Sunday, September 30, 2007

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

Wednesday, September 26, 2007

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.)

Wednesday, September 19, 2007

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.

Friday, September 14, 2007

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.