself."

You sure spat a bootful there, Bish.

I bought a present for old Lady Longlegs: a basque - in red. I didn't get anything for the lesbian. Everything I have ever bought her, over the years, she has exchanged for something else. Ind the end I got everything from Marks and Spencer. They will always change stuff, even if you have lost the receipt.

Well, it's me for a hot bath, and then down the 'Pervert'

I do wish Syd would stop mopsing about the house; he's getting on my nerves.

From our Balkans correspondent - 26th July 2005

"Yugoslavia was made up of six republics - Slovenia, Croatia, Bosnia-Herzegovina, Montenegro, Macedonia and Serbia... Croatia claimed the right to self-determination because the Croatian nation had voted for it in a referendum. But when the Croatian Serbs organized their own referendum, an overwhelming majority rejected the option of living within an independent Croatia. Croatia's leaders ignored this vote, thus denying those Serbs their sovereign national right"

Thus says Dervla Murphy in her fine book "Through The Embers Of Chaos"

Well, by the time I got there, Devla, Croatia was truly independent - and hot: 40 degrees, they said. But I saw for myself the shell-pocked telephone exchange and the bombed hotel. As a Norwegian lady I met said - Spooky. Looking at the walls, peppered with indentations, you realise that shells and bombs make a mess. If they can do that to buildings, what can they do to soft human tissue?

We had fish for lunch; with the heads on. And a big bowl of what looked like shredded cabbage - Roy from Reuters said it was 'saurkraut'. Well, I thought, I will eat it, even if I can't spell it.

Afterwards I went for a swim. I said to the Lifeguard - Is it safe to swim here?
Oh yes - he said - most of the sharks are on the other side of the headland.
It's just that I am not a very good swimmer - I said.
He replied - That's ok, I am not a very good lifeguard.

Anyway, I bought a pair of those shoes which protect your feet from the rocky beach and went into the sea. I enjoyed it once I overcame the shock of the cold water.

Lying on my back, floating, I looked back at my life. It was like looking through the wrong end of a telescope: everything seemed so remote, so tiny. Is this what they mean by 'putting things into perspective'? But there are so many perspectives - it all depends where you are standing... or in this case, floating.

This morning there was a mad rush to grab one of the two internet links in the village. The Sunday Times man was there when they opened up. He sprinted across the street. I could have beaten him to it, but I find that sort of thing so undignified.

I said to old Roy - I'm not rushing about in this heat. He said - Huh, you call this heat. When I was in Sri Lanka... I walked away. Roy can be awfully boring.

I rented a scooter and drove down the Adriatic Highway to Cvtat. I only went down the wrong side of the road on two occasions. In Cvtat I parked the scooter and had a Pivo at a shaded cafe. Then I returned. It was great fun.

It is quiet as I sit here on the balcony of my room, Number 208 in the Hotel Milini. I look up at the mountain which rises almost perpendicular from the back of the hotel. "Cardboard mountains" my daughter used to call them. There really do look like they have been cut out... like the backdrop to some stage musical.

Why am I here? A long story. Getting my head together? Re-assessing my life? Pausing at a cross-roads in my life? Looking at women?

Soon I shall return to English life, and pick up the threads - unless someone else has picked them up in my absence and woven them into a completely different patter. If they have, I shall start a new pattern. That might be a good thing

At the pictures

We went to see that film 'Beautiful Mind'. Have you seen it? It's a bit complicated to explain but this bloke sees a whole 'reality' which is not there. You don't know this until near the end of the film. Turns out he's got some form of schizophrenia.

This set me thinking. Now, I have not got schizophrenia (at least I don't think so) but I sometimes wonder if my 'reality' is not shared by other people; do you know what I mean? As if, maybe, I've got the wrong slant on things. And that people know this but don't let on, because they don't want to embarrass me.

I decided to take a chance and confide in this to the tall Swede. To my surprise, she did not laugh; she listened, sort of thoughtfully, and then said: 'George, you need to get in touch with your inner-child - he is hurting'
She went on to say that she thought I should have therapy.
ME? Have therapy! Bugger that for a game of soldiers.

All the same, I have been thinking about what she said. A few days ago I went into town. It was morning, and I saw a group of schoolchildren being taken to the swimming baths. There they were, a long crocodile line of them, with their little bags and rucksacks, being told what to do - without question. And I felt so sad. And I did not know why.

It was not just because of my own experience of school: the Ignatious Loyola Preparatory (bring your own cane). I mean a bit of concentrated bullying - from pupils or staff - never did anyone any harm. But where do these feelings come from?

And the thing is, they did not go away! Even with the expert ministrations of the Swedish person, in the privacy of her own room. She gave up in the end. 'George,' she said, 'you really must see someone'.

I am looking in the 'Yellow Pages'

Cloudy waters

It is many years since I entered a public baths, and the thing that struck me was the noise; there must have been a thousand kids, all hollering and whooping and leaping into the water. Not to my taste as you may imagine.

Anyway, I was descending gingerly down the steps when I felt strong hands grab my legs. I was plucked off the metal rungs and flung into the water. I flailed my arms and tried to save myself but my head went under, and there was an awful booming noise as water filled my ears and mouth. When I finally gained the surface, the Swedish tart was treading water and laughing.

I regained my composure and commenced a dignified breast-stroke to the side, where I clung onto the the pipe, getting my breath back. From this position of comparitive safety, I watched the blonde giant carve her way up and down the bath with a powerful crawl. Show off!

Later, over a coffee in the baths' Bistro, she apoligised for her 'high spirits'.
But when I pressed her on the matter of a 'blog' address, she simply made with a mysterious smile and said, "I am giving you the cluedo" (her English gets no better, but what can you expect spending so much time with my wife). Anyway - are you ready for this R.J. (oh and by the way, thanks for supporting me in my hour of need, us chaps have to stick together - there aren't many of us left)

"The fractured tongue helps me along" That is what she said, as she attempted to wriggle her bare toe up my trouser leg.
Frankly I don't know what to make of it - the clue, I mean. I know only too well what to make of the other.

We're going to the pictures tonight.

A fiscal problem

I was up at 6am this morning, working on my finances.
I wondered if I should do the honourable thing, and jump off the roof of the west wing, like my grandfather did in the twenties.
But the lesbian has got all those new flowerbeds there now, and I would not want to upset her unnecessarily.

As I was brooding, the Swedish tart walked in (without knocking) "Fancy a swim" she said.
"I've had the pool drained" I smirked.
"I know. We could go the the public baths in Evesham"
"THE PUBLIC BATHS" I expostulated.
"Don't be such a snob" replied the blonde giant. "We could go for a coffee afterwards" she winked, conspiritorially. "I'll give you the address of our blog".

There's something fishy going on here. Anyway I have got out my bathing trunks and towel.

Limbo

Restless, I am. What to do. I thought of chucking all my notes into the bin. Or better still, burning them. All those words; those ideas. Just lurking there, mouldering, in notebooks and folders.

Syd came home and I was telling him what had happened. "Good" he said, "now you can get a proper job".
"What do you mean?" I retorted, hurt and a bit angry.
"You could go stacking the shelves at B & Q" he replied, "they have a policy of employing the older person".
"How dare you - you cheeky little sod" I shouted.
"Or 'lollipop man', how about that"
I siezed him by the shoulders and bawled "THIS IS YOUR FATHER YOU ARE TALKING TO, you disrespectful oike"
"Well, there might be some doubt about that, according to mum" he yelled back.

Just then the lesbian herself came in. "Can you stop this bleedin noise - I am trying to post to my blog, and I can't concentrate".

Alarm bells rang. "Your blog?" I was incredulous. "I didn't know you had a blog"
"Oh yes" she smirked, "Me and Anastasia have created one 'Sisters Under the Duvet'.
"Oh, really. And what's the address of this blog then?"
"Wouldn't you like to know" she snapped. And flounced out of the room.

I shall find out, though.

A talent spurned

I have been dumped by my publisher. After a 25 years, mutually beneficial relationship Blaggard Books Inc., Illinois have given me the elbow. And they did not have the courtesy to write and tell me. No, I had to cross the Atlantic to be humiliated in person by that upstart Vice President, Woodie Peterson. He did not even invite me into his inner-sanctum; he kept me standing in the outer office so everyone could hear what was going on.

He greeted me with his usual fake bonhomie, “Hi George baby, how’ya doin’ fella”
(I have left out the question mark because, of course, he didn’t really want to know). He quickly got to the point. “See Georgie, the bottom’s dropped out of the goddamn ‘self-help’ book thing. Sure, you done some good titles in the past.” He consulted a slip of paper. ‘Book your ticket on the astral plane’, ‘How to change your wife’, ‘Meditate your way out of Bi-Polar’, ‘Schizophrenia: stepping stone to success’, ‘Ten tips to reverse Severe Personality Disorder’, oh, and my favourite ‘Now, and Zen’. All winners, Georgie. Gotta admit it. But ya see it’s all Kids stuff now – ‘Harry Potter’ an’ that. Personally, I think it’s crap, but it sells. And that’s the bottom line, fella.”

He went on talking like this, his arm around my shoulder, gradually steering me between the desks. I suddenly found myself at the door. “Well, thanks for all you’ve done pal.” And I was out in the corridor. I felt like crying.

What am I going to do now? Not only has my source of income dried up, but writing for me is a way of life. And at my age I am not going traipsing round publishers, cap in hand. I’ve never had an agent and am not going looking for one now.

So you can understand that I am feeling a bit down. I tried reading one of my books, “Cleaning the spectacles of your mind” - after two pages I threw it across the room, just as the Swedish tart came through the door. It caught her a glancing blow on the side of her blond head. She screamed at me in Spanish. I was too depressed to reply.

By the way, I was right: they had been bathing naked. I am going to get that pool drained.

Travels in a narrow-bodied airliner

I have just come back from America. It was hot there; it is hot here.

Jet lag. How do you deal with it? I have been sleeping all over the place for these past two days. It is the adjustment, I suppose. Not just in time, but in space too. Location. Another world. Another life.

In the days of sea travel, you would have a week or so to adjust slowly. Now, you are sealed up in a metal tube, shot through the skies, and 7 hours later disgorged, feeling like a piece of chewed string. Your brain, your mind has not had chance to make the adjustments necessary.

Anyway, now I am back in dear old England, with all the memories, kaleidescoping around in my head.

And what a sight greeted me as the car rounded the bend in the drive: the Swedish tart and the lesbian - topless in the pool.
Well, I say 'topless'. That was the only bit I could see. They may have been completely starkers for all I know.

I hurried into the house.

It's here again

The orange Bong Motor reverses down the avenue, bleeping and lights flashing. Stopping outside the house, it tips a bin-full of our lives into its steel jaws and gobbles it up; I half expect it to belch. And I realise that what I am watching, through my double-glazing, is a microcosm of the life-cycle: here today, Bong tomorrow.

Today, a spanking new cornflakes box, all eager and ready to serve, and in a few short days… a piece of sodden cardboard; returned to the collective unconscious of the rubbish dump. And the sad thing is that there is nothing the cornflakes box could have done to make its end any different. Whether is has been a good box: discharging its contents, cleanly and accurately into the bowl, or whether it has been a bad box: always falling off the shelf, and refusing to relinquish its cereal until a vigorous shake disgorges half its contents over the breakfast table – it makes not one jot of difference.

Ah, but what about re-cycling? If I put the box – all neatly pressed flat – into the blue bin, then it will go to the re-cycling plant, and live on, as part of other packaging, yet to be born. Reincarnation!

And that, children, will be our topic for tomorrow: Reincarnation – is it worth coming back for.

So, goodbye boys and girls – be good children, or the Bong Motor will come and gobble you all up.

Food for thought

Hector was telling me - in one of our rare converstions - that the final straw for him was when his wife - old whatsername - told him what she was going to get him for his birthday: a colonic irrigation. Can you believe that: she was going to pay for him to have a good clean-out.
When he protested, she said, "Well, you are an anal-retentive and I thought it might do you a power of good."
The cheek of it, eh! But that's women for you. As I have said before, what a man needs is a good chum.

Nostalgia

I can't sleep. So I wander into Syd's bedroom. He's away with Monica.
I stand inside the door for a couple of minutes and just look around. Only it is not this room that I'm seeing, but a little lad's bedroom: football posters on the wall; a toy cupboard overflowing onto the floor; a crane with a big yellow jib reaching out along the window ledge and, in a corner, Mr Bear.
Mr Bear is here, now, in this room. He has been with Syd since his third birthday. I go over to where he sits, on a cane chair by the bed: Hello Mr Bear. He just looks at me. When Syd was little we used to have long conversations: Syd,Mr Bear and me. No one talks to him now, and you can see the sadness in his bear's face. I feel sad too. Wondering what happened. Where it all went.

I got a cup of tea at Carol's - but no sympathy. She's trying to 'make a go of it' with Gary - whatever that means. When he comes out of 'detox' they'r going to Wales for a week; staying in a caravan.
She gave me my Polaroid camera back.

Cycling home, I stopped at the school crossing and got into conversation with the 'lollipop lady': Brenda. That fluorescent jacket they've given her is much too small, for such a well built lady.
She was telling me she has Broadband. We exchanged e mail addresses.
Well you never know.

Yours hopefully

George

Monday

I slept better last night. No IBS. No alcohol either. I mean what is the point if you cannot have a couple of beers or a glass of wine?

This morning is bright and sunny. Syd and Monica (the perforated pixie) are driving to the coast, and - for some inexplicable reason - have taken Hector with them. I think Monica feels sorry for him. I am going to warn her: my brother is very good at getting women to feel sorry for him.
No one feels sorry for me. I said to the lesbian "We should have a talk about our future. You know, we are not getting any younger, and at least we could acknowedge our different needs and try to come to some amicable agreement."
She replied, "That bedroom needs redecorating; if you spent less time thinking and more time doing you would be a lot happier."
I didn't know how to reply to that, so I said nothing.
This relationship business confuses me, but I don't give up.

I am going over to see Carol this afternoon. I rang her and she said she was 'at a loose end'. She has a lot of loose-ends does Carol. But at least I will get a cup of tea and (hopefully) a bit of sympathy.

With not drinking at the moment, I don't go down to the Jolley Pervert. Just as well, really: that woman has it in for me - ever since I refused to clean out her pipes.

I awoke feeling depressed (or should I say 'clinically fed-up). I am feeling tired all the time and my stomach is 'fragile'. Should I see a doctor? Not yet, I think.

The Art show turned out not so bad after all. I didn't understand most of the pictures. There was one that had 'urine' and 'faeces' on it. I don't mean real, I mean written on, amidst a lot of black and red and a screaming skull. The lesbian said it was a post-modernist response to the facile materialism, so endemic in western bourgois culture.
I said "Fair enough".
Hector spent the whole time trying to engage the Swedish tart in conversation. She was intent on studying the paintings, and eventually (I am happy to say) told him to "piss off" in Spanish. He does not speak the language but he got the message.

Sydney and Monica were kissing and canoodling, although Monica did extract her tongue from Syd's mouth long enough to take a couple of polaroids.
I liked the cafeteria best though: blueberry muffin, I had, and coffee. Hector was going on about this book her is writing... about his childhood. I said "hang on - you have only got that idea because of my autobiography" He ignored me and began whispering in Monica's ear. You could see Syd didn't like it.

The lesbian and the Swedish tart left to go to some gay club or other, and I was on my own again - so what's new.

When I got home, I went for a ride on my bike.

Sunday morning

The electricity in my head affects the bedside radio. While I have been sleeping in the attic I have been using my battery portable radio, and I have noticed that when I put my head nearer, to catch the news, the reception goes all funny; when I take it away, it improves. This confirms, for me, that we are all electricity and chemicals. But I still think we have a soul.

The lesbian caught me at the computer this morning, "Still blogging" she sneered, making it sound like a deviant sexual practice - well, she knows all about those.

It is 'Down Syndrome Awareness' Week. Could I make a plea for an 'Ups and Downs' week. Manic depressives of the world unite - you have nothing to lose but your marbles.

Another thought occurred to me: I wonder why all the poverty happens in hot countries?

It is that Feminist Art thing tommorrow. I am going to go; we all are: the lesbian, the Swedish tart, my brother - even Syd. He's bringing his new girlfriend: Monica. She teaches down the local comprehensive. I haven't met her yet, but I've seen a photo: she is into tattoes - and piercings. I refer to her as 'the perforated pixie'. I said to my son: and do they allow her to teach, looking like that? He told me that she teaches Art and Drama - say no more.

I'll let you know about the Art thing.

Saturday

I lay in bed this morning, running the projector in my head: highlights from the film of my life. Only they weren't highlights - they were more like lowlights: the missed goal; the lost opportunity; the thoughtless remark that brought tears; the misunderstandings; the petty jealousies; the imagined slight; the silly anxieties that don't even qualify as fears; the tragi-comedy of relationships that worked for a bit, then ran out of steam; the dreams that didn't happen.
And I thought - why bother? I saw, as if from way above, us humans, running around like so many ants in our own little ant-hill; thinking that what we do has purpose, meaning. When all the time we are just following a 'computer-programme', hard wired into our genes.
Then it occurred to me that perhaps I was just depressed. But does what we call 'being depressed' simply mean that a veil has been lifted, and the so- called 'depressive' is seeing things more clearly?

As I pondered this, I heard the Swedish tart doing her yoga on my ceiling. And I thought - Sod it! I am still alive. This is a new morning. Carpe Diem - seize the day.

A bit depressed

I sit here, looking out my attic window, a curtain of rain blurring the colours of the trees and rooftops in the valley below.
Yes, I am sleeping in the attic. I have let Hector have my bedroom. I know I said I wouldn't but he dropped a bombshell at dinner last night: he's left Patricia. I said, but why? you have been married for 40 years. He said, that's just it - 40 years! I said to her (Pat, that is) "You've had 40 years of my life." She replied, "Well, you have had 40 years of mine" I said, "Exactly - don't you think we should call it quits?" And without waiting for an answer I picked up my car keys and walked out.
There was dead silence around the dining table - except for the lesbian, who farted suddenly. I felt sorry for old Hector, so I let him have my room. I know I shall regret it.
They have all gone out for the day. I said they could take my car. Well, I am still feeling a bit iffy, what with the IBS and the menthol stuff as well. But I do feel a bit 'left out' if you know what I mean.
I can see the council estate from up here, and, if I re-focus the field-glasses... yes the orange and blue curtains of Carol's bedroom. How well I remember that room, I........ oh she's just opened the curtains.

Excuse me but there is something I have to do.

From the throne room

Now listen here, Montcrief, you whinging Gallic symbol – If you bought my book I will eat my hat (a particularly hairy Harris-Tweed – with a feather). Stolen, more like. You are well known to the security staff at Waterstones, Borders and Barnes & Noble.
Still sponging off my sister, I see. I don’t know why Erica did not chuck you out years ago. Then you could have gone back home and voted ‘Non’ in your silly referendum. You didn’t vote ‘Non’ back in 1940, did you?

Well, I feel better having got that off my chest. Actually, I do not feel all that good: the old IBS (irritable bowel syndrome) is back. And I am typing this on my laptop, sitting on the lavatory.
I don’t know what causes it. A gastro-enterologist) told me that I had a bowel like a greyhound. Some folk, he said, have a bowel like a bulldog: it just squats there. Others, like myself, have a bowel like a greyhound: all twitchy and raring to go. And boy, have I ‘been’.

Of course, I get no sympathy from the lesbian. Strangely though, the Swedish tart seemed a bit concerned. She came down into the kitchen at 2 am., humming The Beatles' tune ' Norwegian Wood' – that girl’s got an identity crisis - when I was having a drop of brandy. Said she couldn’t sleep, and got a glass of milk out of the fridge to take two Ibuprofen. Anyway she sat by me at the kitchen table and we talked for half an hour. She was quite sympathetic, and I started to fancy her again. But what with the bowel playing up, and everything, I thought I had better leave it for the moment. Still, the omens are good.

I must have a lie down

Important announcement

I have decided to make my autobiography, ‘The Boy’s Story’, available to a wider audience by serialising it on the ‘net’. The idea came to me this afternoon after a cycle ride around the village. I called at Old Mother Shipford’s Tea Rooms (at the back of the Off-Licence) for a pot of Earl Grey and one of her special mushroom omelettes. It refreshed me no end.
She tells everyone that she comes from a long line of witches. Apparently, her great grandmother had a ducking-stool named after her.
How she manages to keep her licence to sell ‘wines and spirits’ I do not know. Rumour has it that she is ‘very friendly’ with Squire Trawlerany, Chairman of the Local Magistrates - Say no more.
But I digress. I shall be setting up a web-site shortly and publishing the address here on this ‘blog’.
Watch this space.

Bank Holiday

My brother, Hector, telephoned and asked if he could come over for the holiday. I was not too keen - I mean, we are not exactly close. He used to go out with the lesbian before me. In fact is was through Hector that I met her. He dumped her and she rebounded into me.
Of course she said she only went out with him because he had a motor bike - and I, like the fool I am, believed her.
Eight months later, Eric was born. Note that: eight months. She said he was premature but I am sure he is Hector's son; he even looks like him. Of course I brought him up as my own; that is until he joined the Air Force as a 'boy entrant'. Done well for himself though: he's a sergeant cook, stationed in Wiltshire. We never see him.

Needless to say, the lesbian is delighted Hector is visiting. She wants us all (including the Swedish tart) to go to an exhibition of 'Feminist Art' - whatever that is - says it will be a way to really get to know one another again: bond - I hate that expression.

I don't know where he's going to sleep - Hector. He's not having my bed. The lesbian says he can doss on the futon in her room. Fine by me. If he thinks he's on a good thing there, he's in for a shock. He doesn't know about her switching tracks, so to speak.

Anyway, I'm off down the pub for lunch.