GENESIS II

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In the Beginning was the End. And in the End was the Beginning. And there was no end to the Beginning, nor yet was there any beginning to the End. For the Beginning was the End. And the End was the Beginning. Beginning and End were as one. And there was no separation between the two. And it was right that it was so.

Then, from out of the darkness of the void, from the very heart of that great nothingness, there arose a mighty whirlwind: a vortex from which did spring Gravity. And this force, this Gravity, did cause the bending of Space. The very Space in which did exist Beginning and End

And the bending of this Space did cause Beginning and End to be rent asunder. And, from this split, this tear, was born, Time. And the infant Time did grow. And as he grew he pushed Beginning and End further and further apart. Until it was as if they had never been one.

And thus was born Separateness.



(to be continued)

In the family way

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He’s breached the conditions of the injunction – Hector, I mean: he wasn’t supposed to go within 2 miles of old thingy - his partner, or whatever.

He was so agitated on the phone I could scarcely make out what he was going on about. I thought he said he’d gone round to get his jig-saw. ‘I didn’t know you were into woodwork’ I interjected.
‘No, you fool – I mean my jigsaw puzzle. It’s a picture of Tower Bridge - 1000 pieces, and I’d only got the sky to do.’

Anyway, when he got there he discovered that thingy had broken it up and shoved all the pieces back in the box. Said she wanted to use the dining room table as her family was coming to tea.

Hector went berserk. Well, wouldn’t you, if you’d only got the sky to do?
Anyway, she rang the police, and four coppers came round and dragged him off to the station. He was allowed one phone call, so he rang me.
‘Why ME?’ I expostulated. (We haven’t spoken since that business with the Swedish tart.)

He only wanted me to go round and bail him out! It’s a good 40 miles, and anyway, police stations bring on my Irritable Bowel Syndrome. And like I said, he’s not my real brother: I don’t know who his father is – and neither did my mother.

I’ll go though, I suppose. Don’t know why. Bit of a soft touch, I suppose.

You know, you get more trouble from your own family than you do from strangers. You are 85% more likely to be assaulted by a member of your own family than a stranger – now isn’t that a sad statistic? Also, the two most dangerous rooms in the house are the kitchen and the bedroom. Talk about ‘safe sex’… if you don’t go one way, you go the other.

Do they still sell tripe by the yard?

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It sounds like Kabul out there tonight: bonfire night, a peculiarly English festival, when we celebrate Guy Fawkes almost succeeding in blowing up the Houses of Parliament. If he really had succeeded we would probably celebrate for a whole week.

I have told Gwen to keep Miles indoors. Not that she needs telling – he almost never goes out. And when she takes him for a walk he has to be muzzled: he’ll go for anything that moves. I suggested she donate him to a zoo. But she wouldn’t hear of it.

Talking of fireworks: I think the kids round here must have a supplier in the SAS: what I can hear, as I type this, are not bangs but explosions. Of course they have too much money (the kids, not the SAS). When I was a lad things were different. If our dad was in work – and he mostly wasn’t – our mam would say: you can have a firework this year. And she would take me down to the local grocer and allow me to choose one firework out of a big tub. I usually chose a rocket – because I dreamt of going to the moon one day. The other kids would laugh at me, and say: don’t be daft, the moon is made of green cheese. But how wrong they were. I hated Grammar School.

Our grocer’s was called Nevins, and I used to pass it every day as I walked to school (no school-runs in 4x4s in them days). The door was always open in the summer, and I loved the smell of the sawdust on the wooden floor. And they had a huge ginger cat that was always sitting on the counter, next to the bacon-slicer.

I was thinking – in fact I said to Gwen – that this country, this nation of ours, started going downhill when they began making shirts that buttoned all the way down the front. The shirts that I grew up in, you had to pull them over your head because you only had about four buttons – the rest was all shirt.

Of course we had no central heating. Just a coal fire in one room. And when it was time for bed you had to psyche yourself up and then dash up the stairs and jump straight into bed. The bedroom was an ice-box. In fact, Gwen’s fridge is a few degrees warmer than the room I used to sleep in throughout the winter.

In the summer the bedroom was so stuffy that I couldn’t sleep. I should have said ‘we’ couldn’t sleep, because fifteen people in a ‘two up – two down’ meant some sharing was necessary.

There was another reason I couldn’t sleep – but I don’t want to dwell on my childhood. In any case that is covered in my autobiography. Gwen suggested serialising it, here on this blog, but I don’t think that is a good idea.

Anyway, I have enough going on in the present. My brother, Hector (well, he's not really my brother) has been arrested again.

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times..."

Greetings to all Americans (and un-naturalised Americans) on this momentous day in your history - and therefore the history of the world.

I am not a political animal, but that lady from Alaska seems quite nice, and since her house is so close to Russia, perhaps it could be used as an embassy, and therefore save money.

It is 9.50pm here in Britain (which of course is the proper time), so I imagine you will all be sitting down to your evening meal: do you call it dinner? Or supper? (I am sure you do not call it ‘tea’)

Anyway, I guess it is all over now (the election), bar the shouting. And judging from what I have seen on the news, there will be plenty of shouting, whoever wins.

I have spent some time with my financial adviser today - A nice chap called Ron - about the possibility of raising (sorely needed) cash. Please don’t misunderstand me – I am not touting for food parcels or anything like that. But to go on living the lifestyle to which I am accustomed, I need money.

Nothing coming in from my writing, and Tony Blair seems to have cornered the market in lecture tours.

I have tried to discuss this state of fiscal disarray with Gwen, but she does not seem interested – as long as I go on paying the rent.

I have had a touch of the diarrhoea this evening. I don’t know whether this is caused by the uncertain financial situation or whether it is something I have eaten. There is a close connection between body and mind. (Have you read Deepak Chopra?).

Anyway, I have a large Grouse at my elbow. Not the bird – the whisky. I am hoping this will kill or cure.

I am not going to stay up all night to get the election results. I will force myself to wait until morning.

I have been thinking of getting a job, to ease the money situation – the problem is, I am over-qualified for almost everything. So what can I do?

Any suggestions (clean of course) would be welcome.

I have to go now, because one of the chores I have to do (in return for the little extras Gwen provides) is to wash the dog. ‘Miles’ is a cross between a Greyhound and a Rotweiler (have I spelt that right?) and so he is bloody hard to catch – and when you do catch him you wish you hadn’t.

Actually, I am a bit worried about Gwen’s relationship with that dog… Is it normal for a dog that size to sleep in your bed? And also, he farts.