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