Wednesday, November 29, 2006

At the breakfast table

I decided – after my lavatorial fiasco – not to enquire about prunes, and sat at the breakfast table quietly eating my cornflakes – or as quietly as it is possible to eat cornflakes.
My brother, however, was not prepared to let matters rest.
‘Didn’t you notice there was no toilet roll? I mean before you… went?’
‘No.’ I replied, somewhat tersely ‘I suppose I assumed, since this was a lavatory, there would be toilet paper available.’
Hector snorted. ‘You’re in a world of your own – that’s your trouble.’
‘Oh, thank you – I’ve always wanted to know what my trouble was.’
‘No wonder father used to call you ‘dopey’’
‘Hector!’ Myra’s voice was low, but threatening.
‘It’s true. “He’s a dope”, that’s what father used to say.’
But Myra was on her feet now – all five feet two of her – and I saw my brother flinch. But she said, pleasantly enough ‘Hector, why don’t you pop down to Mr Convenience and get some bacon, and I’ll do bacon and eggs. And while you’re there, best get some eggs.’
With a malevolent glance at me, my brother rose from the table. As he was leaving the room, Myra called ‘Oh, and ask if they’ve got my magazine.’
Hector turned ‘Oh no, I’m not going to ask for that magazine.’ Assertive indeed, but his expression told me that he would ask for the magazine – whatever it was.

After he had left, Myra sat down again. ‘Don’t you worry, pet, I’ll bung another couple of buckets down there, and it should be clear by the time the plumber comes on Monday.’
I was at a loss to reply, so instead steered the conversation towards Carole, who had not yet put in an appearance.
‘I suppose my lady travelling companion is still festering in bed.’
‘Actually she’s gone out jogging’ replied Myra, as she spread ‘thick-cut’ marmalade on her toast. (Toast and marmalade – and then she’s going to eat bacon and eggs?)
‘Oh,’ I said, somewhat chastened ‘I’ve never known her do that before.’
‘Known her long, have you?’ Myra got up to let that mangy Perkins in. She was wearing a housecoat – I think that’s what you call it, I am not over familiar with women’s things - quilted, salmon pink, and too long for her. It dragged along the floor and had a hem of dirt and grease, about an inch and a half wide. (Later, I was to discover that she often tuned the bike in that housecoat)
Still, there was something about Myra… But don’t get me wrong: I am well aware of the Commandment “Thou shalt not covet thy brother’s wife.” Wait a minute – should that be neighbour’s wife? Well, whatever – some wives are easier not to covet that others

I must have been daydreaming because Myra repeated her question.
‘Oh, a couple of years I suppose – off and on. More off than on.’
‘I like her,’ said Myra.
Well why don’t you let her sleep with you, and then I can have her room! I did not actually say this but perhaps Myra read my thoughts…
‘Suppose I ask her if she wouldn’t mind sharing my room? Not my bed, you understand. We have twin beds (Hector and I were never very close – even before the Swede.)’
‘Well, if you really think… I mean I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble.’ I tried to conceal my elation.
'Anyway,’ she replied ‘I think you’re disturbing the fish – they’re off their food this morning. Fish are very sensitive you know.’

You see, there it is again: It’s not me she cares about but those cold-blooded, goggle-eyed aquariumites. And the sad thing is: I was beginning to fancy her!

Sunday, November 26, 2006

Caught with my trousers down

As I am sitting here, I am thinking: why do dreams never have sensible endings? I think it is because that is how things really are. In our waking life we try to make sense of things that have no sense, by making up ‘explanations’. I know I have probably said this before, but I think chaos is the real reality. No it is not quite that, rather that there is an entirely different reality.

When R D Laing and Huxley and Tim Leary and the rest of them experimented with LSD, they were trying to break down the barriers that keep us constrained in our mental straitjackets, and so reach that other reality.

In his forward to the book “The teachings of Don Juan” Walter Goldschmidt says that Carlos Castaneda “…takes us through that moment of twilight, that crack in the universe between daylight and dark into a world… of an entirely different order of reality.” To reach this world he was aided by “peyote, datura and mushrooms”

Well, I think that dreams perhaps are a also a way of accessing that world which is “not merely other than our own, but of an entirely different order of reality.”

Well, I’m with you there Walter, but I’m damned if I can understand my own dreams.

Last night, during a brief snatch of sleep, I had one of my recurring dreams. If I had to use one word to sum up the theme of these dreams it would be: Failure, writ large. (I know that’s three words but you get the idea.) Last night I failed in some exams, failed in relationships and, really, failed in life. Does this mean I am a failure? Or just that I feel a failure? But more important: what are these dreams telling me? What am I supposed to do?

I think I lost myself a long time ago, and have been trying to find myself ever since.

I wonder if Myra has got any prunes in the house. If not, I shall have to get a tin when I go down the shops. In fact I should make a shopping list. I need some essential medications. (Not the brain pills – Freddie has put a prescription in the post for those, and I should receive it Monday), these are for my personal needs.


I have finished now, and I reach for the toilet-roll. There isn’t any. Not a scrap, not a vestige of paper anywhere. What am I going to do? I panic. I push the flush-button. Nothing happens. I jab it again, and again. Still nothing. I am sweating now.

There is a knock at the door. Oh my God! Now someone wants to use the lavatory! And me: caught with an un-wiped arse and a blocked bog!

Then, Myra’s voice. ‘George. I’m leaving you a toilet roll and a bucket of water. We don’t use that lavatory – it’s out of order.’

Oh the humiliation! My first morning in the house and I have disgraced myself in this fashion.

Saturday, November 25, 2006

A Hendon Morning

I slept badly. It was those fish. I was aware all the time that they were there – watching me. They never sleep, fish. Have you noticed that? Plus, Myra’s cat, Perkins, was in and out the cat-flap all night. I almost got up once to close its catch – but I couldn’t be bothered.
Oh yes, and another thing: the airbed has a leak; a very slight leak, but I had a sinking feeling during the night, and this morning I was flat on the carpet. I can’t bear to think what this will do to my back!
During one of my snatches of sleep I had a dream: I was watching one of those huge mechanical digger things, knocking down a row of terraced houses. It moved in horrible jerky motions; it reminded me of a monstrous yellow Praying Mantis. It needed only a tap from that big steel bucket, and walls that had stood for a hundred years just crumbled. I felt saddened by the spectacle. As the outer wall came down, I could see a fireplace and fading flowered wallpaper. And I thought: these, once cosy, rooms have sheltered families: mothers, fathers, children, and now they are suddenly exposed to the prurient eyes of passing strangers. An act of defilement.

I wonder if a dream is ‘there’, waiting to be dreamt? Like a book waiting to be read? I don’t think so.

I open the curtains on a wet, and gloomy cul-de-sac. I hate cul-de-sacs – even posh ones. Well, especially posh ones. Backwaters, where stagnant emotions collect and putrefy beneath the smooth surface.

It’s nine o clock, and no one is stirring. Oh, I’ve just remembered: it’s Saturday. I hate Saturdays. Too many people cluttering up the streets, the parks, even canal towpaths. No, give me a weekday, any day of the week, when people are at their work, and not getting up to mischief.

Hello, I can hear a noise upstairs. I had better make a move for the lavatory. Actually they are pretty well of for lavatories in this house: there is an en suite in the master bedroom (currently the mistress’s bedroom), a bathroom on the first floor and a cloakroom down here.
This is just as well, because I need some private time in the morning to conduct my ablutions. I am not one of these ‘On, plop, off’ people. I like to take my time: I have great respect for my bowels.

So, I will give the cloakroom bog a go. Just check I’ve got everything: pen, diary… oh no! It got incinerated in the tube station debacle. And a diary is so important to me: I have to think of future biographers. I will go to Woolworth’s, this morning and purchase a notebook. It’s no good trying to write on bog roll: that soft ‘luxury’ paper makes the ink go all fuzzy, and the shiny stuff… well your pen just skids off it.

Footsteps on the stairs! I’m off.

Thursday, November 23, 2006

Little George

I forgot to mention that, despite my concentrated worrying, I did ‘get appendicitis’; and not just an ordinary one but an acute appendicitis. I was rushed into hospital at 6 pm on a Shrove Tuesday (had to go without my pancakes!), and operated on that same night. The surgeon (a Mr Bennet-Jones) had to be called out from home. (I don’t know if he was sitting down to a fish-supper).

A fragment of memory: I am lying on a hospital trolley thing – ‘gurney’, I think they call them – in a corridor. I have been ‘pre-opp’d’ so I am feeling calm, serene even. Two nurses are talking:

‘We should take him into the theatre’
‘But it’s so cold in there. And Mr Bennet-Jones hasn’t arrived yet’
‘Yes, but you know he doesn’t like to be kept waiting.’

At that moment, I heard the crunch of car tyres on gravel. (I can hear it now as I type these words,) And suddenly this stern looking man is bending over me. ‘Why didn’t your mother call the doctor earlier?’ he asks me. What did he expect me to say? ‘Because, being working-class, she ‘hates to make a fuss’, has a horror of ‘being a nuisance’ so she delayed calling the doctor out until it started to look really serious.’
What I actually said, rather timidly, was ‘I don’t know.’
He disappeared – presumably to get into his operating outfit. I thought he might have said something like ‘Come on, let’s get this show on the road’. But he didn’t.
And then they wheeled me through those big, flapping doors into the theatre.

And so, at the age of ten years, I lost my appendix: down the drain in Peasley Cross Hospital. I think that nowadays the let you take it home if you want – in a little jar. It looks like a pickled gherkin.
Actually, the appendix is a good example of evolution: apparently we needed in when we ate grass – or something like that. So now it is obsolete, and it occasionally causes trouble – well wouldn’t you if you were obsolete!

There is an odd spin-off to this major event in my little life: I was in hospital for 3 weeks. This was because I got a post-op infection. That was VERY painful; I won’t trouble you with the details. Anyway for some time after that, my right side was very tender, so, although I was right-handed I transferred things like handkerchief, loose change, bits of string, knife and other things a young lad needs, to my left trouser pocket. (Even today, if I were to put a handkerchief into my trousers, it would be the left pocket), and although I did not exactly become ambidextrous, there are some things I still do naturally with my left hand.

I don’t know how all this is going to turn out: at my brother’s I mean. I tell you one thing: I am not going to spend every night on the living room floor. Other arrangement will have to be made.

Tuesday, November 21, 2006

'Briarwood' - Sleeping arrangements

I said my brother’s house had four bedrooms – well it has but:

1) Hector and Myra no longer sleep together. (The tall Swede casts a long shadow) – so there goes two bedrooms!
2) Hector has turned the spare-room into a ‘den’. A den! Where does he think he is: Illinois?
3) That leaves one bedroom (referred to as the ‘guest room’ – though they never have any guests), with a double bed; and when we arrived Carole was asleep in it


Well, I had no intention of sleeping with my brother (too many childhood memories – and anyway, he didn’t offer), and I felt that I did not know Myra well enough – at least not yet.

Oh, and another thing about my new landlady: I have described her as a globular person. But when, in the living room, she began to divest herself of her motorcycling kit, a transformation took place. As layer after layer was shed, she got smaller and smaller. It was like the Hendon version of one of those Russian dolls. Finally emerging from her leather shell, she stood on the hearthrug – a diminutive creature, not exactly a doll but pleasing to the eye, nonetheless. My spirits perked up. But when I learned that I must spend tonight on a blow-up mattress thing, adjacent to the fish-tank, they dipped again.

Carole, awakened by the noise we were making, woke up and entered the room in a dressing gown (it looked suspiciously like one of my brother’s). When I acquainted her of my having to sleep on the floor, I thought she might have said ‘Oh, you can’t be doing that – not with your back. Come and share with me.’ But she didn’t.

Now, everyone has retired to their warm, comfortable beds, whilst I lie here in the phosphorescent green glow of Hector’s aquarium, my head resting on that raised up bit of the air-bed that serves as a pillow, alone with my thoughts: We are buffeted by the winds of fate, thrown together like pebbles on a beach tossed about by an indifferent sea.

I draw Myra’s duvet closer around me. It smells of pipe tobacco! – Odd.

Sunday, November 19, 2006

Ride of the Valkyries





Cold and the rushing wind take my breath away. Or is it fear?

I ride motorcycles – but not as a pillion passenger, not now. I rode with Alan a week before he was killed. He tried to scare me – and he did, but I didn’t show it. On the night he died he had a passenger; although seriously injured, the lad survived.
But hey, a motorcycle combination has three wheels; it cannot fall over. If you believe this, try going for a fast ride on a child’s tricycle, and see what happens when you take the first bend. True, in the hands of an expert a ‘combination’ is one of the safest vehicles on the road, but driven by a novice it can be lethal. And I forgot to ask Myra whether she was ‘expert’ or ‘novice’.

The Buddhists say that two things should be avoided at all costs: hope and fear.
I can avoid hope easily enough, but fear?

When I was little I was frightened of becoming ill. It may have started when a pal was taken into hospital with ‘appendicitis’. I was terrified of becoming constipated (someone had told me that this was how you ‘got appendicitis’). I developed what I suppose now would be called a ‘phobia’ about food. I was always asking my mother ‘will this do me any harm?’ The ‘this’ was usually something that I particularly liked! Now, after years in the therapy trade, I can see how this gradually progressed to the point where the enjoyment of anything was followed by an attack of anxiety… This translated into the unconscious injunction: You can do anything so long as you don’t enjoy it.

But I think it began before the Wilfred incident (the appendicitis boy). My mother was always telling me to ‘be careful’. She used to say ‘I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to you – you are my life’
I was terrified of making my mum unhappy. She used to say to me, ‘you will make me very unhappy if you do that. ‘That’ could be anything. Sometimes I did not get an advance warning. So I made many mistakes – and felt guilty.
Anxiety and Guilt: the foundation stones for a beautiful neurosis.

Time is elastic – yes, I’ve said that before, but tonight the elastic is being stretched further than ever. Dark looming shapes approach, flash past; intermittent patches of blurred greyness; more black shapes – it goes on and on. I have been sitting on this hard, vibrating loaf of rubber for hours, days, weeks… forever, as this old ‘B’ movie - my past life - jerks its way through the projector in my head.
Occasionally I glance down to my left and glimpse my brother, reclining in the warmth of the sidecar, his eyes closed; I think he’s asleep. But where was he when all this stuff was going on? Ah well, that is another story – but more of that later.

I was led to believe I was somehow ‘better’ than other children: cleverer, more polite, thoughtful, considerate, tidy, trustworthy and – most important of all – sensible. Of course, it went without saying that I was more fortunate than other children. All in all, a terrible responsibility, a heavy burden for young shoulders to carry. But carry it I did.

Without warning, time starts to contract. We top a hill and there are lights ahead. The engine note has undergone a subtle change – it sings; the vibrations have become a stimulating massage; the bike, a living thing – and I am a part of it. I am no longer afraid.

It is not that I have resigned myself to my fate – whatever that might be - neither have I gained a sudden trust in my driver. It is more like acceptance: a positive acceptance. A giving over to the present moment: the speed, the swing and swoop of the machine, the crackle of the exhaust, the smell of engine oil, the surging power beneath me.

I want this to go on forever. But the elastic snaps back. The lights are upon us. Suburbia swallows us up.

Tuesday, November 14, 2006

Myra

Imagine a Michelin Man. Now imagine his wife. Dress her in one of those long leather motorcycle coats beloved of army dispatch riders during the 1940s. On her globular head pull a World War II pilot’s leather helmet, and add a pair of goggles. Give her elbow-length gauntlets, and a pair of Wellington boots (rubber) to complete the ensemble.

Myra, for some reason, elected to use the wheelchair ramp, so her descent to street level was reminiscent of an alien alighting from a spaceship, in one of those early science-fiction movies: a slow, stately rolling motion. She saw me and attempted to wave. But, encased in all that heavy leather, she could not raise her arm to shoulder height, so she looked like she was patting a very large but invisible dog.

The strange figure then trundled itself across the – mercifully empty – street, to where we were standing by the bike. Ignoring her husband, Myra, seizing me and clutching me to her leather bosom, kissed me full on the lips. Her tongue tasted of whisky: single-malt if I’m any judge. Such was her ardour that the metal rim of her goggles poked me in the left eye. But I hid my pain – she was so pleased to see me.

There then followed a rather unseemly argument with her husband about Myra’s fitness to drive a motorcycle combination – with passengers. This was cut short by the lady raising two gloved fingers to Hector, and climbing onto the bike. Hector looked at me, shrugged and made to get into the sidecar.
‘Hold on a minute’ I exclaimed. ‘Since I am the elder brother, I think it more fitting for me to ride in the sidecar.’
‘Ah, but it is my wife who is driving’ he riposted. And in less than a minute he was settled into the contraption, his legs extended comfortably into the nose of the car.
Too weary to argue further, I climbed onto the pillion, pressing myself up close against Myra’s bulk, hoping it would shield me from the worst excesses of wind and cold.

Myra raised her bottom off the seat, and for a moment I thought she was going to fart, but she was only lifting herself to get a good swing on the kick-start crank. An expert swing, I should say, for the engine burst into life first time and, without glancing behind her, she swung the machine round in the road and roared off into the night – only switching on the machine’s lights seemingly as an afterthought.

And me? I hugged her tightly around the waist (well, as far around as I could get) and tried to catch my breath. The one thought in my head was, what an irony it would be if, after two botched suicide attempts I were to be killed by a mad woman on a motorbike.

Saturday, November 11, 2006

Free at last

The young, army bomb disposal captain (he reminded me of my own son, Sydney) was a decent enough fellow. When I apologised profusely for all the inconvenience he and his men had been put to, he said: Not to worry laddie – all in a day’s work. And when I asked if there would be some sort of ‘call out charge’ (our plumber used to demand £40 – even if he did nothing) he said no; and, politely declining my offer of a little something towards the detonators, assured me that he would bill the 'appropriate authority' - which probably accounts for the nastiness shown to be by the blond ‘Mormon’ in the fawn raincoat.

I was subjected to intense interrogation by this personage. Well, I suppose it was only natural under the circumstances, but I don’t think he needed to have been so unpleasant. I gave him my brother’s address, upon which he ordered one of his minions to: Bring him here – now! And they did.

Hector was not amused: he was just sitting down to a fish-supper – having decided not to wait for the rest of us (he needs to eat regularly or he gets terrible wind.) He vouched for me, of course, but I don’t think he needed to have gone into such detail about my ‘mental condition’. This inevitably led to a phone call to St Botolph’s, and Freddie confirming that I was – until recently – a patient there. But here’s the strange thing: he said nothing about the sectioning. Upon reflection, I think he was glad to get shot of me, and he told the spook that as long as my brother was prepared to accept responsibility for me, and I undertook to continue with the medication, he was prepared to downgrade my status to that of ‘outpatient’. This would mean my travelling to Swindon, once a fortnight, to attend his clinic. I readily agreed.

But my interrogator was not going to let me go, just like that. Having failed to establish a link between myself and al-Qaeda - or any other terrorist organization - he was going to tell me what he thought of me.
He read me the riot act: Was I not aware of the threat of terrorist attack on this country? And did I not think that leaving my rucksack underneath a bench in the booking hall was, in the current climate, carelessness bordering on criminal behaviour? Furthermore, did I not think he had better fucking things to do than being dragged from a comfortable armchair in front of the telly (“Celebrity Strictly Come Dancing”, his favourite programme), to spend half the fucking night checking up on some fucking nutter? Oh, and by the way, did I know that in Japan, the relatives of anyone killing themselves by jumping in front of trains - evidently an increasing problem in that country - were made to pay heavy fines, for the disruption of services etc. And as far as he was concerned, London Underground should adopt the same policy.

I said I was very sorry for all the trouble I had caused – as indeed I was. My abject apology went some way to calming the man down, but before letting me go, he took great pains to assure me that my profile would now be on database; any future misdemeanour, no matter how slight, and they would throw the book at me.

Well, after that tongue lashing, I considered it might be inappropriate to ask him about the form: I thought there must be some sort of form I could fill in, to claim reimbursement for my rucksack – and its contents: change of underwear; medications (various); digital camera; packet of cheese and tomato sandwiches (one, half eaten); diary (irreplaceable); packet of extra-strong mints; clasp knife; favourite pen; woolly hat; miniature teddy bear (mascot).

It was almost midnight before I was free to go. And it was only then that both Hector and I wondered what might have happened to Myra. If she wasn’t still waiting, we should have to get a taxi – another expense.

However when we walked the 300 yards or so back to the Tube station, we saw a motorbike and sidecar parked at the kerb, but no sign of its driver.
‘What are we going to do now’, I queried.
‘Don’t worry, I can hot-wire the bike – it wouldn’t be the first time’
‘But what about Myra, your wife? I expostulated.
‘Oh she’ll be in the pub, I expect’. He seemed totally unconcerned.
‘You mean she’ll be drinking, when she’s going to be driving a motorbike’ I cried, in alarm.’
‘Well that, and handing out religious tracts’
‘I was now totally confused. ‘You mean she’s in the Salvation Army?’
‘Don’t be silly’ scoffed my brother, ‘She’s founded her own religion. I think she was inspired by that book she read about Ron L Hubbard – you know, the Scientology bloke. Apparently he said: if you want to make money, start your own religion’.
‘And what’ I said, aghast, ‘is the name of this religion?’
The Church of the Latter-day Sinners replied my brother, with more than a touch of pride in his voice.

Whilst I was digesting this latest piece of information, a door across the street burst open – and I saw her - framed in a haze of strobe lighting and beer fumes - my sister-in-law: Myra.

Tuesday, November 07, 2006

Thoughts from a police cell




We spend so much time dwelling on the past, and yet we (I must stop speaking for others and say “I”) make so little effort in projecting what we (I) have learned into the future, in order to predict outcomes.

I was thinking about me and Alan. Could we have projected into the future when we were playing round the lamppost with May James and Dorothy Webster? Could we have predicted that Alan would kill himself on a motorbike at such an early age, and that I would go on? I have already lived 3 Alan lifetimes! (I’m not complaining, mind – I want to go on!)

But can I project now? For the next 10 years? For the next 5 years? I have difficulty in projecting as far as the weekend.

Yet surely it would be in my interests to at least make an effort, and to ‘learn from my mistakes’.

I find it all so depressing. And depression saps my strength, the energy I need to “project”, and so it goes on. The problem is how to break the cycle: an intervention from outside? A lucky accident maybe?

We are driven by the selfish gene to procreate, and therefore assure its continuance. But why? Why does the selfish gene bother? If we are at the mercy of this gene, who is the selfish gene at the mercy of? [Yes, I have ended a sentence with a preposition – bad syntax, but who cares].

I watch ants scurrying about, and I want to say to them: take it easy lads, don’t knock yourself out – it aint worth it. But they wouldn’t listen.

Is it really all an accident? The whole process set in motion by a random collision in space: a Big Bang? But then we ask: where did the colliding bodies come from? The gasses? Space itself? And it is like looking through the wrong end of a telescope, and seeing the back of your head.

In our world – the world of the five senses – we have beginnings and endings. Perhaps the most ‘obvious’ example being birth and death: a baby is born, grows up and eventually dies. That is straightforward enough. But is it? Beginning? When does a person ‘begin’? At physical birth? At conception? Or must we go further back? Did that human life really begin with me having five whiskies and you four Bacardi Breezers? Or further back still - when our eyes met, over the photocopier?

Ah, but you say, we can distinguish between biological and psychological beginnings. But can we? Do we not arbitrarily construct beginnings and endings so as to parcel up our lives into manageable chunks? And make some sense of our world? We like to ‘draw a line’ under things, “effect closure”, “move on”. If only it were that easy. But real life is not like that. Real life is messy, full of ‘loose’ ends. What is that expression “we all come with baggage”? I come with so much baggage I need a team of porters.

But there may be some good news in all of this. If we can find psychological or metaphysical antecedents to our biological beginning (see above), might not there be sequential endings? So that if I say, I am going to end it all, I may be in for a surprise: I might end “it” – my biological life, but not “all” because there could be as many endings as there were beginnings. And it follows, therefore, that there must be as many beginnings as there are endings, the process continuing as far into the future as it reaches back into the past.
(I have always had a sneaking suspicion that if I decided to end “me” I would not be let off the hook - I would have to be someone else. Of course this does not make sense, but it is what I feel – sometimes.)

Of course, past and future are illusions: very necessary illusions, to enable us to live our life on this planet. But it is as well to bear in mind that that is all they are: illusions.

The human mind cannot conceive of an event having no beginning – but that is a limitation of the human mind, rather than an “impossibility”. So we have a mystery. Better to live with the mystery – and keep working at it - than invent a mythology to “explain” it.


Apropos ending a sentence with a preposition: Winston Churchill had a draft of one of his speeches returned to him by a parliamentary aide, respectfully pointing out that he had ended a sentence with a preposition. Winston sent it back with a scribbled note: This is the kind of bureaucratic interference up with which I will not put.

Sunday, November 05, 2006

Advice

They tell me, I cannot have my cake and eat it.
But I say, the only way I can have my cake is to eat it.