Hold tight

You’ll have to bear with me – I’ve got a bear with me. His name is Bill. He’s in the hold. He’s not a real bear – that would be cruel. But I am thinking of him now. I like to have him with me in times of stress. He would have been with me, here in this warm cabin, except that his eyes are held in with steel pins and they would have bleeped going through the detector. I know this because I tried it on a previous occasion and Bill was impounded (it was either that or remove his eyes, which I could not bring myself to do). When I remonstrated with the official he said the pins could be used in an attack on the captain of the airliner.
So, Bill lies there in the cold, cold hold!

Oh, and I am afraid I have been telling lies again (not about Bill). Sydney really is my son – the DNA test was done, some time ago. Another ‘white’ lie concerns my friend Hector the trolley dolly. Actually Hector is my brother – as those who have been following the story closely will know. He really was a trolley dolly though. He packed it in because of his legs: he was getting varicose veins, or those very close veins as he called them.

He applied to train as a pilot but they turned him down – on account of the maths: he just didn’t have the mathematical ability required of a captain of airliners. I hope this fellow has the maths. Of course it’s all done by computers now. Somebody told me they don’t really need humans on the flight deck – a computer could do the job. Better. But the reason they have real people is to calm the fears of the passengers: they wouldn’t trust a computer.
Well, you can count me in that lot, I told him. I would much rather be in a crash that was due to ‘human error’ than one, which was down to ‘computer error’. Call me old-fashioned, but there it is.

I wanted to get those lies off my chest, just in case anything… you know… went wrong. I can see the runway lights now. I wish old Bill were with me.

Not there yet

How do you work an iPod? It can’t be that difficult. There’s a kid across the aisle – can’t be more than three years old – and she’s had one plugged into her head since we left Heathrow.

I wouldn’t mind getting one, but I would be embarrassed in the shop because I don’t know anything about them. I believe you can store millions of tunes on them. Where do you get them from – the tunes? The Internet? How do you download them? I thought all of that was illegal?

I have a record collection. Now, I understand records. You know where you are with records. I have some very old 78’s. Remember them? The music was embedded in wax. And if you got tired of a record you could warm it gently and mould it into a fruit bowl! How’s that for re-cycling?

I also have 45’s and 10 and 12-inch LP’s. There is some great jazz on my records. On the 78’s some old New Orleans stuff from the likes of Louis Armstrong, Jelly Roll Morton, Turk Murphy, Sydney Bechet, Ken Colyer, The Dixieland Jug Blowers, Gerry Mulligan (yes I have eclectic tastes), The Original Dixieland Jass Band (the spell check is telling me I have the wrong spelling – but I haven’t), Humphrey Littleton… need I go on?

No, we’re getting bored!

Okay – philistines!

I hope the lavatorial arrangements are satisfactory at wherever I am supposed to be staying. I can live in most places but I do need unrestricted access to an adjacent bog. Of course, en suite is to be preferred but one cannot always achieve that.

I must confess I am a little nervous at the prospect of meeting Anastasia again. I don’t know how Sydney feels – I may ask him when he wakes up. Come to think of it, perhaps I should wake him now so that he can experience the terrors of landing!

The plane banks, and I can see lights – roads and streets I suppose. Can’t see any water – hope the pilot can!

It’s very quiet now. Nobody talking. The plane tilts again, then levels out.
I hope we are not in one of those ‘stack’ things… where you just go round and round, waiting your turn to land.

Hello – what’s this? A stewardess is walking down the plane, towards the tail – she has a torch in her hand. The must be something wrong. She’s going to inspect something. I elbow Sydney in the ribs, hard. He makes that funny snorting noise, and then opens his eyes. ‘Are we here?’
‘No, I think the tail is about to drop off.’
He is awake in an instant. ‘Father, don’t make jokes like that.’

Then that ‘bing bong’ noise – it’s the captain summoning one of his cabin crew. Oh dear, there really must be something amiss. I wish I’d listened to the safety drill. Where did she say we’d find the life jackets?

Sydney is looking pale. I wonder if I am? I haven’t made a will. Kept meaning to do. Never got round to it.
Who would get my record collection?
(There’s some CD’s as well.)

Final Approach

Stockholm is built on fourteen islands, the captain informs us, as we are about to make our final approach to Arlanda airport. One third of the city is water. (Apparently they call it ‘The Venice of the North.’) I am just hoping he doesn’t overshoot the runway and ditch us in the Baltic.

The flight has been fairly uneventful – apart from the aforementioned incident with the falling flight attendant. She apologised profusely but I told her there was no need to, as it was one of the best things that had happened to me in a long time. Flashing me a beautiful smile, she edged carefully backwards, this time making sure no part of her bosom came into contact with the - now snoring - Sydney.

The FASTEN SEATBELT sign comes on.

And now, that awful silence as the engines are cut back and we begin the descent. Suddenly - the thump of the undercarriage going down. A collective sigh of relief - well you never know if it’s going to get stuck! At least we’ve got wheels – we’re in with a chance now.

Seat in the upright position, tray folded away, hands clasped – I stare at the top of a bald head. And think.

BOEING 747 CRASHES IN BALTIC EN ROUTE FROM HEATHROW TO STOCKHOLM

I kept seeing that headline as I felt the sudden pressure against my back and the aircraft accelerated, tyres bumping along the tarmac, faster and faster, until the nose lifted, and we were airborne.

Gradually I relaxed. I had been sweating profusely (and farting a lot) before we took off, expecting carbine-toting police to burst into the cabin and drag me and Sydney off the plane. They didn’t - but I was relieved when the door was shut and we were being towed off-stand - I picked that term up from a friend who used to be a trolley-dolly: Hector, his name was. I wish we’d kept in touch.

Bagging the window seat turned out to be a bad move: by the time the seatbelt sign had been extinguished, Sydney was fast asleep, and remained like that for the entire flight. (he’d obviously taken something). He didn’t wake up once during the three times I climbed over him on the way to the lavatory.

I couldn’t sleep.

I thought, what if we did crash? And it was the end? Just like that? No chance to make amends, no chance to explain.

I suppose there would be panic as the plane fell, faster and faster, towards the sea – but from 30,000 feet we’d probably be dead before we hit the water.
And then what? Nothing?

I began to reflect upon my life. What would it all have been about? Well, it would have been about living. Is that all? You reply. I say, what better purpose could there be?

I started to run the old ‘B’ movie I have in my head: The life and times of George Jackson. The first half is in black and white because colour had not been invented. There is sound though – I am not that old!

Women. They have played a big part in my life. Some bigger than others. (Actually, when I think about it, I seem to have mostly attracted the heavier woman).

As I said in my ‘profile’ I have been searching for love. I really cannot think of anything more worthwhile. Someone to share your life: your hopes, your fears, your dreams – someone to hold in the night when the vultures hover outside your window.

Not a lot to ask, is it? So why is it so difficult to find? Or having found it, to hold on to? (Answers please, on the back of an old marriage certificate.)

I wonder what they would say about me at my funeral?


“His wife had something to put with, you know.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, he liked his women.”
“Yes, well, he’s dead now, and his little peccadilloes have been buried with him.”
“I should hope so – there was some talk of keeping them in a glass jar on the mantelpiece.”

The old ones are the best, eh!

But seriously, what would they say about me?

If you refer to my post about ‘specs’ you will see the problem. Everyone views us differently. Perhaps there isn’t a real me but many me’s , which I wear like suits of clothes depending on what the occasion demands.
Ah, but who is the ‘I’ that chooses which suit to wear? (If you really want a sort of answer to that, read “Creation: Life and how to make it” by Steve Grand.

I once had a friend who used to say, with an impish grin, ‘talk metaphysical to me.’ Actually, she was one of the exceptions to what I was saying earlier about the ‘heavier woman’ – she was so slim. She would go on about her ‘scrawny breasts’ – but I liked them. She’s dead now, and I miss her.

I think I’ll buy a sandwich from this lovely young lady who is now approaching, with her loaded trolley. And perhaps supplement this with a miniature of gin, for the warmth and comfort that might be in it.

She has to lean over the sleeping Sydney to place my purchases on the little plastic tray. As she does so, the plane hits some turbulence, and next minute she has landed on top of me - one of her magnificent breasts (the left one) whacking number one son on the nose as it passes. He grunts and splutters but – amazingly – does not wake. Meantime I am drowning in billows of flesh and waves of perfume.

Wow. That was well worth the six pounds seventy five, I can tell you!

Shamed at the airport

Sydney’s hand luggage bleeped as it went through the detector thing, so they searched it.

What do they find? His manicure set!‘You cannot take this in your hand luggage’ says the Customs official.
‘Ok, says Sydney, ‘I’ll put it in my pocket.’
‘No, I mean you can’t take it on the aeroplane.’ Says Mr Customs man.
‘Why not?’
‘Haven’t you read the notices, sir?’ An ominous tone has crept into the official’s voice.

I had to do something. I took the man to one side. ‘Look, I apologise for my son’s behaviour but he’s been ill.’ I tapped my head with my forefinger. ‘The hospital has released him on licence to visit his sister Anna, who is expecting her first child. I am taking full responsibility for him – making sure he takes his medication, and so on. Is there perhaps some way around this?’

The official thought for a moment, then he said ‘Ok, go into W.H. Smith and purchase a Jiffy Bag. Write his sister’s address on it and I will post it.’
‘That’s very kind of you.’ I effused.

Taking Sydney’s arm I led him away, explaining what we were to do.
‘Well, I don’t see why I can’t take it with me’ he said, petulantly.
I tightened my grip on his arm. ‘If you don’t button it they’ll lock you up!’ I hissed. ‘Don’t you know there’s a war on?’
‘What war?’
‘The war on terror, you berk!’

Anyway we got the Jiffy Bag. But then I realised I didn’t know Anastasia’s address. While I was thinking what to do, our flight was called.
‘Come on – forget your fucking manicure set.’ And I propelled him towards the gate.

Honestly, the lad is so gormless. Can he really be the fruit of my loins?
I’m determined to get that D.N.A. test done.

Our adventure begins

We are all wearing different specs. But we don’t know it. We think we are all looking at the world through the same lenses. But we’re not.

You look at me and you think you see me – but you only see a bit of me. And somebody else looks, and sees another bit: a different bit. And so it goes on. And you all think you know me. But you don’t. You only know that bit that your specs show you.

And I only see a bit of you. And I call that bit ‘you’. But it isn’t.
I don’t know you.

What can we do about it?
Take our fucking specs off!


Sorry about that. I don’t usually swear. I haven’t taken my medication today; it’s all the excitement, preparing for the trip.

They’ve returned my passport to me, and Freddie has given me one week’s supply of meds. He won’t give me any more, in case I do myself in; no chance of that – ‘the purpose of life is living’ (remember?) But he is going to fax a prescription to Karolinska University Hospital. He has arranged for me to attend weekly to collect my pills - and so some doctor can keep on eye on me!
A small price to pay!

We’re booked on one of these ‘cut price’ airlines – coincidentally, the same one they used to deport Anastasia! You can’t specify which seat you want – it’s first come, first served. I’ve told Sydney (he’s never flown before) that if we sit together I want the window seat. He said, that was ok, as he preferred to ‘sit near the gangway’ in case he needed to pay a quick visit to the lavatory.

I warned him that he must only used the lavatory when the plane is over the sea. He said how would he know when we were over the sea? I told him he must check with one of the cabin crew.

The boy is such a worrier.

"I'm leavin', on a jet plane..."

The lines of that wonderful song by Peter, Paul and Mary are going around and around in my head.

It's all fixed. We're off to Sweden. I've had a letter from Anastasia; here is an expurgated version.

Hello My Georgie,

I am delightful to be having you, here in my country of Sweden. Also your fine son, Sydney - how is the little bugger?

The only fly in the K.Y. Jelly (you see how I am remembering quaint English sayings I learn from you) being that I have only one bedroom flat - so one of you naughty boys will have to share with Anna, and other staying with my brother, Sven. Perhaps Sydney be better staying with Sven because my brother often have young men staying with him at his cabin by the lake; he is such hospitable person. And he will be pleased to have Sydney too, so he tell me, and so Syd might enjoy wholesomeness of young people around his person.

[Para deleted]

Unfortunately I cannot be meeting you at airport since I have important shoot, as we call it, for new video, and also Sven cannot either come for he is directing shoot. So Elof, he will collect you in company van. Unfortunately also, Elof speak very little English, but wonderful actor – with great staying power. So he will bear piece cardboard with GEORGE written on it, so you should be watching for such person at barrier.

I cannot wait to clasp once again to this aching bosom, my Georgie, and of course young master Sydney – not at same time, of course (although such thing might be possible?)


[Para deleted]

So until our tongues once more entwine,


Your Anna

By the way Doctor Tankersley, although all comments are welcome – critical or otherwise - I took exception to your remark suggesting that some people with a PhD in psychology like to pose as medical doctors. You may not be aware of this, but I, myself, have a doctorate in the aforementioned discipline. I have, however, never, led people to believe I was a medic.

There was one occasion when I helped deliver a baby, in a phone box in Hounslow. But that was an emergency, and at no time throughout did I claim to be a medical practitioner.

You will notice I never mentioned psychiatrists! A bit too near home. In more ways than one!

I know I am being a bit free with the old exclamation mark, but I think I have good cause. Here I am locked up in a mental hospital and have fathered a child with my psychiatrist. Well, she says it is mine, and I must admit little Georgette is the spitting image of yours truly.

I have also entrusted power of attorney to our one time au pair, and my (short time) lover. I couldn’t transfer it to Amanda (aforesaid psychiatrist and mother of my child) because she said it would be unethical.
I said to her, well, isn’t it unethical to shag your patient? She said, yes but what is done is done – you can’t put the toothpaste back into the tube. I must say I found the metaphor rather inappropriate under the circumstances.

Sydney is peeved because I have not appointed him my legal executor. But the boy is a fool, he really is. I couldn’t trust him to manage my affairs.

I will let you into a secret: I don’t trust Anastasia, either. But she can get me out of here, and I fancy a short sojourn is Stockholm; they tell me Sweden is beautiful this time of year.

I would not like you to think I am running away from my responsibilities towards my offspring – not a bit of it. I intend to come back and do the decent thing. But I need a holiday – a short break to recharge my batteries, so to speak.

And old Freddie Foggatty (top dog around here) will be happy to let me go, into the custody of a ‘responsible person’. Of course Anastasia isn’t a responsible person – Freddie knows that as well as I. But he thinks if he gets rid of me he will have his sister all to himself again. Little does he know my ultimate intention!

As a sop to Sydney, I have offered to take him with me to Stockholm – for a holiday. Told him it might do him a bit of good. Now I know what you are thinking: I am courting disaster, putting him in close proximity to the Swedish tart. Trust me – I know what I’m doing!

A medical opinion

DOCTORS don’t wear gloves and a mask when they examine you. At least not GPs. And I bet they have to face some prett nasty diseases in a day’s work. Now, why is that, I wonder? Why don't they wear gloves?

I mean, I guess that they would wear gloves if they were doing a rectal examination – who wouldn’t? And no doubt they don them for the odd gynaecological foray. But generally speaking they come at you with their bare hands.

Incidentally, dentists can now call themselves ‘doctor’. I know that they have been doing this in the States for a long time (we’ve all heard of Doc Holliday), but in Britain it is a fairly recent development.

Veterinary surgeons just call themselves ‘vets’, and somebody told me that their training is a lot longer than that of a doctor. As well as learning about basic anatomy, vascular and nervous systems and so on, they have to know how to deal with everything from a snake to an elephant. Plus of course, they have to be an animal dentist!

All the same, if I were ill I would rather see a doctor than a vet. (But I wouldn’t if I were a dog!)

You get a lot of time to think, in here.

Open wide

I can remember when dentists didn’t wear gloves. They wear gloves now. Why is that? Have they gone soft or something? I mean, do they wear them for the patient’s safety, or their own? Is it perhaps to do with AIDS?

Masks, too. They wear masks now, and they didn’t use to. Is this so we won’t catch some nasty bug off them? Or – more likely – is it to stop them catching some dreadful disease off us patients?

I only mention this because I saw my dentist yesterday. A lady dentist. I’ve got a lady dentist. She is quite lovely. I don’t mind lying there, supine, in the chair and gazing into her eyes (over the top of her mask) as she gently inserts her (gloved) fingers into my mouth.

The reason I went was because I lost a veneer off one of my front teeth. I thought at first I might have swallowed it, but I don’t think I have. More likely it came off whilst I was brushing my teeth – vigorously – prior to an important meeting with a young female friend.

My lady dentist fitted me up with a ‘temporary’ replacement.

She gave me a pair of specs to put on - they weren’t really my style but I didn’t say anything -before she, and her aspirating assistant, went to work on me. Now why do they do that? They never did in the good old days of dentistry: fit you up with a pair of specs. Is it because she is afraid she might accidentally poke me in the eye with one of those stainless steel probes? And, in today’s ‘compensation culture’, get stung for a hefty sum? I don’t really think so.

Actually, I think the clue is in the ‘aspirating’: maybe, in sucking out all the saliva and debris the patient could accidentally cop an eyeful. Not as damaging as the steel probe, maybe, but still a possible claim for compensation.

Anyway, she has done a lovely job with the ‘temporary’, and once more I can face the world with a smile.

Now, the question is: is this Sydney or George speaking? Perhaps a strange metamorphosis is taking place.

FAIR COMMENT?

Do I know you Mr Adams? Are you, perchance, a friend of my father’s? You share the same abrasive, not to say coarse mode of delivery. I remember him speaking of a chap he met whilst working on the trawlers (gathering material for a novel). According to my father, he befriended this person (it was his first time at sea), took him under his wing, showed him the ropes (and how to tie them!). Then the ungrateful bounder jumped ship in Aberdeen. That was the last father saw of the man – and his best reefer jacket.
But, like so many of my father’s stories, it could be a complete fabrication.

But enough of this idle speculation – I have my own story to tell.

I asked father was it true that he had given power of attorney to Anastasia – our ex au pair. It was, he said, and what of it?
I replied that I thought it a bit thick to do such a thing when he had his own flesh and blood on hand to carry out such duties.
He laughed; that dry, bitter laugh I remember so well.
‘If you mean the lesbian’ He almost spat out the word. ‘You know what she can do!’
I did not care to consider the possibilities. Instead, I said ‘Father, you can be so obtuse at times. I said flesh and blood. I was speaking of myself: your son, and heir’ I raised my voice slightly at the end of the sentence; a somewhat irritating habit I picked up from an Australian. It makes a statement sound like it might be a question. I wished I hadn’t.

Father doubled up. I thought it was an attack of stomach cramps, perhaps brought on by the insulin shock treatment. But no, he was wracked with mirth. It was minutes before he could speak.
‘You? You? You are joking? Tell me you are joking.’
I must admit that I was taken aback by his reaction, and for a moment was rendered speechless.
‘Well, I am your son – you’re only child.’ I retorted, indignantly.

This information seemed to bring him to his senses. At least he stopped laughing.
‘Sydney, that is something I have never been really sure of. I wanted to have a DNA test done when you were six months old, but I didn’t have the money. And then, as you grew up, well, I suppose I bonded with you. And when your dear mother left us…’ He rolled his eyes skywards, and I felt bound to point out that my natural mother was not dead but living in Brighton with an amusement- arcade proprietor.
‘Do not mention that man’s name in my presence.’ He shouted.
‘But father, I don’t know his name, you would never tell me.’

Silence. He stared at the floor.

Suddenly, he looked up, and gave me a crafty smile. ‘Besides, you’re not my only son and heir’.
‘What do you mean?’ I was bemused.
‘You may be my only son but you’re not my only heir.’
‘Father, please explain yourself.’ Now I was truly alarmed.
‘Sydney, you have a little sister.’
‘WHAT!’
‘Well, technically a half-sister: Georgette. She’s the image of her dad.’
I was stunned.
‘Aren’t you happy for me?’
Words failed me.
‘Don’t just sit there with your mouth open – say something.’ he prompted.
I heard a voice – it surely wasn’t mine? - ‘Father, what the fuck have you done now!’

REUNION

I barely recognised him. And it wasn’t just the long dress, the shawl and straggly grey wig; his pallor, the dark rings under his eyes, the shadowed cheeks presented the visage of a spectre, such as might have been conjured up by the pen of Edgar Allan Poe.

‘My God, father – what have they done to you?’ I expostulated.
‘What are you talking about?’ came back in a voice, firmer and stronger than one might have expected from a spectre.
‘Well… I mean, just look at you…’ my voice tailed off helplessly.
‘You stupid boy. I’m in character. It’s the dress rehearsal for our production of Cold Comfort Farm; I’m playing Ada Doom.’
‘Well I’ll be buggered’ I gasped in astonishment.
'Don't say that, son - not in here. Sit down.'

‘I sank gratefully into the proffered armchair.

(to be continued)

A son speaks

Mummy has left in such a tiz woz. Honestly what is a chap to do under the circumstances? I pleaded with her, but when she gets the bit between her teeth there is no gainsaying the old girl.

Sorry if I am making her sound like a horse – I got that expression from father. She’s not a bit like a horse; she is still a damn fine looking woman – for her age - even though I say it myself as shouldn’t; me being her son and all that.

Well I know I’m not, strictly speaking, her son, but I have always called her mummy. You see I never knew my real mother. But I’m not looking for sympathy. Actually, I’m looking for the address of this hospital in which my dear father is presently incarcerated. I mean someone has got to take over the reins (Oops there I go again) of this dysfunctional family. But all families are dysfunctional – that is the very nature of families. Try reading David Cooper’s Death of the Family!

Anyway, I shouldn’t have to deal with all this trauma; I have enough problems of my own. I have always been a rather delicate, sensitive boy, with shoulders far too slender to carry such a burden. But someone has got to do it.

Luckily Carole is here at the house with me, and she stiffens my resolve when I need it. I don’t know what I would do without her. And yet we are so different: her from that sink council estate, used to living on income support and generally sponging from the state, while I – well, the product of a private school education and a good university; a man of letters, no less.

It was Carole who advised me on that tricky business with the police. Well, she has rubbed up against the boys in blue on more than one occasion. Her Garry is a thorough villain. I would not lower myself to have dealings with such a chap, and luckily I won’t have to because he is at present a guest of Her Majesty – and likely to be for some time.

Still, suffice to say, Inspector Wetherby saw fit not to proceed with any charges following the events of that awful night. When I remarked upon how lucky we had been, Carole just winked and said ‘He owes me one, sweetie’. I wish she wouldn’t call me sweetie.

I have to say – and I would not like this to get back – that I find Carole a bit coarse sometimes. I mean, her earthy language and bawdy humour can be quite fetching down the Jolly Pervert but when one has it twenty four hours a day – well it can begin to grate.

And her bedroom manner can sometimes be a little… well, boisterous.
I try not to think about the fact that she used to be father’s paramour. I mean it isn’t incest or anything – the fact that I have ‘followed where he has trod’ so to speak. It’s just that sometimes – and usually at a most unexpected moment – I sort of feel his presence. I have mentioned this to Carole but she just laughs and tells me not to be silly. ‘Don’t worry, Syd, no one comes before you - not even dear old dad!’ I know this is meant to be reassuring but it somehow makes me feel more uneasy.

Another thing mummy has left me to deal with is this thing about father giving Anastasia power of attorney. I can see me having to fly out there and have it out with her.

Anyway, must dash – Carole has promised to touch up my roots tonight. Grey hair at my age! It’s all the worry.

The highest level of courage is running away.
Arabic proverb


I believe that. I think I have always believed it – but have only just read the proverb.

I have struggled through with many ventures simply because I was too afraid to quit: ‘educational’ courses that I was not enjoying one bit, but that I pushed on with and gained a ‘qualification’; stress inducing jobs, such that I would dread Monday morning; toxic relationships that were doing no one any good, but which I was too afraid to leave because I equated quitting with failure. But often quitting is the bravest thing one can do. Of course, the trick is knowing when to quit.

I am quitting now. Running away.

I am a player in your drama, and you are a player in mine. I think George said that – or was it me? Sometimes it is hard to tell where I end and George begins – or where George ends and I begin.

Exit, stage left.

The visit

Stale cabbage and urine. I could smell it as soon as I came through the main doors. They told me I would find George in the common room. Of course, I got lost.

Actually he was out on the ‘terrace’, sitting in a basket chair (no jokes about basket cases, please) with a blanket around his knees, like a First World War casualty. He shattered the image by jumping up when he saw me.

I didn’t know whether to give him a hug (non sexual of course) or shake hands. In the end I just said, ‘You’re looking well.’ Actually, I don’t know whether he was or not – he just looked like George.
‘Oh, so you’ve come at last’ he said.
‘Where have I heard that before’ I quipped. He ignored me.
‘You got my letter?’
‘Yes.’ We stood there, looking at each other. Finally he said, ‘How about a walk around the grounds? I can think better when I’m walking.’

And so we walked. I felt awkward, trying to think of something to say. There were two men doing something in a flowerbed. ‘How many patients are there?’ I said.
‘Residents – they don’t call us patients.’
‘Oh, sorry.’ I apologised. We walked on for a bit, along an asphalt path, which meandered through the greenery. ‘Well, are you feeling any better?’ I asked.
‘I still wake up in the morning with this cloud hanging over me.’
‘Well, perhaps you are hanging around with the wrong cloud.’ As soon as I said it I wished I hadn’t.
‘You think this is funny do you? Depression is an illness, you know – a very unpleasant illness, which, in my case, is exacerbated by acute anxiety and obsessive compulsive disorder.’
‘I’m sorry – I know you are suffering – I really do. I was just trying to cheer you up.

We continued to walk, George staring at the ground. ‘I’ve had a letter from Anastasia – would you like to read it?’
‘Only if you want me to.’
He stopped and groped around in the pockets of his anorak, eventually pulling out an envelope. I immediately recognised the babyish scrawl of my erstwhile partner. ‘Save it until you get home.’ He thrust the letter into my hand. ‘By the way, I am giving Anastasia enduring power of attorney.’
‘What!’ I gasped, incredulous.
‘It means that she can sign any documents in the event of my becoming unfit, to act for myself. Any money transactions and –
‘I know what ‘power of attorney’ means – but why Anastasia?’ I was angry, and a little afraid.
‘Read the letter.’ He smirked. ‘ I’ve already signed the papers.’
‘You’re out of your mind!’
‘Well, isn’t that why I’m in here?' He retorted.

This meeting was not going at all as I had planned. ‘You can’t do this, you know. I am still your wife.’ I said, trying to sound firm, confident, but inside feeling decidedly shaky.
George sat down, abruptly, on a bench by the side of the path, and beamed up at me. ‘Would you like to stay for tea? Staff nurse Gawkins says you’re quite welcome – we’re having sardines on toast, plus jelly and cream.

I sat down on beside him on the bench, all the strength had drained from my legs.
He took my hand. ‘Don’t worry old girl, things will turn out for the best.’
‘Old girl! I’m not a fucking horse!’ I yelled. He just smiled – and squeezed my hand.

I did stay for tea. It was better than I expected. Although a man with red hair kept walking around the room during the meal, whistling. No one paid him any attention.

When I got home I read Anastasia’s letter. I reproduce it here because I need both advice - legal and financial, and support – emotional.


Dearest Georgie

They have disported your poor Anna back to her own country of Sweden. What a bummer, eh! In vain was I telling them that marriage to your good self was on the playing cards, but they are saying: hard luck sweetie, he is in the loony bin and likely to stay there for a while, and if you think we are providing you with free board (expense of British tax payer) you got another think coming.

So they bundle Anna onto cheapskate airline plane that don’t serve no meal - let alone give free small bottle of vodka to calm nerves - and strap down in seat. Then have to watch silly bitch trolley dolly showing what to do if land in sea. I shout: Oi! Wherefore is ocean on way to Sweden, girl? You going via New York or something? Other passengers laugh, some of them. Others say: shut up and let girl do her job. Bitch trolley dolly smile sweetly, but I see glint in her eye and am suddenly glad they not serve food.

Anyways, Georgie, brother Sven is at airport to meet me. Telling me job is waiting me in adult movie industry of which he is leading director. But I say: be holding your horseshoes, sunshine. I am bi-linguistic person now, having spent much time in England, and could be achieving job as translator.
Sven is snorting with derisiveness and, unfortunately, since having bad cold, deposits unpleasant gob of mucous on polished toecap of left shoe.
I am laughing uproaringly.
Fuck you! Shouts Sven.
You should be so lucky, you perversion, I wittily riposte.

But enough family gossip for the bye and bye. What I am wanting to say is that my feeling you is strong as ever. And is causing me to apply pressure in the right places at this very moment. I have written to the British consul here asking if you may be released into my custodial care (I now have nice flat in downtown Stockholm, plus job – temporary, whilst waiting for position as translator).

Will let you know how things develop on my end, and looking forward to hearing from you.

Yours ‘till Sweden turns to desert,

Anna

A letter arrives

I am tired tonight. My eyes ache, my legs ache and I feel depressed. I drank half a can of Special Brew last night – could that be it? I wonder. I know it is strong stuff but surely a half a can would do no harm. I had a friend who would drink a 6 pack of Special Brew at a sitting – and return to the Off-licence (liquor store for you Americans) for replenishment.

Nevertheless, I spent a while on the porcelain throne this morning and that can be a symptom. But it can be a symptom of many things – for example, I ate some cabbage at my evening meal. And I have been diagnosed as having IBS – which is related to stress… blah, blah, blah. Oh, I am fed up of trying to work all this stuff out – maybe it is just best to do want you want to do: eat what you fancy, drink what you fancy, and just accept the consequences. Maybe that is what you call ‘living’ – George did.

I miss the old bugger, sometimes. He was many things but he wasn’t boring. Hey, I am talking about him in the past tense, when he is very much alive. To prove it here is a letter I received from him only this morning.


Hello Spouse.

You have not been to see me yet. What’s the matter? Afraid of catching some neurosis or other. Madness is not contagious, you know.
But don’t worry about me (just in case you were) I am doing all right here. Nobody expects anything of you. There is no pressure. Three square meals a day and lovely grounds to stroll around (a la Mrs Robinson). Of course, the medication can play havoc with your tripes, but hey, you can’t have everything can you.

I sometimes think of you but it affords me little relief. I would like to see you though, if you can spare the time. I am in most days – well, every day, really
It is futile to apportion blame. Maybe I always had something wrong with my head – and you just made it worse. Let’s just say that we both did the best we could.

Amanda brought her little offspring in to see me. She has named her ‘Georgette’. I asked her if she had any idea who the father was. This seemed to upset her because she burst into tears, thrust the child into my arms and ran from the ward. Luckily staff-nurse Gawkins was on hand to take little Georgette off me (she said I was holding her like an unexploded bomb).

Must go now, it’s teatime. Steamed fish – my favourite.

Yours affectionately

George

A dysfunctional family? A dysfunctional world?

I’ll go and see him. What have I got to lose –except my sanity (and I’m already losing that.)

As night falls

Did George ever exist, or did I imagine him? Was he a projection of something inside of me, a formless lump of clay on which I imprinted a shape of something deep in my psyche? The monster created by my Doctor Frankenstein, to torment and punish me for my sins – real or imagined?

And now, that same lump of clay is languishing in a psychiatric ward, ready to receive the imprint of doctor, nurse, social worker.

My sole is cracked. On my right boot. I shall have to indent for another pair. What a lovely word ‘indent’. They use it a lot in the armed forces; that and the word ‘chitty’.

Sometimes I wonder what life’s all about.

My computer has been at the menders. I just got it back today.

I took it to old Arnold in the village. He’s a herbalist really but got into computers when he had that short spell in Charnley Jail. Did a course. Never looked back since. He still does a bit of herbalising on the quiet – even though he’s not supposed to. After, well… you know what.

We all thought six months was a bit hard. Well it wasn’t as if he’d harmed anyone – not really, anyway. Still that’s British Justice for you. What was it Oscar Wilde said… When one looks back at history, one is appalled, not by the crimes committed by the wicked, but by the punishments inflicted by the righteous. That might not be the exact quote – that’s why I have not put it in speech marks – but it’s near enough.

Arnold said it was the power supply that had gone. I don’t quite understand this as I thought the power supply was in my house, courtesy of South Midlands Utilities. Still he must know what he’s doing because it’s working now.

I was getting used to being without a computer. I mean Shakespeare did not need a word processor, although I sometimes wonder if Hamlet would have turned out different – a happy ending maybe – if the bard had had a laptop.

It’s one of those things we may never know.

NO MEAN FEET

Aren’t feet small. I mean relative to the rest of your body, with what they’ve got to hold up.

I thought that this morning when I awoke. Sitting on the edge of my bed, I observed my feet, waiting patiently on the end of my legs, ready to go about their daily duty of trundling me about the planet. How do they do it?

It was different when we had tails. Then we had a sort of third leg. A tripod. I wonder how many thousand years of evolution it took to get rid of the tail? And during that time how were the feet being preparing to do all the work on their own?

You’d think that as our tail grew shorter, our feet would grow longer – to compensate. But no. And the fact that did not happen is another one in the eye for the creationists: I mean if we really were designed then surely when an important modification like this was carried out there would be all sorts of calculations to make. And one of the most likely outcomes would have been to have made the feet longer. But, as I say, this was not the case. Instead we had to learn to walk upright on ‘too-small’ feet.

I have a blister on the little toe on my right foot. This is due to the chafing of heavy gardening boots. Edgar says my feet will get used to the change of footwear – there you go again: relying on the poor old feet to compensate – and in the meantime he has given me an Elastoplast to apply to the affected area. It came off in bed and Edgar did not think to give me a spare. So I shall have to pay a visit to the pharmacy in my lunch hour.

Another thing I’ve noticed about my feet: there is more space between the big toe and the next one on my right foot than there is on my left. This does not seem to cause any problems, but I am keeping an eye on things.

You see, when you have a sedentary occupation you tend to think more about the care of your bum. But when you do proper work – like gardening and park maintenance – then your focus is, quite naturally, on your feet (since so are you – for most of the day).

I hope you don’t think I have gone on too long about feet. Actually I don’t care much if you do. I think feet need to be brought to the forefront, not taken for granted so much.

So if you take my tip, you’ll look after your feet.

THE ANSWER LIES IN THE SOIL (?)

I am ‘finding myself’ in the pursuit of honest toil. At the end of the day I am tired, but in a physical, healthy way; not this tiredness in the head I am used to feeling most of the time.

Okay, you post-modernists, maybe there is no ‘self’ to find. Maybe we re-invent ourselves, from day to day, as circumstances demand. I don’t know. All I do know is that I am feeling better for doing this manual work, outside in the open air. And to stride bare-legged through the long grass – well, all I can say is that if you haven’t tried it, you should!

Another thing this physical stuff has done: it has made me feel more kindly to my erstwhile husband.
We think we can communicate with people because we speak the same language: English, in my case. But we each live and move in a different mental landscape; we are all aliens.
we don’t know this, and so we become confused and angry when people don’t understand us. That is the tragedy.

Anyway, enough of this philosophising, I have to hose the shit off these boots; they’re stinking the place out.

If you go down in the woods today...

This is a photo I took on my first ‘community service’ with my mates: Shaz, Baz and Derek.

For the first time in my life I have got ‘mates’!

Single mum Shaz comes to work on her scooter. She refuses to get a lift in the minibus. She says minibuses are dangerous – but really she likes to be independent. She has got more rings, pins and studs in her face than anyone I have ever seen: rings through her ears (ten in each), eyebrows, nose, lips, and pins and studs in her forehead and neck. I call her ‘the perforated mum.’

If there were to be a prize awarded for creative swearing, Shaz would win, hands down. She can even manage to insert a swearword in the middle of another word. For example: I overheard Baz telling her something about ‘catching a packet last week’, (I thought he was talking about taking a steamship somewhere, but it turns out to be slang for ‘contracted a sexually transmitted disease’).
Shaz suddenly exclaimed, in a voice that could be heard all over the park, ‘Well I’m not sur-fuckin-prised!’
She continued to admonish poor Baz. You should have used a fucking condom’ .

I wondered if there were any other kind.
But anyway, Baz says condoms are not cool.

People in Derek’s world always ‘turn round’ before they say anything… ‘So I turned round and said… And she turned round and said…’
He also has a couple of general-purpose phrases: ‘Well, it would, wouldn’t it…’ and ‘Stands to reason’.

But although I have had some difficulty getting used to the idiom, I quite like being with my new mates. They are so open, so direct. Does that sound patronising? I don’t mean it to be. They say you start to become like the person you marry; I don't want to become like George.

George used to say that the ‘lower classes’ could be quite amusing on occasions. He is a snob, of course. I don’t know why, since he likes to tell everyone how he was born in a ‘two up, two down’ with no bathroom and an outside lavatory. But my new friends do have a wicked sense of humour – often taking the piss (as they say), out of each other.

And out of Edgar. He is in charge of our little gang of ‘criminals’. He is about my age but they call him ‘grandad’. He has worked for Parks & Gardens ‘Since I was a lad’. And although they pull his leg something awful, he takes it all in good part and seems genuinely fond of his little ‘team’. He doesn’t know quite what to make of me! But then, neither do I.

I have decided. I am going to see George. I am pretty sure I know what his ‘little surprise’ is. There have been rumours flying about the village for some time now.
Ah well, let’s hear it from the horse’s mouth.

Is that the telephone ringing?

Have you ever thought of committing suicide? I mean serious suicide, not this ‘cry for help’ business. I have. Trouble is – apart from the difficulty of finding a method that doesn’t hurt – suicide is so final.

Benny Hill used to sing a song, about a man, who, by some freak, was the only person left alive in the world after a nuclear disaster. He’s living in a penthouse on the top floor of a New York skyscraper. But after a while he can no longer stand the loneliness – and he jumps.
And as he passes the seventh floor he hears the telephone ring.

So you hang on, ‘waiting for the telephone to ring’
Your ‘ringing telephone’ might be: a letter, telling you he loves you after all. Another’s ‘telephone’: the police have dropped the charges. Someone else’s: the depression mysteriously lifts, and doesn’t return.

Of course, if you are of a certain religious persuasion, death is simply a gateway to another, better life. And if you belong to a certain 'faith' this might induce you to strap a few pounds of explosives to your person, and go out in a blaze of glory: a martyr to the cause.

Ah, but if you have the misfortune (from a potential suicide’s point of view) to be a card-carrying member of the Roman Church, then it’s no virgins for you! You have committed the worst possible sin. And it is going to need a lot of petitioning on your behalf if you are to have a chance of making it to heaven instead of hell.

It's all very well to say you should read the 'suicide' clause before you sign up - how many of us are that far-sighted.

Yes, but what if the telephone doesn't ring?
Look here – I haven’t got the time to discuss such morbid thoughts. The sun is shining, and the Parks & Gardens truck is outside, the driver impatiently blowing his horn.
Where are my boots!

A pattern emerges

“Here I go down that wrong road again” Do you know that song? I don’t know who sings it but every time I hear it I think - that’s the story of my life.

Have you ever looked back over your life and detected a pattern? Or patterns? Patterns of behaviour, I mean. You know, you find yourself doing something, and you think – this is familiar. I’ve been here before.

Like, you find yourself making the same choices; even though it turned out bad last time, you’re doing it again. It’s a pattern, a habit, and you don’t know how to get out of it.

Well, I’ve been looking back. Not in anger – more in sorrow. I can’t blame George for everything – although I’d like to. No, I was ‘set up’ long before I met old Georgie boy.

Part of it is in my genes of course, but a lot is due to my childhood: the old ‘nature/nurture’ debate.

By the way, I am not really a lesbian. It is just that I tend to see everyone’s point of view. Well, isn’t that a good thing? You may ask. Up to a point, I suppose it is, but I end up not knowing who I truly am. Perhaps I am not truly anyone. I keep thinking of that man who said ‘We are that which others allow us to be’. I think that’s so true. Well it is for me, anyway.

I asked if I could do my ‘community service’ as a crossing patrol officer (lollipop lady). Like George did – for a bit. But they said it’s the school holidays just now. So I said – well can’t I practice until they go back to school? They said that I could, but it wouldn’t count as ‘hours’.
Stuff that. I’m not doing unpaid training – which is what it amounts to.

So they are going to put me working with the Parks and Gardens team. I protested that such work would wreak havoc with my nails. But they said I would be provided with gloves! Also a stout pair of boots, and waterproofs (they work outside in all weathers). Can you imagine me in boots and waterproofs! The indignity of it!

But if I don’t do it I go to jail. And as I said, I am not a lesbian – so pass me my spade.

Putting things behind me

Extract for the Cotswold Cryer – Monday, 06 August 2007.


NON-CUSTODIAL SENTENCE FOR LOCAL WOMAN.

As a result of last-minute dramatic plea-bargaining, the police withdrew the original charge of ‘Harbouring illegal immigrants’ and replaced it with the less serious charge of ‘Keeping a disorderly house’.

Mrs Georgina Turner pleaded guilty to this lesser charge.

In passing sentence, the judge, Mr Justice Quilt said:

‘I have taken into consideration the mitigating circumstances detailed by counsel for the defence, Mr Harry Sheene, and I do not think that, in this instance, a custodial sentence would serve any useful purpose. In my view, this woman is more ‘sinned against than sinned’. The court will have been moved – as indeed I have – by the tragic circumstances of this woman’s life, outlined by defence council.
Rejected as a baby by her natural mother, she has been dogged by misfortune throughout her life. A succession of foster homes – two of which were destroyed by fire – were unable to offer her the care and support to which every child has a right. Various positions of employment failed to provide job satisfaction; job satisfaction which would have given her the much-needed self-esteem she so valiantly sought. Instead she became the victim of sexual harassment and, in one instance, racial discrimination, whilst working for a firm of Rastafarian clog-makers.
Is it any wonder that, in an attempt to achieve some stability in her life, she accepted, at the tender age of 18 years, a proposal of marriage from a much older man. Clearly she saw in him a sort of father figure; a substitute for the father she never knew.

Her naivety, her trust, proved to be sadly misplaced. The man turned out to be a drunk, a womaniser and a chronic depressive who was unable to give her the love and affection for which she yearned. He is currently being held in a secure psychiatric hospital.
This vulnerable woman then got in with a ‘bad lot’. It is not for me to comment on matters that may form the basis of subsequent prosecutions, let alone name the people involved. I will just say that, in my view, she was taken advantage of by, shall we say, individuals with their own (dubious) agendas.

The judge said he hoped Mrs Turner would be able to re-build her life and become a useful member of the community and, to give her a start, so to speak, he was awarding her 118 hours community service.

Mrs Turner told our reporter: “I cannot say how relieved I am to know I can now put things behind me, and get on with my life. Once again, British justice has been seen to be the best in the world. No wonder these foreigners (no names no pack drill) come over here from countries where if you get into the back of a police car that is the last anyone sees of you. Anyway this has taught me a lesson. In future I shall only buy the ‘Big Issue’ from a man (or woman) with an English accent.”

She was then driven away by her defence counsel, for a champagne reception at The Jolly Pervert.

A confidential report

Wetherby here: Inspector Wetherby, West Brentshire Constabulary. It should have been CHIEF Inspector by now - but I wouldn’t join the Masons. It’s not just because I am a Roman Catholic – I’m well lapsed. Nor is it because I would feel ridiculous with my trouser leg rolled up and my breast bare – heaven knows, in my time I’ve … but never mind that now.
No, it is because I do not believe in secret societies, no matter how much they might further one’s career.

They talk about me in the station, you know. ‘He’s been passed over more times than the Red Sea’ – that’s what they say, behind my back. In fact that’s what caused the nervous breakdown: six weeks in a private clinic in Swindon – and I’m still not well. They tried to tell me I was suffering from ‘paranoia - aggravated by an unusually high alcohol consumption.’ Cheeky buggers.

But I digress. I have been given access to this blog by my dear friend (and, at the moment, unfortunately - prisoner) Georgina Turner.
Have you ever been in a police cell? It is not a pleasant experience – even I find it quite distressing when I have to visit occupants of the ‘lock-ups’ (as we call them) to help jog their memories.

Anyway, to ‘cut to the chase’ as they say, nowadays: Georgina has asked me to tell you that she is keeping up her spirits despite her parlous situation – and is optimistic of a favourable outcome. I am doing everything in my power to make her stay here as comfortable as possible: ensuring she has a supply of books, writing materials, fluffy lavatory paper… that sort of thing.

Naturally I am not at liberty (bad choice of words) to give you the details of the charges pending against my friend. But I can say that the most serious is to do with harbouring illegal immigrants. It’s a sore point these days: the government is fed up of getting a battering in the press every day. And that report of two of them working as cleaners in the Home Office - well, you can imagine the stink that caused. So we’ve got to make an example of somebody.

I don’t know what’s happening to our two ‘illegals’ – Immigration hauled them off to Paddington Green Maximum Security Facility. Well it’s all this terrorism scare isn’t it. Personally I don’t think these two are terrorists. The Swede, of course, I know quite well. I almost got to know her a lot better one night in Sainsbury’s car park, but a 999-call put paid to that. Truly, “A policeman’s lot is not a happy one.”

The other one – the German – looks like a Bader-Meinhof reject. If she’s a terrorist I’m a pantomime dame! (Actually I was a pantomime dame once – only an amateur production of course, but I got good reviews) Where was I….? Oh yes - the ‘firearm’ that all the fuss was about? Turned out to be a replica Luger, didn’t it - the sort you can buy down Chapman’s Arcade any day of the week. In fact I got one for my young nephew Timothy’s sixth birthday. He goes round ‘shooting’ everybody – bless him.

The fat woman: we’re doing her for assaulting a police officer: PC Williams. Actually, Tyrone is black and we thought we could have got her on a charge of racial abuse as well. But the CPS says No. Damn shame that.

As for that dopey lad (Sydney) and his girlfriend – we’re not even looking for them. Don’t tell anyone though.

But to get back to Georgina – which I am about to do when I’ve finished my mug of cocoa – I am sure she will be all right. She’s seeing her brief in the morning: Harry Sheene. He could get Stevie Wonder a driving licence!

There aren't many jokes in the Bible - have you noticed?


I have been advised that I should answer no questions. It is not right that I should have to give a complete case for myself until charges have been made and properly explained, and until there are other people around to check that questions put to me are fair and legal. I will say nothing until I am advised to do so by a fully qualified legal advisor.

Well, quite

"You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence."

Thursday, 19th July, 2007

EARLY MORNING -

LOUD KNOCKING -

NO NEED TO LOOK OUT WINDOW -

BUT I DO -

JAM SANDWICH CAR -

UNIFORMS -
I MAY BE GONE FOR SOME TIME .

A strange afternoon

AND ADVICE CAME - in a clerical collar, encircling the neck of the Reverend C. Harcourt-Burridge, or - as he likes to be called by his flock – ‘Cecil’. (Technically he doesn’t have a flock at the moment, the bishop having suspended him “pending an investigation.” He isn’t supposed to talk about it but it’s common currency in the Jolly Pervert) He called around three in the afternoon, on his way back from said pub. I could see he was tired and emotional: he fell over whilst trying to remove his cycle-clips.

He said he had come to see if he might borrow George’s snooker-cue: the tip having come off his own, and he had an important match that same evening. Actually, I think that was an excuse, and really he had called because he was in need of solace (and, truth to say, so was I). I said I would see if I could find the aforesaid snooker implement, and led him gently towards the sofa. He was asleep before I could remove his shoes.

Whilst my guest was sleeping I occupied myself with the Telegraph crossword. Having completed this in my usual 9 minutes, I turned to the front page. The main story was about that Bill failing to get through parliament: the one giving the police 90 days to hold terrorist suspects without bringing them to trial. I should jolly well think so, too! Why should the police be restricted to 90 days? They should be given an indefinite time (as, I understand, they have asked for) to keep people in the cells until they have enough evidence to ensure a conviction. And I would say to those pinko liberals, whingeing on about ‘civil liberties, the police don’t arrest people who are not guilty.

But wait a minute - they arrested me! Well ok, so they make the occasional mistake, but not about terrorists.

I woke Cecil up with a mug of black coffee, and told him about George’s letter.
He volunteered to drive me over to Swindleford himself. He advised against taking a room in the hospital, saying that the Star and Garter, in the town centre, had an excellent reputation for comfort and service; if I were agreeable, he would go on the Internet and see if he could book two rooms.

It is at times like this that one learns who one’s true friends are. I gladly accepted his kind offer, insisting of course that I pay for both rooms (and dinner) since he was giving so generously of his time. He demurred at first, and then reluctantly agreed. As he was leaving he asked if I might give him a small advance towards the cost of the petrol as he was waiting for a cheque to clear. I gave him twenty pounds, and he left by the back garden.

When he had gone, I poured myself a large gin and settled myself on the sofa – which was still warm. I fell asleep and had this dream.

I am in some kind of cathedral. It is beautiful but I have had enough of it, and am looking for the exit. The ‘cathedral’ is on several floors, with numerous corridors and rooms, and I cannot find the way out. Each route I try, each door I open leads on to another corridor or into another room.
I am getting a bit worried, when I meet George. He tells me to follow him – he knows the way out. I am sure that he does not, but I follow him anyway.
I suddenly find myself on a kind of balcony overlooking the knave, and down below George is talking to a man in a grey mackintosh. He shouts to me, excitedly ‘This is Mr…..’ and he seems to be pleading with the man to show us how to get out of the place.
When I get down the ‘man’ has become a tiny figure, lying on the floor, with arms and legs outstretched. I stamp on him viciously – again and again – and I flatten him, as if he were a rag doll.
Then I realise that this is a dream. I tell George and he says – yes, and I am in it to show you the way.
No – I say – but because it is a dream I can will the cathedral to disappear.
I make a real effort and the place just dissolves. It’s gone – I say. And I find that I am crying. But it isn’t with relief or happiness. Before me is a sort of grey industrial wasteland. In the distance I see old factories and derelict buildings.
And I realise I am still trapped.


Now what do you make of this? I think I may ask George about it when I visit him: he's got a diploma in 'therapeutic dreamwork', you know.

A matter of great import

I do not intend to be drawn by your scurrilous, comment, Mr Adams; all I will say is that it is typical of you to kick a girl when she is down.

But I have more important things to worry about. This morning, on coming downstairs, I found, lying on the mat amidst the final demands, an envelope in an all too familiar hand. It contained a letter, which I reproduce here, in full:


Dear Spouse

Since the mountain won’t come to Mahomet, then Mahomet must perforce come to the mountain, by the only means at his disposal, i.e. the written word.

We had haddock for tea last night and I thought of you. I am not implying that you look like a haddock – nor indeed smell like one. No, the question of your resemblance to such fish is not the issue here. It is the fact that haddock is the only thing I can remember you cooking for me – or at least, the only thing that was edible. The culinary arts were never your forte.

I am not lonely, but am disappointed that you have not been to visit. The nursing staff has changed since my last sojourn in Heartbreak Hotel: I now have a key-worker: Clarice, a dusky lady who hails fro Jamaica. She tells me I should visit Kingston, “A fine city.”

I was embarrassed, not to say dismayed to read about the unseemly goings-on at Wynorin. (I think we should change the name of the house!). Clarice smuggled me in a copy of the Cotswold Cryer and I could hardly believe what I was reading. Are you running some sort of coven? Are you a cult? Much as I deplore such activities, if you need a character witness at your trial you can count on me.

I would like you to visit me, as there is a matter of great import I wish to apprise you of. It is not something I can put in writing; let us just say that it concerns a certain lady psychiatrist whose first name begins with ‘A’.
I know it means a long bus ride but I can get you a room here for the night. I don’t mean in with us lunatics: they have a couple of rooms for visitors who have travelled a long way (and also who may wish to enjoy conjugal rights!!!).
What do you say?

I must close now, as Clarice is here to give me a hand massage. They look after your physical as well as your mental needs in here. I have been suffering severe arthritis in the fingers of my right hand - probably due to all the writing – and Clarice gives me a good seeing-to with the essential oils around this time in the afternoon.

Cheers

George

P.S. How are you?

Now what am I to do? Should I undertake the long bus journey? What can the ‘matter of great import’ be? Should I stay overnight?
All these – and other – questions are racing around in my head, befuddling my poor brain. I need some advice.

Where did we go wrong?

Getting born? - as George once suggested.
Why do we hurt others so much, when we don’t really want to? I think there are very few real villains; yes there are some, but not many. We hurt others through ignorance, carelessness, the need to survive, maybe – but not malice. We blunder through life and, as they say, “shit happens”.

George used to say he did not believe in ‘original sin’ “My sin is pretty unoriginal” he said. And he was right.

It was 8.30 when I awoke this morning. First decent night’s sleep I’ve had in ages – well, ever since… you know. I haven’t heard anything from the police; I suppose they are “pursuing various lines of enquiry”, like they say on television. Of course, we didn’t make the telly – I think we would have qualified for a 45-minute slot on a local newscast but the floods took all the airtime. Anyway, the local paper was bad enough. I don’t want to think about it. I’ve had an attack of piles! I’m sure it’s all the stress. Still, they feel better now, fingers crossed.

I think about George. It was unwise to start to look at bits of his writing. I should have just burned the lot. But as I say, it has been raining for days. The lawns are underneath two inches of water. George wasn’t much of a gardener – come to think of it, he wasn’t much of a ‘anything’ really. I don’t mean that in a nasty way. I mean he sort of dabbled in all sorts of stuff. A ‘Jack of all trades’, he spread himself too thinly. Here, I’m talking about him as if he were dead – which he definitely is not!

I would go and see him, only I hate hospitals – especially psychiatric hospitals. They tell you that you cannot ‘catch’ a mental illness. But how can they be so sure? I mean with all those crazy vibrations buzzing around, it’ like a force field? It could be potentially dangerous – like when you put your credit card down near a powerful magnet.

Which reminds me of the reason I need to see my husband: I am going broke, slowly but surely. (I have had no response to the stuff I advertised here – perhaps I should try eBay, except I don’t know how to work it.)
And here I am sitting on a wedge of money (the house) which I cannot get at because he needs to sign the necessary papers. I know he is supposed not to be able to make any decisions like that, but all the same I think I should pay him a visit. Of course I am concerned about his health, too.

I’ve always been concerned about his sanity. I’ve just come across something written on the back of an envelope:

“She had to have the doctor in the middle of the night. And in the morning she just had to have the postman”.

See what I mean?

I feel lonely. I know I am ALONE but you can be alone and not feel lonely. So why do I feel lonely? I wish you were here now, Anna.

The early years

I was a virgin when I met George. I thought he was. It turned out to be just incompetence. But I have to say he improved dramatically during our years together, came on by leaps and bounds, you might say. Of course he got in a bit of extra practice here and there.

He had his own view of marriage: he once said to me ‘The chains of matrimony are so heavy they require two to carry them – sometimes three’ I did not realise, at the time, that is was a quote he had picked up somewhere – as was so many of his pronouncements. But to give him his due, he did come up with some original stuff as well. And in the early years he made me laugh too. I can’t remember just when the laughing stopped.

He’d been married before, although only for three months. He described it as ‘a marriage of inconvenience’. But it had ‘spawned a sprog’ as George put it: the redoubtable Sydney; Syd was brought up by his mother, a crane-driver from Newcastle, with little or no help from his absentee father - although George always referred to him as ‘my boy’ (with the hint of a tear).

Of course I knew none of this, that Monday morning. Indeed it was quite a while before the story came out, in dribs and drabs, as our relationship blossomed. (I am not sure the word ‘blossomed’ is entirely appropriate in the context of George and me – let’s just say ‘grew’).

I mentioned how the staff at the medical centre had labelled George as a hypochondriac. He was, but he really did suffer from depression – as I was to find out, to my cost. I just didn’t know what to do when one of these bouts ‘descended’ (his word). I used to get the Hoover out. I find vacuuming so therapeutic in times of stress.

He said I never understood him, never understood his depression. And looking back, perhaps he was right. But it wasn’t my fault was it? He said he couldn’t help being depressed. Well, I couldn’t help not understanding depression.

Still, we jogged along. But jogging is not enough – is it? You need the occasional sprint. And sprinting was definitely lacking in our relationship.

I know I said I would not read this stuff I am throwing out, but I just turned over that sheet of A4 and found this written on the back:

My God’s bigger than your God

If the so-called ‘Holy Books’ (The Bible, The Koran, The Upanishads etc.) were just accepted as a distillation of human wisdom, gathered over the ages and in different parts of the world. And if we could drop the ‘Holy’ bit and empathise the human element we would be far more tolerant and receptive to change. We could also weed out the more dangerous precepts contained in these writings which arise out of fear – fear of a (non existent) supernatural deity.

We could disregard the commands of competing deities to go to war in their various names, to fight to prove which God is the most powerful, the more ‘right’.

And instead of ossifying these writings at a certain point in time, they could be continually updated in the light of new evidence, of increased wisdom. We might even make them available on the Internet, in interactive form.

Well, how’s that for another dollop of nonsense! There is no date on this piece of paper, so it could have been written any time. It might even have been written during the months he was shagging the Swede! So how can you attach any credibility to this high-flown philosophical stuff, when it is written by a man whose morals are so loose they are falling apart? “By their deeds, so shall ye know them.” – says the Good Book. And you can’t say fairer than that, can you?

I don’t know where he’d got the wheelchair from; it certainly wasn’t NHS issue. It looked like a relic of the First World War. And the man pushing it might have served in that same war.

The canvas and wood contraption creaked its way towards me, tacking from side to side like a yacht in a strong headwind, as one or other of the iron-spoke wheels gave out a protesting squeal.

When it reached the desk its occupant leaped nimbly out. ‘Morning – I’m George Turner. Am I too early?’

I was too stunned to tell him he was half an hour late for his ‘urgent’ appointment. I stared at the old gent who was hanging on to the handles of the wheelchair and seemed to be having trouble breathing. He was a funny colour and looked seconds away from cardiac arrest. ‘Are you alright?’ I enquired, anxiously.
George answered for him. ‘Henry? He’s right as rain. Fit as a fiddle. Never had a day’s illness in his life. That right Henry?’
Henry clearly had difficulty speaking.

‘Well, take a seat then’ I gave what I hoped was a caring, yet professional smile.
Henry sat down in the wheelchair.
‘No, no – you can’t sit there. I meant on the bench’. I gestured vaguely.
The old man beamed at me. He didn't seem to understand. A small queue was beginning to form, and I started to panic.

Marjorie came to my rescue. ‘That’s ok. I’ll put him in a corner where no one will fall over him’. And then, to George, ‘What’s with the wheelchair, George?’
‘My walking stick’s gone in for a service’ he replied.
Marjorie pulled a face.
‘Actually, I am suffering from planchafistitis he continued.
I looked blank,
‘Policeman’s foot’ said Marjorie. ‘Well, at least that’s a new one for you, George.’ And, without waiting for a reply, she hauled the wheelchair and its octogenarian occupant across the room to a place of safety, and I was now able to concentrate on the planchafistitis sufferer.

My first impression was of someone recently returned from a world cruise: tanned and fit. I had to admit that, although quite a bit older than me, he was attractive in a raffish sort of way. (In fact I was to tell him later – much later – that, with his Zapata moustache he reminded me of a successful Greek gun-runner. And he – much later still - was to remind me that this was the only time I had referred to him as ‘successful’).

But I am getting ahead of myself. On that Monday morning my only concern was to get this eccentric off my hands. ‘Take a seat please, Mr Turner, and wait for Doctor Shiva to buzz.’
‘Call me George,’ he said, ‘everybody does’. And he leered at me, before going to sit next to a young single mum, and striking up a conversation with her toddler before his bum had hit the seat.

But I did know. Or I should have known – after that first encounter.
I was twenty-one, and had just got a job as part-time receptionist at the Barnfield Medical Centre. One Monday morning I got a phone call from this maniac. I can still remember the conversation, almost word for word:

Maniac: I want to make an appointment with Dr Plankton.
Me: Dr Plankton is on holiday. Is it urgent?
Maniac: Matter of life and death.
Me: (alarmed) I could fit you in with Dr. Doboman?
Maniac: No – we don’t get on. The man’s a fool. What about the old Irish Biddy? She
seems to know her onions.
Me:(coolly) If you mean Dr O’Mara, she has left the practice. (pause while I scan the vdu)
I see that Dr Shiva has had a cancellation – if you could get here for ten o clock?
Maniac: Well, ok – providing you can supply an interpreter.
Me: I beg your pardon.
Maniac: Only joking, love – see you at ten. By the way, you’re new aren’t you?
What's your name?
Me; (startled) Georgina
Maniac: Well, talk about coincidence! I’m GEORGE – George Turner. Although actually,
I don’t believe in coincidence; I favour Jung’s synchronicity. Something has
brought us together this Monday morning.
Me: (trying to regain control of the situation) Well, ten o clock then, Mr Turner?
Maniac: I can’t wait – Georgina!

As I put the phone down I could see Marjorie, the other receptionist, giving me this funny look.
'What' I said.
‘Turner? George Turner?' her eyebrows raised.
'Yes, why? Do you know him?'
She gave a tired smile. 'We all know him, love. George is our resident hypochondriac.'
‘But he said it was a matter of life and death’ I protested weakly.
‘He usually does, love – and it’s always some vague ache or pain – or depression. Just wait – you’ll see.’

He turned up, half an hour late – in a wheelchair.

I’m burning all his ‘writings’: diaries, journals, notebooks, letters, short stories, plays, unfinished novels, loose sheets of paper filled with his scrawly handwriting – the lot. A big bonfire in the garden. A conflagration. And I shall dance around the flames, naked.

Or, I will do when it stops raining. It has been the wettest July on record. People flooded out of their homes. Furniture floating down the street. What a mess.
Of course, they’re blaming global warming. Global warming my arse! It’s a design fault. I mean, what can you expect when you create a world in seven days? You’ve got to cut corners. I bet that was the real story behind old Noah and the flood: inadequate drainage provision!

Six bin-bags of his stuff, I’ve got. Here in the kitchen. Waiting for the water level to go down in the garden. I don’t read it. Just shovel it into the bags. Well, I tell a lie – I do read the odd (‘odd’ being the operative word – no wonder he’s locked up) bit that catches my eye.

I found this written in longhand, on a sheet of A4:

Behaviour is ‘right’ or ‘wrong’ only in relation to a desired outcome. For example: applying the front brake to my motorcycle, when banked over, cornering at speed, is only ‘wrong’ if my desired outcome is to stay on the bike. If I want to fall off it is the ‘right’ thing to do.

Most people can see this easily enough but when it comes to morals, religion, ethics the issue becomes cloudy. But it is only cloudy to those who refuse to think.

A desired outcome may be the adherence to a set of rules we choose to call ‘morals’ or to a code of practice called ‘religion’. ‘Morality’ usually means the set of rules the majority choose to adhere to (or rather to profess to adhere to). Religions (the many and various – and often conflicting) are just systems of rules with the added benefit (?)of a supernatural dimension: the backing of a higher authority, usually called ‘God’.

So on what basis can we work out a system of rules that will help us to be happier, more fulfilled, more able to live in peace and harmony? The key phrase here is ‘work out’ – not the uncritical acceptance of ‘the word of God’ as interpreted by a Moses or a Mohammed or their priests down the years.

If we accept the theory of evolution then surely we should strive for behaviour that favours the continuance of this process. This means having the courage to cut loose from supernatural saviours. A good motto might be ‘Don’t blame God, he wasn’t there’
Accept that reason is a better bet that faith. That science is a better way of finding out about the world than reading ‘holy books’ - science, as John Diamond says in this book ‘Snake Oil’ being about ‘…trying things out to see what happens, and discovering that those things which happen over and over again are true’.

I happen to think this is a good way to live. And that such a practice is more likely to lead to tolerance, cooperation and harmony in the world than blindly following some faith or dogma merely because it has been handed down over the centuries.

You hear people prating on about the ‘fact’ that the world is in such a state because we have ‘strayed from the path’, discarded religion, rejected the teachings of Go. Well if this religion (pick your own variety) was so good, why would we want to discard it? Religion has had a few thousand years to sort things out – it clearly hasn’t done so. It’s time to try something else.
What a load of pernicious bullshit.

I mean, we all know right from wrong, don’t we? It is something we learn at our mother’s breast. Well, in my case bottle. Mother did not believe in breast- feeding. Said it would ruin her figure. She was in the chorus line: The Bluebell Girls.
I’m not saying I had an unhappy childhood: disturbing is a more accurate description. My adolescence was worse. That was why I married George at such a young age (me, not him) to get away from it all.

Little did I know…

I AM UNDONE

They say things always look better in the morning - except sunsets. Well, things looked a bloody site worse the following morning, when I read the report in the Cotswold Crier.

POLICE SWOOP IN FARTING ON THE HUMP

Police were, last night, called to an address in the sleepy Cotswold hamlet of Farting on the Hump. On arrival, after assessing the situation, armed backup was requested.

Neighbours in this usually peaceful backwater of rural England were woken from their beds by ‘the sound of racing motorcycle engines, shouting and swearing, the crash of breaking glass, and, at least one gunshot.’ according to Mrs E. T. Pyle of ‘The Old Forge’.

She told our reporter that she had only just got to sleep after a lengthy and strenuous session of Tai Chi with husband Arthur. Upon drawing back the bedroom curtains, she was greeted by ‘a site I would never thought to have witnessed in Lummock Lane: the road was full of policemen in those black jackets and baseball caps, like you see on the television. There were blue lights flashing all over the place from all the police-cars and vans. A fat man (or it may have been a woman, it was hard to tell from that distance and in the dark) appeared to be handcuffed to the handlebars of a motorcycle combination. She was shouting abuse at an officer who was sitting on the kerbside holding his head. The fat man/woman was using words I have never heard in all my years I service in the WRENS..

A young woman (very tall) was being wrestled into the police van. She was shouting “Fascist Swine” in what sounded like a Scandinavian accent. Then I saw another woman being led out of the house by two Policemen with machine guns. This woman was singing loudly – in German. Having spent two happy years in the naval port of Hamburg I immediately recognised that stirring anthem of the Nazi Party – the Horst Wessel song. I started to sing along – only to be called back to bed by my husband. I don’t remember any more.’

The police have refused to make any comment except to say that they would like to interview Sydney Turner (son of the absentee owner of the property, Mr George Turner, author and local eccentric, currently residing in St Botolph’s Psychiatric Hospital.) Mr Turner junior was allegedly seen leaving the house by the rear garden gate, in the company of a young woman. Police will not give the name of the witness to this sighting but this newspaper has reason to believe it was a Mr Alf Perkins, returning from one of his nightly patrols in Bramley Bottoms. As a leading member of the local ‘Home Watch’ Alf regularly patrols these woods (haunt of courting couples) with his night-scope, looking for anything suspicious.

Police have, however, confirmed that Mrs Georgina Turner (estranged wife of George Turner) was arrested and later released on bail, pending further enquiries. Three other women – who the police are refusing to name – are being held in custody.


I am undone! I shall never again be able to hold my head up high in Farting on the Hump. And it’s all that man’s fault.

“That there’s some corner of a foreign field…”

Thank you Mr Adams for your – I am sure well intentioned – words of advice.

I would like to say, however, that I am prepared to go wherever I am sent, to fight for Queen and country – even in those inhospitable lands to the East. (If our young prince was ready to go to Iraq – though, in the end, he didn’t – I am sure I am.)

Anyway, Georgina says that the desert air would be good for my sinuses.

When I was a lad, Lawrence of Arabia was my hero. I can see him now (as portrayed by that fine actor, Peter O’Toole) racing across those sand dunes on the back of a camel. I would be honoured to follow in the hoof-prints of that great man. I shall not be found wanting.

I am reminded of those lines from the musical ‘White Horse Inn’

"Where the desert sand is
Nice and handy
I’ll be full of grit…"

NOW HEAR THIS

Let’s get one thing straight: I am not a transvestite. And I am certainly not a transsexual.

A transsexual is somebody who wants to BE the opposite sex to that which they were born. I do not want to be a woman. You would not catch me forking out £20,000 for some very painful surgery in a dubious clinic in Dubai. And anyway you can’t be sure it will be successful, can you. And if it wasn’t – then where would you be! Talk about not knowing your elbow from your arse… that would be the least of your worries.

And as for being a transvestite: that is someone who gets erotic pleasure from cross-dressing. I do not get any erotic pleasure from dressing as a woman - well, hardly any.

Why do I do it, then?

Well it is not because I am effeminate. I could have joined the Marines, you know. I passed all the tests. But then it occurred to me that I might have to kill someone! I couldn’t do that! I’d much prefer to discuss the matter in a civilised manner. I mean most things can be sorted out over a cup of tea – don’t you find? But then, I suppose that’s more the job of the diplomats than the Marines. And I failed the Civil Service examination. Well no, that’s not true: I passed the exam but failed the interview. And you know why that was? I’ll tell you: it was because I had not been to a public school. (For the benefit of any foreign readers – for example Americans – our ‘public schools’ are actually private schools. And very elite private schools at that.) And believe me, the ‘old boys network’ is still going strong in this country.

And that brings me nicely to why I do dress as a woman: it is a protest: a protest at the unfairness of everything. You don’t choose the family you are going to be born into. We are thrust arbitrarily into this world, without so much as a ‘by you leave’, ‘kiss me Hardy’, ‘Mind the step’ – and have a set of genitalia thrust upon us, which we did not choose. And so we are forced into a gender role. Well, I am protesting against this ‘luck of the draw’ stereotyping.

I dress as a woman to show that I can do so – if I choose. Because choice is what it is all about. Of course I do not don the attire of the female sex every day: it depends upon how I feel. I mean, I may wake up one morning and think: what a lovely sunny day. I do not wish to be constrained by trousers – I shall wear a dress. Having so decided, it seems obvious to complete the ensemble, including shoes, wig, make up, nail varnish (I have lovely nails).

Equal opportunity is the watchword. And in pursuance of this I insisted on being allowed to join the Sisterhood. The only person to vote against my acceptance was my dear old step-mum. There’s a family loyalty for you! Of course, she is mad at my dad for going mad. But that’s not my fault is it?

I’ve been thinking: I may re-apply for the Marines. The uniform would really suit me.

I am painting toe-nails when Georgina – sorry Charlie - rushes in to confront with the news of Sydney.

So startled am I that I knock over nail varnish onto foot of Greta.
‘DUMKOPF’ she is bellowing in such powerful German voice, which is sending shivers up Swedish spine.

It is my turn on toe-nail painting roster (how can you have word meaning ‘male chicken’ which is also meaning list of what to do and when to do it? – stupid English language!) but I say to Norah, who is waiting next in line with stockings already removed, ‘You will have to hold your spit, girl, whilst I get my head around this turning of events.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I am great believer in sanctimony of marriage, but this marriage of which I have been a part, in a sense, is the absolute pants. And when I am thinking of that poor boy which is turning into transvestite right under our very noses and behind our backs, because of the absolute crappy parenting – well I am getting so mad.

I could see how confused he was what with the shitty role models he had. That is why I am helping this adolescent boy by filling his sexual proclivities on all those rainy afternoons. Well now the swallow has come home to roost, as they say. Flown back on the nest of his dear mama – who has now come out as lesbian. What a bummer eh!

But what am I going to tell his father, when visiting him in psycho ward? George is already unstable: such news might send him off rocker completely. Frankly I am feeling out of my depth, which is unusual for me, being such tall person.

Meantime I feel it my duty to help lad regain rightful sexuality; not that there is anything wrong with being transvestite (don’t want Beaumont Society on my tail – joke) in fact I have been helping him with make-up and advising on shoes, so he don’t walk like hooker after hard night.

Anyway, enough cogitating (new word I learn) for now. We are expecting 'surprise' visit from Myra person, plus her sink-estate companion whose name I am forgetting. Georgina – bugger! I mean CHARLIE – has ordered house on red alert. All leave cancelled. I am to be posted in attic as ‘look-out’. I ask if Sydney (Cyd) can keep me company, but his mother say ‘not on your nellie’ – which I believe to be quaint English euphonium meaning ‘fuck off’.

Ah well, 'Let's get once more into the breeches' as your Shakespeare would have it.

A FAMILLY IN TURMOIL

I’ve tried! God knows I’ve tried. But just when you think things can’t get any worse – they do, with a vengeance.

Guess who landed on my doorstep yesterday? Sydney, my stepson. George’s son by his first wife.

I hardly recognised him. And not just because he had shaved his beard off: no, it was the white stilettos, miniskirt and red top (not his colour at all) – plus the blond wig.

I have always known was a cross-dresser - he used to steal items of my wardrobe when he was 14 years old, but it was just the odd bra, a pair of panties, that sort of thing - but to be suddenly faced with this apparition­ – this affront to femininity, this togged-up transvestite disgracing my portal… well, I almost fainted.

‘You’re looking a bit pale, mummy’ leered this juvenile pantomime dame.

‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ I enquired, politely.

Well, it seems he had had a blazing row with thingy, his partner the drama student. He said it was over Bertolt Brecht. I thought at first she was having an affair with one of those Polish illegal immigrants that somehow find their way into our institutions of learning. But no – this Bertolt is some kind of playwright. And they almost came to blows during a heated discussion concerning the sub-plot of ‘MUTTER COURAGE UND IHRE KINDER’ which is apparently some ancient black and white film this geezer made.

Anyway, she threw him out and that’s how he landed on my doorstep. Said he’d nowhere else to go.

‘Well you can just bugger off, you painted hussy’ I advised him.

He said he was entitled to live here, as this was the family home – even though his dear old dad was no longer in residence.

When I told him that ‘Wynorin’ was now the headquarters of a militant feminist pressure group – you won’t believe this – he said he wanted to join!! Well, as you can imagine, I was appalled, but since the Sisters constitution requires that ALL applications for membership be considered at full committee level, I had no choice but to convene a meeting and put Sydney’s application before the group. To my surprise, the vote was three to one in favour. My stepson is now a full member of ‘Sisters Under The Duvet’ and from henceforth wishes to be known as Cyd (as a boy he had a crush on the American film star Cyd Charise).

Oh and Cyd – cheeky sod - has asked that he/she be allowed to introduce himself/herself on the blog, so you may expect to hear from our new member shortly.

I blame his father for Sydney’s sexual ambiguity. George did not know who he was half the time – talk about ‘Jekyll and Hyde’. And the other person I blame – and I am sorry to say this of one of our Sisters – is Anna: I am afraid we left him in her hands on two many occasions when she was our so-called ‘au pair’. Swedish massage may be very invigorating but I think that one needs to be careful not to overdo things, with a growing (and impressionable) youth.

Still that cannot be helped now. I have more to think about, what with the threats from that awful Myra person and her sink-estate sidekick. I have already had to restrain Greta: I caught her oiling her Luger and muttering something about the ‘Night of the Long Knives.’

Honestly, I sometimes wish I had done as mother advised, and entered a convent.

When in Rome...

I am worried about Georgie.

He is big strong man. How can he be doing in his back with the piddling little ‘occupational therapy’? That is what I would like to know.

I am thinking has he been put on the ‘hard labour’? As is category of punishment doled out by courts in your behind the times, uncivilised country, for which I am glad I do not have work permit.

You British, you think you bring civilisation to whole world. Rowlocks! is what I say. You send missionaries out to Africa and India and such places what are minding their own business, and get poor natives to cover themselves up because of your Puritan beliefs, while at the same time you are oppressive of them and steal their wealth while calling them Johnny Foreigner. And then you wonder why you get British heads chopped off up the Congo.

We in Sweden are far ahead of you in civilisation stakes. We are not ruled by gang of inbred aristocratics with the receding chin and hooked nose, and the silly secret societies of the moronic lodges with the rolled-up trouser legs and the baring of chest, and funny handshakes.
We are having true democracy in secularised society.

And you treat women abdominally! They like the secondary class citizen when it comes to getting top jobs and that. Why, for example, is no woman Archbishop of Canterbury? Or York? Not that I would want job like that – even if I had work permit. What you call clergy I say bunch of weirdos in funny hats and cloaks, chanting in ancient languages what nobody understand, and swinging incense bottle on string. What’s all that about?

Maybe is why you English so repressed where sex is concerned. So mentally unhealthy: anally retentive and worse.

Getting back to get back to Georgie – say what you like but he is not bad guy, even though we have had our downs and ups. I remember how he took me into his house and gave me bed and board, in return for only household tasks - and sometimes personal attention.

And I say to Georgina – sorry, I mean CHARLIE – it is not right to be advertising his things like this. But she say, we cannot be storing all that junk, we need room for our seminals and sleep-overs and training and that, as our movement grows. Sisterhood (under the duvet) aims to bring changes like of the which you never did dream. Even though we do attract some right nutters (no names). United we stand, together we fall.

I agree with her but I manage to save his collection of ‘self-help’ books (37 of them) which I put in Adidas training bag to take with me when I go visit him in loony bin.

It is getting dark. Soon be time to light joss-sticks and sit in circle holding hands and making Omm noise. Oh well… when in Rome, bring it on – that’s what I say.

GEORGE - BULLETIN

I understand from Dr Foggatty that George has suffered a bit of a trauma.

It seems he woke in the night with severe back pain, got out of bed, fell down and couldn’t get up.

A paramedic was eventually called, who examined him, there on the floor, and said that a large muscle was in spasm. And when that happened the pain could be excruciating. He was given Ibuprofen and Paracetomol and will see a doctor today.

If you ask me, he’s been overdoing the ‘occupational therapy’ – probably trying to impress Janet, the instructor. It would be just like him.

The chance to grab a bargain

The following items will shortly be offered on eBay:

Gents ‘vintage’ racing bicycle (‘Tour de France) colour orange (c/w gel saddle)

Collection of old 78 jazz records (one of two warped – but still playable)

Video of Hitler’s Speeches

Back issues of ‘Fetish Monthly’ Numbers 17-98 (Note – crosswords have been completed)

Several lengths of good quality rope. May suit boat owner.

Pair of walking boots – need a clean

Book ‘A Beginner’s Guide to Oxyacetylene Welding'

30 ‘aircraft plates’ (‘Coalport’ fine bone china) Never been out of boxes

Fencing mask.

Window-cleaner’s ladder.

Gents’ shirts (assorted colours – except white) collar size 16

Gents’ trousers – various styles – sizes from 32 to 38 waist – some stains

Pair of binoculars (slight dent)

Flying model aeroplane (engine missing)

Rubber hose (appx 3 metres)

World War II gas mask (collector’s item)

The complete poems of Walter Thrugg. (signed by author)

Electric toothbrush (3 brushes – slightly worn)

Book ‘The future of rocket weaponry’ by Werner von Braun (several pages have singeing at the edges but all the text (German) is readable)

Anyone wishing to make an early bid should contact Greta our secretary (hon)