WE ARE ALL ENTITLED TO ANOTHER GO

Everything I know, or think I know, comes to me via my senses – filtered through the screens of my perception. But what if these screens are duff? Warped? Faulty? Then I may be getting a totally wrong picture of how things really are.
My ‘world’ may be a hall of distorting mirrors. And that is what I find so frightening – when it sometimes hits me late at night: that I might have got it all wrong.

I must say, I found Carole’s initial response to my invitation to accompany me to the capital: “London! Who do you think you are? Dick fucking Whittington?” less than encouraging. But I persevered.

- London is the most exciting city on earth
- Is it really. Well I don’t want to go there: it’s full of southerners
- That’s because it is in the south of England
- I’m not stupid
- Dr Johnson said “Any man who is tired of London is tired of life”
- And I’ll bet he was a bloody southerner

I decided upon a more conciliatory approach:

- My brother Hector lives at Hendon, quite near to the RAF museum. Him and old whatsername… his wife, own a 4 bedroom house. And there’s only the two of them now that the kids have left
- I thought you weren’t on speaking terms with your brother? Not since that business with Anastasia?
- Oh, life’s too short to bear grudges. Come on: how about it?
- I don’t think so
- Look Carole, what is there for you to go back to? That sink estate? With the urine soaked stairwells and the broken lift?
- At least there’s a sense of community
- A sense of community! You mean they all thieve off one another, and support the local drug dealer
- You were glad enough to live there, when she kicked you out
- Yes, well… water under the bridge now. Let’s look to the future

Carole absentmindedly folded her napkin, then blew her nose

- You haven’t thought this through, have you? That’s your trouble: you never think things through. For one thing: what would we do for money?
- I’ve told you: we could stay with Hector – rent free – for the time being. And I’ve got contacts in Wapping: I could write articles for the Daily Telegraph
- YOU!
- Yes, me. You forget I was a successful novelist until not so very long ago. And I will be again. The hack work will tide us over until I sell my next book

Carole took out a bottle of red stuff and started to paint her nails. That was a good sign I thought. So I pressed on

- Yes, and we could be in the West End in 20 minutes – a bit longer maybe – and all the shows and the pubs and the eating places

Concentrating on the paint job she said

- Well, at least you would have a choice of bridges to jump off

I could see she was warming to the idea

- Oh and Hector’s wife… thingy… works at the museum; I’m sure she could get you a job there. If you wanted, that is
- I don’t know anything about aeroplanes
- Carole, you don’t have to, you silly… they will train you

Carole considered this

- Okay. I’ll give it a go. Just one thing: don’t you think you should try and remember your brother’s wife’s name before we get there?
- It’s on the tip of my tongue
- And one more thing: No sex
- Of course

And so, an hour and a half later, like two lovers, eloping, we boarded a train for Euston. I had to borrow a bit of cash from Carole for the fare (well, I like to travel first class) but I promised to pay it back as soon as we reached Hendon. My brother owes me money – and now’s the time to collect.