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!