Wednesday, October 25, 2006

A long night

Mistakes - there are not enough rubbers on the end of enough pencils in all the world, to rub out all of the mistakes in all of the world.

Saturday, October 21, 2006

Tunnel Vision

The rail gleams dully in the centre of the track. The live rail. The death rail. Menacing, beckoning . And suddenly, into my head pops a verse:

Tell me please, Mr Conductor,
Said a lady, old and frail,
Shall I be electrocuted
If I step upon that rail?

Oh no, replied the young conductor,
You will be all right, he said,
Unless you take your other leg and place it
On that power line overhead.

No power lines overhead: just the rail. No one really knows what electricity is. Oh, we know how to generate it, how to use it. But we don’t really know what it is.

We know what it can do, though. If you fall onto that rail, it’s “Goodnight Vienna”. No need to get that tooth fixed now. All over in a second. Okay maybe two. No wonder it’s such a popular exit from this vale of tears. A bit unfair to the commuters, perhaps. Make them late for their tea – some of them may not even feel like their tea, not after witnessing the pyrotechnics: flash, sizzle; a soft thump as the body is thrown back towards the platform; a faint whiff of burnt flesh in the electric air.

The indicator board flashes: the next train will arrive in two minutes. Just think of all the things you can do in two minutes: boil a kettle; sneeze several times; have a pee; tell someone you love them; say you’re sorry; oh yes, and change your mind! How many times can you change your mind in two minutes?

I stand with my toes just on the yellow line: the safety line. Passengers are commanded to keep behind this line. I’m “toeing the line”, something I have done all my life. There are people to either side of me; I sense, rather than see them. I am taken over by my own thoughts. I once read, in a “self-help” book: your thoughts are not you. Well, they may not be, but just now I can’t separate them from whatever other bit is “Me”.

During the London Blitz, people came and slept down here, out of the way of the bombs. That must have been really weird: sleeping in these tiled tunnels. Safe though: the perfect air-raid shelter. They switched off the power. So if little Alfred accidentally pushed baby’s pram over the edge of the platform, damage would be minimal. (Prams were sturdily built in those days.)

The two minutes must be nearly up. I don’t hear the train yet, but it can’t be far off.
I am trying to imagine what those final two seconds might be like – after you hit the rail. Would there be time to feel any pain? I doubt it, because just think what happens when, say, you bang your knee getting in the car: for the first few moments you feel nothing - then the pain starts. This way, there’d only be those first few moments.

A rumble in the tunnel. I look down at my feet: I take good care of my shoes; see how they shine, note how the highly polished toecaps reflect the pallid lighting. But wait! My shiny toecaps have moved! They are close to the platform edge. I have crossed the line.


*************************************


Arm round my neck. Head jerked upwards and back. Choking. Swung round and thrown, face down, onto the platform. The breath knocked from my body. Cold tiles against my cheekbone, pinned by a boot against my other ear. Arms forced behind me. Steel snapped around wrists. A knee in my back. Smooth metal pressed against the side of my neck. Hands everywhere: Over my body. Between my legs. Down to my ankles. Sheer terror.

When I am finally hauled, shaking, to my feet, I see that the platform is empty. Empty of commuters, that is. It is crawling with black uniforms. Baseball caps and flak jackets. Machine guns. The two men holding me have automatic pistols. It must have been the barrel of one of them that I felt pressed against my neck.
A youngish man, slim, smart suit, fawn raincoat – he looks for all the world like one of those Mormon people who knock on your door on a Sunday morning - walks up. But he has not come to offer me salvation. He stares at me with such hatred that I think for a moment he is going to hit me, and I wince. But he doesn’t hit me. Instead, with a jerk of his blond head, he motions the other two to take me outside. They drag me across the platform, up the tunnel and out into the street.

Pushed with my back up against an armoured personnel carrier, I am forced to watch my rucksack destroyed in a controlled explosion.

Monday, October 16, 2006

'THESE TITANIC DAYS' Kirsty McColl

Cnt mt Eust. Car in dok. Sjst tk tube (nthn line) 2 HENDON CENTRAL –
M wll pik yup on m/c comb

I stare in disbelief at the screen of my Nokia.

Whilst on the train, I sent a text message to my brother giving our ETA and instructing him to meet us at the station. Now, after hanging about the concourse of this Gothic monument to the age of steam for what seems a lifetime, I receive this.

- What’s up? Asks Carole
- Err… just a slight hitch. Hector can’t pick us up at Euston: problems with the car. We need to take the tube to Hendon and… he will arrange transport from there

Carole rolls her eyes upwards, and swears

- I’m developing arms like a friggin’ chimp from carrying these cases
- Well, mine is bigger than yours
- Yours has got soddin’ wheels on it. Swap me!
- Well, I would, but my back still isn’t right. Come on. There’s the escalator

And, before giving Carole time to argue further, I set off, pushing my suitcase (on the aforementioned wheels) ahead of me, bulldozing a way through the crowd.
Carole follows, muttering something I choose not to hear.


I have been experiencing a lot of flatulence lately. Carole has remarked upon it.

- You can take something for that, you know
- Take something for what?
- For all that farting you’re doing


Can you? I wondered if, as you grew older, your plumbing developed a few kinks, bulges, in weak spots. This could cause wind to get trapped, and then suddenly released by a sharp body movement.

My dad had something called ‘diverticulitis’, which is a ‘pouching of the bowel’ – well that is what my mother said, anyway. He also had a stomach ulcer, but he did not let it affect his beer drinking. Every night, before he set out for his ‘local’, he would drink a glass of some gooey white stuff which, he said, lined his stomach. He did not drink whisky - or any spirits – just mild beer which he used to call ‘flat-rib’. I’ve never heard anyone else call it that. I never saw him drunk.

Anyway, for the moment, I am trying to keep it quiet: the wind.

My ruminations on the state of my plumbing, as I hang from a strap in a grossly crowded carriage, are rudely interrupted by Carole, poking me hard in the ribs

- Isn’t this where we are supposed to get off
- Bloody hell. Yes

We make a dive for the doors. I accidentally drag my wheels over the bare toes of a diminutive, sandal-wearing Asian lady. Her gasp of pain has barely time to register before Carole pushes me out of the doors, mumbling apologies on my behalf. Not a moment too soon. The doors whoosh shut and the train moves off, leaving the usual smell of electricity and rubber.
On the platform, I have barely time to reflect upon the damage done to the cause of multiculturalism by my clumsiness, before Carole presses me for details of the transport arrangements. I tell her.

– Well I’m getting in no bloody sidecar.

I assure her she needn’t worry, as I will be riding in the sidecar; she will be on the pillion. Her response is such as to cause two sailors to come over and ask her to moderate her language.
So I say okay, she can take a taxi (and the luggage); and, since it can’t be very far, it won’t cost her much. Carole wants to know why I will not be accompanying her in the said vehicle, since it would cost no more. I point out that Myra will be on her way and it would be extremely bad manners – not to say, getting off on the wrong foot – if my sister-in-law were to arrive and find she had had a wasted journey.
As the car drives off, Carole is signing to me through the back window that the driver had said it was two miles. I thought it would have been a bit further than that.

There is a man in that doorway; he’s lying on a sheet of cardboard. He isn’t begging: he looks like he’s trying to sleep. He is on his side, facing away from the pavement; the homeward returning commuters avert their eyes.
A policeman passes, glances briefly at this apparition in the long greasy overcoat – his only protection from the already chilly evening air – and strolls on.

Suddenly, I feel incredibly sad. And very alone. Yes, I know I am alone but it’s more than that. It’s an aloneness that comes from somewhere deep inside. I feel abandoned. Like in those dreams. Part of me knows it’s unrealistic. But another, more important, stronger part, knows that it is the greater reality. I really am alone, and it is all my fault. Then comes the old familiar feelings: guilt, followed by the self-doubt, followed by panic: what do I really think I am doing? Here in London? With all these strangers hurrying past, ignoring me. And I feel a close affinity with the cardboard man. Such a fine line it is that separates us.

Carole was right: I need help. Why did she let me persuade her to come to London. No question mark there. It’s an accusation.

I have always seen life as a sort of exam: I had to pass it, get good marks. That is why I have spent so much time looking for ‘answers’. But now I want to tear up the paper, and walk out of the examination room. Will I have the courage to do that?
I turn and head back to the trains.

Tuesday, October 10, 2006

I like travelling on trains: my favourite form of transport. But only ‘first class. It’s much cleaner, the seats are more comfortable and you get free food. Also of course one is removed from the riff-raff encountered on public transport.
As we were approaching Milton Keynes, I told Carole to watch out for the concrete cows. She did not believe that there were concrete cows in a field adjacent to the railway track and, when we failed to see any, she accused me of ‘winding her up’ as she puts it.
I am baffled. I am sure that I have observed these bovine effigies on a previous journey south. What can possibly have happened to them? Where they not yielding enough concrete milk! But seriously, I hope I have not imagined it all. But you can’t imagine you see concrete cows in a field – can you?
No matter. Our Virgin train touched buffers at Euston, bang on time. I must write to Mr Branson, commending him on the splendid way he runs his railroad.
Our ‘first class’ journey was marred only by an unfortunate incident: a bishop had to be ejected from the first-class carriage, because he was travelling on a third class ticket. He told the guard he was on his way to the Lambeth Conference and, in his haste to board the train, had purchased the wrong ticket. That official said he could accept the difference now, in cash. The cleric replied that he did not have sufficient monies upon his person, but would be happy to reimburse the railway company on reaching the house of his friend, the Archbishop of Canterbury.
“Sorry mate” responded the guard, “it’s money now, or you go into third class”
“But damn-it man, can’t you see I am a bishop?” shouted the peeved prelate.
“I don’t care if you’re the bleedin’ Pope, mate” And so saying the guard took the man firmly by the arm and led him to the door.

It was after he had gone that I noticed an I-Pod and a copy of ‘Crime and Punishment’ on the seat previously occupied by that gentleman. I asked Carole to nip along with them into third class and return them to the unhappy bishop.
‘Why can’t you go’ she said.
‘Because I am allergic to dust’ I retorted.
When she came back I said ‘Can you imagine that: a man of the cloth trying to bilk the railway company’ I was amazed at her answer.
‘I thought you might have lent the poor man the difference. You must have money because I paid for our tickets’
‘Listen’ I told her, ‘I am a Methodist and I do not hold with graven images and the Episcopalian flummery of that man’s church.’
One has to uphold one’s religious convictions.’

She did not speak to me again until well after Rugby. Then she thrust one of her ‘Turkish Delights’ at me, in a conciliatory gesture.

.

Sunday, October 08, 2006

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.

Friday, October 06, 2006

My mother's bunion

I believe that we draw to ourselves those people we need to act out our drama, on this earthly stage: the characters in our play, our supporting cast. Some have big parts (Anastasia, Georgina, Amanda, Carole.) Others, the bit players, may have just a few lines (Mrs Wincey).
Is my play a tragedy? A comedy? A thriller? A farce?
I wonder who will be nominated for best supporting role?

- Well?
- Well what?
- I thought you were going to tell me about your mother’s bunion?
- Oh, yes. Well, my mother was troubled by a bunion. She was in her sixties. It was so bad she could only wear ‘sensible’ shoes, and she had always considered herself a ‘stylish’ person. Also, on a bad day, it caused her considerable pain and forced her to limp. She had put up with this situation for a number of years until eventually she consulted her GP.
He referred her to a podiatric surgeon. This man explained the various surgical procedures on offer, all of them involving some breaking of bones and time in hospital. Although it could never be guaranteed, the likelihood was that eventually she would once again be able to wear ‘nice shoes’ and be relatively limp free.
What should she do? The decision was hers.

- So what did she do?
- In the end she decided it was not worth it. She had ‘managed’ for so long, she could ‘put up with it’ and live a reasonable life. And she did, until her death some years later.

Silence, except for the sound of Carole buttering a slice of toast.

- Do you see what I’m saying? I have put up with this so-called mental illness for many years. On the ‘bad days’ it incapacitates me, and it is on those days that I think I would do anything to be rid of it.
But there are the ‘good days’, when I feel great, full of energy, creative.
So what should I do, Carole? Should I elect for the ‘surgery’ or should I try and live with my disability?

- And suppose on one of your ‘bad’ days you go for another walk on the girders, only this time you make a proper job of it?
- Well, so be it. I will at last learn the great secret. Perhaps I shall be looking down on you all (or up, or sideways) as you run around tidying up after me.
No, I’m not saying that I want to go just yet: not with all those orgasms waiting for me to experience. But none of us can live for ever and, to paraphrase Amy Johnson: I think I would rather go that way than from pneumonia or senile decay.

Carole pours herself another cup of tea

- And what about the fact that you are on a Section Order?
- Oh, yes, my ‘sectioning’. Well I was thinking about what you said yesterday: no I am not Ronnie Biggs – I am not one of the Great Train Robbers. I am not a psychopath. I’ve committed no criminal offence. I’m hardly worth launching a manhunt for, am I?
- What are you talking about?
- Carole… come to London with me.

Tuesday, October 03, 2006

So it's come to this?



I have decided to eschew the grapefruit segments and go for the prunes. Five prunes. Five prunes a day - keeps you regular (so they say.)

- It’ll be the full English, will it, Mr Turner?
- Oh, yes please Mrs Wincey.
- Including the black pudding?
- Absolutely
(pause)
- Are you going to wait for your friend… or would you like me to bring yours through now?
- Err… perhaps I’ll have mine now. Don’t think she’ll be long, but, you know… don’t want the black puddings going cold, eh.

But Mrs Wincey does not leave immediately. She stands there, smiling. Then

- Shall you be leaving today then?
- Oh, yes, that’s right.
- And will that be the both of you?
- Yes… the both of us… thank you. Err… will a cheque be all right?
- Cash would be preferable.
- Oh, I think I can manage that.

She leaves, heading, I imagine, for the kitchen. The kitchen is somewhere at the back of the house. I have never seen it, nor its permanent occupant: Alfred. Mrs Wincey’s husband does all the cooking, and rarely sees the light of day.

My breakfast arrives, but still no Carole. Where are you, my Dymphna? This may be our last meal together – for some time to come. Let us share it, in a civilised manner.
I tuck in.

There was a film called “Morgan: a suitable case for treatment” Am I a suitable case for treatment? It doesn’t seem to have worked so far. But at least I’ve got a label now. I wonder if ‘suffering from a mental illness’ is just a modern way of saying you’re mad. After all, psychiatrists were originally called “mad doctors”. Different label – same job.

I am about to ask for more toast when Carole arrives at the table. She looks stunning. The Medical Rep sitting near the door, pauses, with a forkful of sausage an inch from his mouth. Carole is not wearing her leather mini and white stilettos – no, she has on one of those long dark brown skirts – so favoured by lady counsellors - with loads of material in it so it swishes and sways as she walks. Also she has got rid of her “sticks and stones” T shirt and is wearing a maroon blouse with a sort of short jacket. Her hair, brushed severely back and coiled in a very business like bun, shows no sign of the orange streaks. If she’d have arrived like this last night I could have passed her off as my therapist. My therapist – but not my Carole.

- You’re not packed yet?
- No, I thought there would be plenty of time after breakfast
- You know our train is at 11?
- Look Carole… I’ve been thinking
- If it’s about last night… forget it. It won’t happen again
- No there’s something I want to say to you.

Mrs Wincey re-appears with the toast.

- Oh, I see you’ve arrived. Will you be wanting a cooked breakfast?
Carole, without looking at her
- No. We haven’t time. I’ll just have coffee, and a piece of that toast.
Mrs Wincey sets down the toast, rather harder that I feel is necessary.
- I’ll make your bill out then.
And with glance at Carole which would shrivel a lesser person, she leaves. Carole raises her eyebrows and tilts her head enquiringly. (A habit I find irritating in women.)
- Well?
- I want to tell you about my mother’s bunion.

Sunday, October 01, 2006

It don't bear thinking about

A scoop of porridge in a dish of bone. A database on legs. Sorry but I just cannot help thinking about it, although when I look in the mirror I can deceive myself that it is not like that at all. (I am looking in the side of the shaving mirror that makes your face go all bulgy. A big nose and chin and your eyes somewhere at the back. Convex, is it called? It makes all the spots and blemishes stand out, your skin look like an old wash-leather.)
Wait a minute – I hope this is a convex mirror. I don’t really look like that, do I?

Anyway, just now I cannot believe there is a skull there, hiding behind that old familiar face. Nor can I believe this body is just hanging on a skeleton – like a suit of clothes in a wardrobe. This is ME.

And that, back there in the bedroom, is CAROLE – a real, live, warm and breathing person. I mean I have not just been sleeping with a skeleton! Have I?

I saw a skeleton in a museum. He was over 500 years old. They know it is a ‘he’ because of the shape of the pelvic bones – quite different from those of a woman. But that’s the only way (so they tell me). All the ‘bits’ that distinguish male from female have disappeared long ago: penis, testicles, breasts, womb, ovaries – all that stuff. Gone, ‘the way of all flesh’. Wasn’t there a book by that title?

But I was thinking: from the day we are born we are living on borrowed time.

What time is it? I go back in the bedroom and look at the digital clock radio: 8:15. I think digital clocks tell a different sort of time from those with hands: analogue if you want to be posh. I mean, with a clock with hands you can actually see chunks of time. You see the hand having to move from here to there; the space in between is sort of tangible – if you see what I mean.

8:15! We’re going to be late for breakfast! Mrs Wincey doesn’t like it if you’re late for breakfast. I think she feels it’s insulting to her black-puddings.

Come on Carole. You lazy cow. And I shake her – and I hear the skeleton rattle.