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.