Well, Georgie, tomorrow morning I am catching train for Goteborg and then ferry to Harwich.

Perhaps you will not see this because you are sabbaticalling - never mind.

Soon we shall, I hope, meet.

Your Anna

Sabbatical

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

Sorry for the delay, Anna.

Thank you for sharing the childhood stuff – sorry about Fritz.

No, there’s nothing wrong. But I am taking a short sabbatical.

Will you contact me (via the old blog) when you arrive in Purley, and give me a phone number where you can be reached?

Safe crossing.

Looking forward to our reunion.

Yours as ever,

George

Once again you do not replay to my post.

Is there something wrong?

Anna

Now, please look here, my Georgie. First you say that you like relationship what has no expectations but like is just accepting what happening and not seeking more and such, and then you saying you don’t know anything about Anna’s childhood background and we was not close because of it. Why for do you need these things? Why can we not just be two persons what meet like the ships in the night (except we come alongside and throw the lines to each other - to use the nautical terms) but also we can cast off (other nautical term) when one of us wish to sail on.

And how closer can two persons get than putting part of one person into other person – like for instance tongue.

Anna does not do families. Excepting to say father was sea captain from port of Hamburg (this where I learn nautical sayings). Also my name not Paulsen. But of what relevance is this. I only such this name because common in Sweden like your Smith. (They say hotel registers in place called Brighton full of Mr and Mrs Smiths, well similar hotels in Goteborg full of Mr and Mrs Paulsen). My real name not important – never has been to me.

Did not your Mr Shakespeare say that the rose which might be having other name is smelling just as sweet?

Why cannot peoples just accept what they got already?
Always the questions they are asking, one of the other. Who? When? What? Why?
Does not man Jesus say - Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof?
This I learn form young church attendance which I do not now attend because they talking load of bollocks. But Jesus is talking wisely. This why they bung him on cross, because he tell the buggers what they do not want to hear. Just like the scientist I talk about previous who speaks wisely about drugs. Of course they do not stick him on cross – they just sack him because this all they can do. But if in olden days they probably burn at stake which is quaint old English custom.

But let us talk of other things.

I cannot believe these Egyptian peoples are stoking locomotives with dead mummies. Is Georgie pulling the leg of Anna?

Such spooking tale of ten-year-old Georgie on operating table having the cotton wool stuffed up orifices. What reason is there for all this medical emergency? (I am amusing myself with humorous effect of Florence Nightingale – I know from history books this woman live in time of Crimea War which occurs before Georgie gets born)

I am glad you not mad about Winnie, and are approving of our arrangement.

When next do you go see crazy Scotch woman therapist? Do you tell her about Anna? If so, what do you tell? Do you say we just good friends (which is British hypocritical slang term meaning we are at it like rabbits – not like rabbits good people of Stockholm are shoving in heating furnace, eh? Little joke, not in the good taste but I leave it in anyway.)

You need to take care when feeding aviation creatures. Do you not see famous movie what is called THE BIRDS?

Many girls do not know who is their father. Anna do not know whom is mother. Being reared by aunt who is sea captain father’s sister. This is what they are telling me, but when home from sea voyage father sleep in same bedroom as sister. And in this bedroom is only one bed. Which is very unhealthy incest and bad roles model for Anna and Sven IF she really is sister, but I do not think she is.

But like I say I do not want to talk about this family shit. Sometimes best not to know too much about people, is what I say. Why not people just accept what they given on plate and not say - when I have eaten this will there be some more?

But it is not only I who am of such opinion. Do you know of famous Native American Indian lady singer who is called Buffy… something? I hear this lady on old black plastic records (from days before they invent CDs) of Olaf (pharmacist) which he play to me in back room after he close shop and we have quiet glass of gin.

And lines from this song are sticking in head because they are well telling my own feelings. She says –

“Don’t ask why of me,
Don’t ask how,
Don’t ask forever –
Love me, love me, now”

Do you know this song, Georgie? Because I think you are from same period in history as Olaf, only you are wearing better. Because Olaf like to experiment with chemical substances which he make in shop. I think this is why he change so quickly from nice man to nasty man – just like in story Mr Jekyll and Doctor Hyde.

I do not partake in these substances even though Olaf offering to me saying “Come Anna. Let us take trip together.” But I say bugger off you crazy chemist. And I just drink his gin. Which comes in bottle from London so I know is okay.

But this is like I am saying. Olaf has his needs, Anna has her needs. What is wrong with that? I am asking.
Of course Olaf and Anna do share certain needs, so this is good also.

Little brother Sven is clever one in my house. People say he will go far. He will make something of himself (I think he just make fool of himself but I keep quiet)
Anna is pretty, they say. What need has she of brains? But still, little Anna pass exams and go to good school – from where she get chucked out as I tell you previous because of activities with ice-hockey team.

Anyway she grow up with her prettiness and attract lots of boys who do not expect her to be smart – nor wish her to be smart. So to please them Anna is not smart. And when she grow up Anna similarly please men.

But all would do well to remember that even if one end of person’s body is most active, this does not mean other end is numb.

My best friend in early times of life is Fritz. Fritz is dog. German Shepherd of my aunt. It is to Fritz I tell all my troubles. And Fritz listens. Nobody has ever listened to Anna like Fritz listens. I cry when he is dies. Veterinary man say he will dispose of body but I beg aunt to bury Fritz in garden which she finally agree to do. Sven and me dig hole then wrap Fritz in large cloth, which once used as table cover, and lay him gently into hole. Later we plant bulbs on grave.
Fritz nourish these bulbs and in springtime flowers bloom on Fritz grave. And I look from bedroom window and see Fritz lives on, in flowers. Which is how things should be.

But I do not wish to talk of things which make me sad.

I now have money for train to Goteborg – Hoping they not bunging dead rabbits into firehole of train, eh? (This is joke because Swedish trains are latest technology of the electric and travel at immense pace). I need to earn some more money for ferry. This will not take Anna long. Perhaps four weeks at most.

So I am looking forward to seeing my Georgie. Everybody need something to look forward to – even if it never happen.

But our meeting WILL happen. This I know.

Your ever-loving Anna.

Oh, I just see comment from Mr Adams. Ignore this man. Do not seek bus-driving job. You already have many jobs. You are writer, poet, artist and much more.
Anyway, when Anna get there she keep you plenty busy, eh?

This and that

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

I am lying on a trolley thing. All I can see is the ceiling. I am in a corridor; there are lights in the roof. What a way to be spending Pancake Tuesday.
I am not afraid. I just feel a sort of detached curiosity. Of course they’ve given me some medicine to make me feel like this. But that’s fine by me.

Voices above my head. Female voices. Nurses.

“Do you think we should take him into theatre?”
“Oh, it’s cold in there.”
“Yes, but Mr Bennett-Jones doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
Crunch of tyres on gravel.
“He’s here.”

A face appears. Large and round. A man’s voice. Accusingly.
“Why didn’t your mother call the doctor earlier?”
“I don’t know.” I whisper, guiltily.

I am pushed through rubber flapping doors and lifted onto a table.
“We’ll just fasten these straps around you, so you won’t fall off.”
Fine by me. I am still in some happy drug-land. Until. A man – I see his face looming over me – places a large tea-strainer with a folded white handkerchief in the bottom over my nose and mouth.

Suddenly I’m choking. It’s like cotton wool is being stuffed up my nostrils and down my throat. I panic. I thresh about – or try to: the thoughtfully placed straps hold me firmly to the table.

A man’s voice commands. “Blow it out. Blow it out.”

Desperately I try to blow this awful stuff out of my moth. I hear my own breathing, louder and louder. Blowing, blowing. Everything is going dark. Then nothing.


But all this happened a long, long time ago? (The reason Mr Bennett-Jones was annoyed was that he had been dragged away from Florence Nightingale’s leaving “do”.)

Well, I’m really telling my therapist. She asked me to write down any event I could recall that I felt had a high level of stress or trauma – especially during childhood (I was ten years old at this time).

Anyway, I just thought I would ‘share it with you’ - as they say in the best therapy circles because I was thinking that I know so little about your childhood; in fact so little of your background at all. You just ‘appeared’ out of the blue, in response to my advert for an au pair. You said your surname was ‘Paulsen’; I never really believed you. But so what? You filled the bill in all respects. Still, I’ve often thought that although we have been intimate, we have never really been close. I mean at that deeper level. And it is to that level I would like to go.

I is our childhood that shapes us (you did mention that Sven had not had an easy life), and although we can change, I believe it is only when we understand and accept our past history. Only when we can say: “Yes, this did happen”, without seeking to apportion blame – on others or on ourselves – can we move on.

Now, about ‘Winnie’: yes it would have been nice if you had told me from the start that you had been communicating with him. I really would not have been angry; I am not angry now. I think the arrangements are most admirable: it will certainly save on hotel bills whilst in Purley.

And, as I told you, I have arranged accommodation for the two of us – when you eventually reach Swindon - but for now, I want to keep it a secret so that I can surprise my Anna.


Yesterday I was feeding the swans, and assorted fowl of air and water, and I could see that there were bullies, even in the avian world. This confirms my theory that there are only two classes of people: the good guys and the bad guys, (okay, call them ‘psychological types). And you find them in all groups, classes, cultures, from the tennis club to Al-Qaeda
It is a pity the good guys don’t wear white hats and the bad guys black, like in the old ‘B’ movies of my youth.

It makes things so complicated.
Of course, governments try to simplify it for us, and group them together conveniently so we know who we are supposed to fight (depending upon the political (economic) demands of the moment): Nation; Culture; Religion; Political Creed; Moral Principles; slice whichever way to achieve the desired end.

Oh, and about the ‘bunny burning’: I personally think it is a great idea – as you say ‘ecologically sound’. Did you know that in the late nineteenth century millions of human mummies were used as fuel for locomotives in Egypt? Wood and coal were scarce, but mummies were plentiful.

I say, I say, I say. Was Tutankhamen a mummy’s boy?
No. His mummy was too wrapped up in herself.
I don’t wish to know that – kindly leave the pyramid.I hope that isn’t racist.

I do believed there are national characteristics. But, are the British hypocrites?

Look how we “took up the white man’s burden’ in the nineteenth century (yes the same century the Egyptians were firing their locomotives with dead people).
Now, some may say that we became the ‘black man’s burden’, but that is a slur, based only on the benefit of hindsight. We exported our religion and civilization and all we asked in return was a bit of gold here, some iron ore there, a few diamonds – that sort of thing….

But I am not a political animal. Although I am an animal; let us not forget that. A member of a species of particularly clever monkeys: Homo sapiens. But, surely I am more than that… aren’t I? There is no evidence to suggest that I am.

Sometimes I get this weird feeling that my life is a novel. And I am reading through it, and I am up to this particular point in the story – but the end is already written. BUT THAT’S DAFT.

I do think Jung was right about the ‘collective conscious’, though. I dream a lot and sometimes (only sometimes) I feel I am tapping in to some larger ‘mind’, of which I am part. Perhaps dreams are a ‘portal’ to this larger mind. Like the wardrobe in C. S. Lewis’s story.

But what ever else it is, I think that Life is an enterprise in itself: a grand adventure, as Ronnie Laing said. And that it needs not other justification.

Sometimes I am acutely aware of my nose. I don’t mean that it’s big or anything (well, it might be a bit big – doesn’t spoil my looks though, eh, Anna). It’s just that it feels in need of wiping – when it doesn’t. I wonder why that is.

I was in Sticky last night. Borrowed the salt off a charming young lady. I had just one pint of bitter. I was depressed.

I think I need the company of a nubile
young woman – possibly of Swedish extraction.

Peccadillo. This I see from dictionary is minor sin. Well, I got a lot of these, except I do not believe in sin. Sin is invented by church to make us feel guilty. Talkers about sin are Pecksniffian people. I know this because of same page in dictionary what show peccadillo also show this other word, which I now know, and it means “affecting high moral principles in a hypocritical way”. Interesting is not it that these two words should appear on same page?

I am not saying you, my Georgie, are hypocritical – well not any more than normal Englishman (though you are not normal – which I am meaning in good way, not bad).

But you ask me why we in Sweden are burning rabbits. This is happening only in Stockholm where parks are swarming with the little buggers and so authorities have to have cull now and again. So why not put to good use dead bodies to run heating plant? This is sound ecology.

Anyway, at least rabbits are dead before burning – unlike some of people you English burn at the post because they spouting wrong religion or perhaps kick with left foot, and you do not do this to run heating plant because you do not have one in olden days. This what I mean about hypocritical English – they making snidey comments about “burning bunnies”, conveniently forgetting terrible history record of own ancestors. Not to mention abdominal way you kill that ancient king with the red-hot poker! So I won’t mention it.

Like also how you afraid to make legal the prostitution, instead pretend it is not happening until some nosey neighbours complaining about lowering district with tarty women walking up and down all night and putting themselves in danger. Whereas if you have licensed brothels with regular inspection and everything clean and women pay taxes like good citizens and not sneaking around park like common criminal which they are not, everybody would be happy.

Same as with drugs are you hypocritical, like your government sacks top scientist who speak truth of his studies and evidence and tell you tobacco and alcohol more dangerous drugs than the old wacky baccy and the ecstatic pills. But government not making any money out of these so they chuck him out and look for some other man who will find what they want him to find.

Do not think I am slogging off your country. You have some fine traditions - which I cannot think of at present time.

Some while ago Sven gives me mobile cell phone number of Winston which is only to be used in emergencies but I think I should try this number out in case comes an emergency and this is what I do, and so I have spoken to Winston and we have got along like the house which was on fire. So when you suggesting I come across I speak to Winston and he says he will be delightful to see me (he has been asking me for some time to visit) and I know nightclub for which he is bouncing person and it is called DISLOCATION. Also because he is such hard worker and good at frightening people so no trouble occurs in club, owners let him use back room as flat. This is very pleasant room says Winston with comfortable bed which he would let me use while he sleep on mattress behind bar because he respect my dignity.

So that is what I am wanting to tell you. Perhaps I should tell you before when I first talk to Winnie (as he lets me call him) but I didn’t so no point now in trying to back the horse in through the stable door what has already been closed.

I am longing to see you and therefore prepared to go to all these troublesome lengths which I am hoping you are appreciating.

I await with racing heart to hear you will still be loving me in all the ways you done before.

Anna

Off at a tangent

When I looked out the kitchen window this morning the duck’s head was in the middle of the path, again. I think it’s cats. That knock the head off. I’ve stuck it back on a couple of times but I think you probably need special glue for stone.

Anyway, come on Anna. Spit it out. It’s not like you to be coy. What have you done, you silly strumpet, that you think might make me ‘mad’? You know you can tell your Georgie. I am never surprised by anything you do. And I forgive you, in advance – for everything.
As long as you are well, that is all that matters to me. I can ignore your little peccadilloes.

You see, that’s the good thing about our relationship: neither us have any expectations. All relationships should be like that. If you have expectations you are setting yourself up for disappointment – or worse. People let you down. They can’t help it: they are human. So best not to expect them to be the way you think they should be. I have learnt this the hard way.

Talking of being let down, have you noticed how coffee always smells better than it tastes? Now why should that be? The aroma of fresh coffee promises so much; it is inevitable that the taste is a disappointment.


Oh, and whilst I remember, thanks for that piece about ‘The Waltons’. Yes, of course, I remember now. I must confess I am sometimes a bit lazy on the old research. No excuse. Slap on the wrist – or wherever takes your fancy, my Swedish siren.

I had my flu jab last week. Free of course on the National Health Service. I won’t do the joke about feeling a prick – but the nurse did hurt me this time. I told her so, too. She said, “ I have done 900 of these injections so I should be getting good at it by now.”
I didn’t quite know what to make of that, so I put my jacket on and left.

But I am going off at a tangent. That word ‘tangent’ reminds me of school geometry lessons, and Miss Hodge jabbing me in the ribs with that board rubbing-out thing – wooden it was – because I couldn’t do the problem on the board. She used to get you out to the front and make you stand looking at the blackboard (that’s not racist, is it?), and all the numbers and ‘figures’ would swim before my eyes, and my mind blanked out, and I wished the ancient wooden floor would collapse and send us all hurtling to our doom.
Those people who say school days are the happiest days of your life must have a bloody awful life.)

But I am being tangential again.

(I’ve suddenly had flash of déjà vu – I haven’t told you all this before, have I? You may find that I repeat myself from time to time – if I do, you must tell me.)

Glancing up from my typing, I see the family across the road returning from the supermarket, spilling out of the car, their arms full of plastic bags stuffed full of God knows what. I hope they haven’t been trying to buy booze because they have their fifteen-year-old daughter with them, and a lad of about ten. They go staggering up the drive like over-laden donkeys. The girl has a French stick, a yard long. At least I think it is a French stick. Not easy to discern from this distance. (I do have a good pair of binoculars, but it’s hardly worth the trouble of digging them out just to identify a French stick.)

I was thinking: the supermarket has replaced the church as the place to take the family on Sunday morning, (the Garden Centre comes into its own in the afternoon.)

Supermarkets! What happened to the old grocer’s shop? Like the one that we had in my village when I was a boy: sawdust on the wooden floor and a huge marmalade cat - it disappeared suddenly during the period of post-war rationing; my mother wouldn’t buy sausages for a month.

And Mr Hankinson, the ironmonger, in his brown overall. I used to love running errands to his wonderful Aladdin’s Cave of a shop that smelled of paraffin and candles: ten 1 inch nails in a paper bag; two sheets of sandpaper: one fine, one coarse; One six inch nail; a small tin of ‘scumble’ varnish; a pint of paraffin (bring your own bottle). I never knew why my mother needed all this stuff when she was baking.
(Ignore that last sentence, Anna: I put it in for “humorous effect”).

Where is that wonderful world now? All gone. Along with Diphtheria, Whooping Cough and National Service.

A bird staggers down the roof of Big Bill’s house. I don’t know his other name. I know his name is Bill, and he’s a big guy – so I call him Big Bill. Not to his face – I’ve never spoken to him.
I haven’t seen a bird stagger before. It looks drunk. But the roof is quite steep and is of tiles, not slate, (We’re not in Wales.), so there is a big overlap. Obviously this adds to a bird’s difficulty in negotiating the roof’s steep pitch.
I wonder what might be the evolutionary effect, on birds, of the gradual replacement of slate by tile as roofing material. Will natural selection favour those birds best adapted to the tiled roof?

But enough of this speculation.

Now, no more nonsense, my Scandinavian slapper (joking), I want a rapid reply telling me what this is all about.
Oh, and by the way, what’s all this about you lot burning rabbits to keep warm? I heard something on the news.


Just one incident in the life of George: I visited an osteopath (perhaps you call them chiropractor?) I’ve had trouble with my neck for a while. Anyway, it turned out that, like me, he was a drummer, so we had a pleasant chat about music. Then he broke my neck. Well, it sounded like that. He said I had 5 displaced vertebrae. I think he meant before he did that, rather than after.

Oh, and I have sorted out accommodation for us – so no worries on that score.

Your lover in waiting,

George

I have just seen the comment from the ‘French Lady’. She wasn’t trying to ‘correct’ but to enlighten.
I bet she’s a Buddhist.

Oh Georgie, it is with much amusement I read comment from French lady what correct you about Wal-Mart. (Usually you are receiving correction from Swedish ladies, eh? Not true. Just little joke, eh?)

Personally I do not give the bugger who own Wal-Mart shop, but expect you to be more over the ball on such detail. Especially since even we in Sweden see the lots of television programme about these people which is called ‘The Waltons’.

In these programmes Sam and family do not talk about famous shop, instead tv show them busy with hobby which is woodwork what they are into in big way. Maybe they do not talk shop because they do not wish to boast of success. They seem very humble folk – living in old house and always helping people who come to stay and such like. Perhaps these shopkeeping family are showing the good neighbourness that makes unnecessary the Health Service in America. But they got some bloody funny neighbours.

Anyway my Georgie, next time to be getting your factions right. Only joking – you can be make as many mistakes you like with Anna.

But now come to serious purpose to do with why I do not reply quickly, which is because I have a little confessional and not sure how to make. It is not a big one, just a teensy weensy one. Still, am hoping you will not be too hard when I tell you.

Before I tell you though I must be knowing you will not be mad at your Anna, which may be difficult if you not yet know what confessional is about. Just a clue I will give to you – it is to do with the place Purley.
I do not tell you lie – I just may have been bit ecumenical with truth.

Anyway look forward to hearing from you very quick pronto so that we may get this little matter out of our hair and our eventual meeting be free of skelingtons what are hanging in cupboard.

Loving you in all ways – looking forward to.

Anna

Come in SWEDEN

Where are YOU?

You usually reply quicker, Anna. Are you alright?

There have been no news reports of earthquakes or tsunamis in Sweden.

But you might have been knocked down by a bus (or a tram), and I would never know.

Sven hasn’t come back – has he?

You’re not on a ferry in the middle of the North Sea – are you? (I have not yet normalised my financial situation)

Please let me know you are well.

A worried George.

Social comment (a bit)

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

Yes, Anna, I was seeking the “humorous effect”. Better luck next time, eh?

But coincidentally, the day after I wrote that piece I found myself in ASDA - the nature of my purchases need not concern us here, suffice to say they did not include alcohol. Anyway, upon approaching the checkout, I smiled and said to the woman, “I’m afraid I do not have any ID”
She laughed and said, “Oh dear”.
I then told her about the reported case of the woman who was stopped from purchasing alcohol because she had her 17 year old son with her. The assistant said that she herself had been ‘reprimanded’ and had lost her bonus because, whilst on duty at the ‘self-checkout’, had failed to stop the teenage son of parents who were buying alcohol to actually put the notes into the machine himself.

I thought this was a bit much. I mean ‘reprimand’, okay, but to stop the woman’s bonus (I did not ask whether this was weekly, monthly or what) was harsh to say the least. But what struck me was the way she just accepted that that was the way things were.
And I thought of the directors of Wal-Mart and wondered what kind of bonuses they awarded themselves. Do they go in for ‘self-reprimands’? And do they punish themselves by stopping their own bonuses?

Once again, Anna, “It’s the rich what gets the pleasures/It’s the poor what gets the blame.” (Old cockney song).

It is only quite recently that I have come to understand how it is Economics (as interpreted and practised by Big Business) and not political ideology that shapes society- and runs the world. Yes, of course I have known this for a long time – but not really understood the implications.

But enough of this philosophising (do you remember how you used to say I had “philosopher’s fingers”?) Let us turn our minds to more personal matters.

Purley is indeed en route to Swindon from the port of Harwich – well, sort of. But the question occurs to me: how are you going to find Big Winston? I assume you do not have his home address, if indeed he has one; he may well sleep on the premises, doubling as night watchman.


Do you know the name of the nightclub at which he bounces? Or are you going to trawl downtown Purley late at night? If so, I am relieved that you do not drink alcohol but only still spring water - one needs to keep one’s wits about one in Purley.)

Still, you are a big girl now, and I am sure you know how to handle yourself.

I have been doing a spot of painting. No, not oil on canvass – Dulux on window frames. Actually I have painted in oils – and water colours, but I thought that I might be spreading my talents (as well as my paints) a little too thinly, so I have given this up, for the time being: it is still my ambition to do you in oils.

Looking forwards – as always – to hear from you.

Your George

You reply pronto, for which I am gratified. Thank you. And you will see that I am reciprocal also.

Yes, you are right.
I am not really interested in social doings of your little country because of having doings of my own life what is quite complicated enough
.
But, my darling, if it is bothering you then I read carefully what you are saying.

Such views you are expressing I think are not making any sense to me. For what can be wrong selling the alcohol to adult what has kid type person with her? What if she single mum like what goes on your Sticky place? Is she to leave small infant behind in house all by himself exposed to who knows what dangers in this crime-ridden country what you have. I read newspapers.

Surely is better bring baby toddler to supermarket, safe and warm in perambulator (also excellent place to store bottles of wine, vodka and other such boozy drinks to take to car.) Using such means she would not need bring trolley back to storage place in pouring rain like you have in England, leaving infant alone in car, so as could be snatched away by some sad woman what cannot have baby. This too, I read is happening often.

So how can you be agreeing with such nonsensical going on?

Then I think – wait just a minute, Anna. Perhaps Georgie is having the joke. Maybe this what English call the “irony” So I look up word in dictionary (M&S, half-price in sale) and it says “Irony – The expression of humour through the use of language which normally signifies the opposite, usually for humorous effect.”

Is it such humorous effect that you seek?

Now, my sweet, to more serious matters.

I am touched at your concern for Anna’s comfort and safety, and advice given regarding suitability of various types of truck for purpose of transportation from docks to Swindon. (Though I do not know why you think I might want be sniffing at certain type of vehicle. I would not go sniffing round any vehicle. I am not police dog what go searching for drugs)

Anyway, I look at England map and suddenly idea pops into head. The place Purley is on way from Harwich to Swindon! What luck! I could be killing same bird twice with one stone.

Remember I tell you Big Winston is residing in Purley? Well, Sven has talked often about me to his friend and he say he would love to meet me. And I have always found ethnic gentlemen from these warm and sunny lands of Jamaica very friendly, and generous with their affections. So why not do I pause journey and make acquaintances with this large man? We could be having coffee together at pavement cafe. Also Winston perhaps tell me what is happening to Sven since I have not heard from my brother for some time and fear he is rotting away in dungeon of Tower of London.

This place I would very much like sometime to visit with you – tower, not dungeon - and see beef eating men in funny costumes, also ravens what cannot leave tower until monarch is dead. Not just this but historical sights like big chopping block on which heads of wives removed by Henry Eight. Not himself of course – he have nothing against these women personally (unlike you with Georgina – though you don’t chop off her head… joke, ha. ha). No, they just get in the way of doing his job as monarch. Likewise is what Pope man is doing, so Henry give him and his church the chop. (This is metaphor, although perhaps Big H would really have like chop off papal head, but not worth journey to Italy – Henry is busy man.)

Did you know that Henry Eight was not always fat slob who has to have special horse to carry him (wonder how wives managed)? When young man, he was most handsome and write poetry and play banjo. Was on banjo that he compose famous hit ‘Greensleeves’, which is still played today – though not on banjo.

I learn all these things during short time I am at school (before I am getting expulsed over activities with professional ice hockey team – such happy memories.)

But I digress.

Can you tell me if Purley is this cockney place where they have own king and queen what sew millions of buttons on suits and dresses and go walk about streets and no one laugh at silly buggers because it is fine tradition going back to Magna Carter?

Also is this home of gangsters like the Kroy twins what are really lovable rogues, thieving from rich to help the poor like they was Robin Hood, only don’t live in forest? This Eastern End of London sounds most jolly place. Perhaps Big Winston could show me charming historical sites. For example - Blind Beggar public house – once used for shooting people - and gentlemen hairdressing salon of Sweeney Todd, who has nice sideline in meat pies. Such colourful folk are the cockney Eastern Enders. Fagin and Bill Sykes are made-up characters by Mr Dickens but I bet he knew such people only was afraid to use real names in case he coming out of gin-palace one night and catches mighty blow from cudgel around earole (cockney slang), removing head from shoulders and bringing early end to well paid book-writing job.

But listen to me going on about self. How are you keeping it up? You sound on more of up beat note recently. Perhaps therapist (even though Scotch woman) doing some good to you. I know you do not discuss things what you talk about with your therapist, and that is fine.

I am going now to have interview with bank manager. He is very pleasant and understanding man, who has helped Anna before as regards to money. Pity he smells - but I ask him leave window open.

Write soon and hoping to be quickly reunited (via Purley)

Anna

PS. I do not understand why you should be wishing to teach ancient relative such disgusting habit.

Cause for concern

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

Now then Anna, see how quickly I am replying to your post.

I did not realise you had such a tiring journey to come to England (my knowledge of the geography of Sweden is, to say the least, scant), and I feel privileged (and loved) to know that you will undertake such a long trek for me!

As regards accommodation: I would not want you to stay Chez Gwen.
Yes there are hotels in Swindon – some of them quite decent – and although (as you rightly say) I am broke, perhaps a little juggling with the old credit cards may provide the wherewithal: balance transfers and all that! I know this is just robbing Peter to pay Paul, but – what the hell.

Unfortunately I will not be able to meet you at Harwich (money again) but perhaps you could hitch a ride in one of the many lorries (trucks) travelling from the port? Try to avoid the Romanian and Latvian ones (little joke, eh?). But seriously, I would be most upset (not to mention being overwhelmed with guilt) if something happened to you on your way to see me.

The English drivers will know where Swindon is, and even if one cannot take you direct I am sure he will be able to drop you at some transport café where it will be possible to pick up a ‘connection’.
Oh, and do not wait to find a ‘Volvo’, there are many other fine trucks on our roads nowadays: Mercedes do a very nice range; Scania, Nissan and Fiat are not to be sniffed at. And of course the Anglo-Dutch DAF has a reputation second to none. Most will have a bed in the back of the cab where you could get your head down for a couple of hours, and since these modern trucks are automatic, or semi-automatic you should have an undisturbed sleep, and arrive fresh and invigorated.

I know I am probably trying to teach my grandmother to suck eggs, but your comfort and safety are of paramount importance to me.

Anyway, let me know what you think of this arrangement. Of course, when we have fixed dates etc I will give you instructions as to time and place of our meeting in Swindon. But let us not rush things. Our long awaited reunion is something to be savoured – n’est ce que pas?

Now you know I am not one for dwelling on the sadder aspects of our modern society, but I must tell you this. I heard something on the radio today about Morrisons (a supermarket) refusing to allow a woman to purchase alcohol because she had her seventeen year old daughter with her.

And, do you know, there were people ringing in to criticise this public- spirited company!

I say BRAVO MORRISONS. And BRAVO ASDA (now part of the –Wal-mart group, renowned for putting social responsibility before profit) for stopping a woman with a 20 year-old son who looked much younger and did not have any ID.
It is all very well his mother saying she will vouch for him, but you just cannot trust people. Incidentally, does not this reinforce the already strong case for a compulsory ID scheme to be brought in as quickly as possible? (Before Mr Brown loses the next election. That Cameron chap says he’s going to scrap it – fancy having a man like that in charge of the country!)

This admirable vigilance on the part of our supermarkets does not, however, go far enough. It is all very well, stopping a woman purchasing alcohol if she has her seventeen year old daughter with her, but what about those crafty women who leave their daughters outside the store? Isn’t it time these supermarkets had patrols in the car park? Just to make sure mummy is not going to hand the bottle of vodka to a trembling and shaking wreck of a teenager, clinging to the tailgate of a 4x4?

But it isn’t just teenage alcohol abuse that’s a problem: what about teenage obesity? I think supermarkets should refuse to sell food to people with fat kids. I know the mother may say, “Well, the chocolate gateaux is actually for me.” Oh yes – pull the other one, ducky. Leave your trolley where it is and bugger off – or I’ll call Security.

And there are other opportunities for supermarkets to use a bit of imagination. How about refusing to sell pork related products to anyone with a teenager who looks Jewish?

And what about Muslims? They’re not supposed to drink alcohol at all, are they? What’s Morrisons’ policy on that? I’d like to know.

There are cynics (‘malcontents’, I call them) who point to the aisles of beckoning booze, dazzlingly displayed, and say that if the supermarkets want to do something to discourage teenage alcohol-abuse why not stop selling the stuff altogether? These people just do not seem to understand: this would penalise those adults who want to abuse alcohol in a responsible way.

People are allowed to get away with far too much in this country. Next thing you know, they’ll be shouting for ‘free speech’

Oh, I have just discovered a pimple on my neck! Does this mean I am entering my second adolescence?

Anyway, my darling, I will look forward to hearing from you.

Yours, ever,

George.

(Oh, and thanks RJ for your comment – good editors are hard to come by these days.)

So. At last you write. Perhaps you have been too busy having time because you correspond with bus-driving writer in America? (I read Mr Adams comment). This is what I am wishing to know.
Do not think that I am jealous.

Are you not knowing how much your postings mean to me? Even though you now talk much about sticky bar, which does not sound right sort of place for you to be spending time in because is full of harlots and unmarried mothers what are probably looking for husband to support squalling kids – and give them more. Greedy buggers.
But you say you are making the change. I am with you on that one and will do all I can to help.

As regarding visitation of police force. Do I not tell you that you have nothing to worry about? This man Plankton is fool. (Did not you encounter this person before? Long time ago? Maybe I make mistake.) Anyway since you do not have in your possession the cd videos how can they prove anything? So if they invite you to police station to help them in their enquiries – do not go. But you do not need Anna to tell you that, eh?

As regarding you wish me to take ferry boat to enjoin you, I would very much like this. Even though is involving me in much time and expense.

For example, being long train ride (500km) across my country of Sweden to reach port of Goteborg (costing much money because in middle is bloody great lake of water what train has to be detouring around and therefore adding many kilometres to journey.)
And then to catch ferry boat and sail across stormy North Sea (with danger of chucking guts up over rail) to port of Harwich.

All this Anna will do to be with her Georgie. I am not minding to spend money (what I have earned by toil and sweat of my body) on these travelling expenses but am wondering how you plan to accommodate me when arriving on your shores?

You say landlady will not allow guests in room but anyway I would not want to accommodate myself in house of slovenly woman with filthy habit of washing undersides of herself in same bowl where she wash cabbage for the dinner. This is most unwholesome practice. Dirty bitch.

Do you have hotel in this place Swindon? If so do you have money for such hotel? I will have no further money having paid for transportation costs and you always are saying you are broken.

Please reply earliest.

Your loving Anna

An inspector calls

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

Wednesday, October 7th , 2009

In the House of the Sticky Carpets


The pint-drinking blonde is in again with her usual companion, a tall, morose looking man with a white goatee, and a bald head. Surely he cannot be her husband (she wears a wedding ring).

She looks lovely tonight; her long blonde hair hangs, clean and shiny, halfway down her back. And she is smartly dressed in a black skirt and frothy white blouse.
The two of them seem to be in here every night. Of course they may think the same about me, but they are usually here when I arrive, and still drinking when I leave.(and looking set for the night). Still, who am I to decide that one style of life is better than another? She has a most attractive smile – even though her face is a bit bloated, from the drink.

Tonight I have a pint of Campion’s fine bitter. Usually though I drink Kroenenborg lager.

Cricket is on the big plasma screen facing me. They have ‘Sky Sports’. I don’t like ‘Sky’ for some reason; I associate it with, acquisition, instant gratification, a chav lifestyle) I remember when I used to play cricket. My ambition was to play for my Lancashire (my county) and, of course, England. But somehow I never fitted it in; well, you can’t do everything, can you?

A thin, villainous looking woman has caught my eye a couple of times. I shall have to be careful. She is sitting at one of those high tables with the tall stools. The man she is with isn’t saying much; she is doing all the talking. He looks like one of those men for whom civilised discourse is not the communication of choice. As I say, I shall have to be careful.

I don’t really feel threatened in this place, though. I mean the clientele – some of them - are a desperate bunch, but the place has a sort of charged atmosphere: mobile phones, trainers, jeans, jogging bottoms, sweat shirts - any dress code is acceptable in this house. The women though – most of them young – are fashionably dressed, exquisitely made up, perfumed. Very nice.

There is a feeling of “All life is here”, as the News of the World” used to trumpet. I have been coming in here for over a year and have not yet been offered drugs - but who knows, tonight may be my lucky night! That’s a joke. I have sampled most things this wonderfully wicked life has to offer – but I am not interested in drugs (yes I know alcohol is a drug – but apart from that.)

I like this place; it has given me rest and shelter on many a fine evening. No one bothers me. I sit here quietly with my little notebook, writing away. Like a latter day Toulouse Lautrec (I know he sat in the Windmill in Paris, and sketched, whereas I sit in a pub – my favourite pub - in Swindon, and write) Actually I would like to take some candid photographs, a la Cartier Bresson – and, many years ago, I did take photos in pubs like this, but now I would probably be locked up.

Well you have to be so careful these days. And they have mums (most of them single) with prams, push- chairs, buggies and what not, and toddlers running around. So any lone male producing a camera is bound to be a paedophile.

There’s a couple over there, been sitting for ten minutes or so, not saying a word. They are, I would guess, in their thirties. Isn’t it sad when you have nothing to say to your partner – and at such a young age? What barren wilderness of silence stretches into their future? I often wonder about things like this.

This bitter is really good. It has just hit my legs, and I have that pleasantly woozy feeling. Not drunk - I never get drunk - just slightly anaesthetised,letting the frowsy, blowsy atmosphere wash gently over me, the sound of raucous voices a kind of pleasant background music.

Two small boys chase each other across the room and proceed to bash away at the buttons on the ‘games machine’ at the side of me. They don’t annoy me; I treat it as part of the ambience.

Largish, attractive lady in a full-length summery dress walks over to join a group in the corner. I watch her finish off a pint of lager and go to the ‘Ladies’

Look around, I wonder how many of these folk will appear on the ’Jeremy Kyle Show’ at some later date? Perhaps some already have. I am in no way patronising them; I admire their directness, openness, the fact that they ‘gulp’ at life instead of sipping.

I wonder what they think of the man with his little notebook, scribbling away in a corner. Do they know I am writing about them? I think not. They probably don’t give me a second thought.

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, like a commoner.

‘Summery dress’ walks past on her way back from the ‘Ladies’, rubbing her hands together. I catch a whiff of perfume. Nice.

A youth leans on the bar. He is wearing a T shirt and scarf – actually the ensemble looks quite stylish. He in conversation with a mature lady behind the bar (she looks like she might be the landlady: short and blonde, with an understated air of authority) Next to him, three men in their twenties – they look like they have come fresh from the building site – are talking, and laughing raucously. One seems to be the leader; he has tattoos all the way up one arm and a shoulder, and he has the sort of face you would not want to meet in a dark alley.

I don’t drink much: no more than a couple of pints – mostly just a pint and a half. I like the alcohol but I don’t like the hangover. So it is a question of balance. But you can be too balanced. You can only move forward by pushing yourself off balance, correcting it, and then pushing yourself off balance again; that’s the way we walk.

This rather handsome, middle-aged gent at one of the high tables to my left, has an attractive companion in a red and black squared dress. He keeps getting up to go outside and have a smoke – leaving her looking rather lonely. (I wouldn’t leave her to go out for a smoke – but I don’t smoke).

I was served, this evening, by the barmaid with the tattoo on her left breast (you can only see the top half of it). The miniature barmaid is also on duty; she can’t be more that 4’8” and can barely see over the top of the bar. But she is perfect in every detail.

Isn’t it strange how we look at things but don’t really see them? For example, I am looking at the cover of this notebook and have never really noticed the rich colours: the browns, the golds, the rich blue. I rub my fingers against the thick fabric, really feel it.

Alcohol is a great leveller; I’ve probably said this before, but no harm in repeating it. And surely there can be no harm in calling in here for a pint or so of the old ‘falling down liquid’ – as a one-time friend used to call it.

They didn’t have any plain crisps. I don’t like the flavoured sort. I bought a packet of ‘cheese and onion’. I was hungry; I’ve only had a bowl of soup today. Actually I am sitting quite near to the door to the kitchens -the place is crowded and I couldn’t get any other seat- and a pleasant aroma of curry wafts under my nostrils. But I am not going to buy a meal – got to watch the old pennies.

Oh, here come the two ‘business ladies’. I call them that: they are both wearing dark tailored suits, white shirts and sporting Gucci handbags. They seem to have identical hairstyles: short and blonde. In fact, they could be sisters. I’ve seen them in here a few times. They look a bit out of place but I think they may be friends of the management: the landlord (now there’s a strange character) usually comes and sits with them. They drink pints of Kroenenborg. I wonder if they are from the brewery. I don’t think so because they would drink the beer, wouldn’t they?

The landlord, now, he never serves behind the bar but just seems to prowl around the huge room, collecting glasses and talking to one or two of his regulars. A little man with a shaven head and glasses, he usually wears a grey sweat-shirt, jogging bottoms and trainers. He never smiles.

I feel pleasantly tired. I could go to sleep in here. I don’t think anyone would mind.

The above, Anna, is an extract from my journal. I thought I would share it with you so that you could get a glimpse of my world – well a cosy corner of it.

But there are changes I want to make. Sometimes change happens of its own accord. But I think it is better to initiate the change yourself. Take control

I have decided against a career as a shelf-stacker. And I never had any intention of driving a bus. I don’t know what I shall do next – but I will do something.




The police came round. Inspector Plankton – mob handed. He said “We are investigating the illegal importation of pornographic material, and I have reason to believe there may be some such material on these premises.”
He never mentioned Sven. When I asked him who had made such a preposterous allegation he just said, “We are acting on information received.” Anyway he brandished a search warrant and he and his merry men marched straight in.
Gwen was furious – at me, mainly.

Of course they found nothing. But as he was leaving, Plankton assured me that he would be back.
“And by the way,” he said, “Is that your car?”
“No,” interjected Gwen, “It’s mine.”
He seemed disappointed. “Well the tax disc is out of date.”
“Yes, I know.” Replied my landlady, icily, “I renewed it online and am waiting for the new disc – I suppose you know there is a postal dispute?”
“Nothing to do with me, madam – just make sure it is properly licensed before you take in on the road.”
And with another baleful stare at yours truly, he led his officers down the drive.

Anyway Anna. I can’t think of anything else to say, except that I hope you are well – and free of disease.

I’ve had an idea: why don’t you pop over on the old Stenna? We could snatch a few precious hours together.

Yours ever,

George

Oh, I don't mean to be picky, but Glasgow is not the capital of Scotland - it is Edinburgh

So I don't hear from you. Ok. So maybe you got other herrings to pickle?

Anna

Oh Georgie. I am getting such mixed up emotional feelings as I read your letter. I do not know if you are wanting to stop writing to your Anna. Surely this cannot be your intending? I am filled with a terrible sadness at such a thought.

You are sounding to me like your little brain problem (which you call the depression) is most severe at this time. Be hanging on in there, as you English peoples are saying.

I urge you utmost to reconsider the wisdom of lifting up the heavy boxes of iron made stuff such as fills the shelves of these Doing it yourself places - you may be giving yourself the hernia. This is very painful. I know this since Sven get himself in such condition - although not through lifting the heavy boxes. It was this unfortunate happenstance that decide him to change from being actor to director of movie.

Also I forbid you, if you love me, to not be taking up the occupation of Mr Adams, and driving the buses. This is not because of age – No. It may be satisfactory for Mr A to trundle bus along leafy Illinois lanes, taking kiddiwinkles to school, but not for my Georgie to drive these vehicles along jammed up little roads what Romans build when they only had the horses, and marching soldiery. Such roads not good for juggernaut lorries and trucks – especially when driven by crazy foreigners like what now come from Latvia and Romania, and other such careless places, and speed reckless along like there was no tomorrow – which probably will not be, for them.
This does not mean I am racist.

I know my Georgie is easily led – have I not been naughty girl and led him often myself (little joke). But this never mean getting mangled in road rage crash.

I think you are still in need of loving - an orgasm a day keep doctor away! But if you cannot be getting same at this time of being then make with the exercise what gets the endorphins going. For example briskly walking in fresh air. I would also suggest the swimming but your public swimbaths are full of unclean youth who urinate in water save getting out to go to lavatory. Lazy buggers.

Please consider carefully points I make, and do not be silly boy – else Anna will come over there and spank George.

(I think I come over anyway and do this, eh?)

Oh, I cannot find in dictionary word ‘apiligies’. Did you mean apologies?

Worrying for you.

Anna

Apoligies

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

My dear Anna

You are right. I have been most tardy in replying to your posts. It is just that sometimes I don’t know what to say: I feel overwhelmed by your exuberance, your zest for life. Don’t ever change.

And please don’t think I do not appreciate your letters – they cheer me up enormously. And yes, I do need to ‘get a grip’ and I wonder if I should be concentrating on that instead of doing all this writing.

I have always thought of myself as a writer (Optimist that I am), but what are words? Just symbols. You live life – I write about it. And maybe all my energy is being dissipated in thumping a computer’s keys, when I should be getting out there and doing it: Life I mean.

I was thinking: if I got my act together and found a place of my own, maybe took some sort of job - even if it is only stacking shelves in the local DIY store - I would feel as if I were doing something.
I admire Mr Adams for his bus driving. (Do they really spit so enthusiastically in America?)

I am sorry this reply is somewhat muted.

But don’t worry: I’ll dance again!

OH NO. You have Scotland person for therapist? This is terrible. These people are barbarians. This is why your ancestors build Great Wall of Hadrian to keep out these savages. This is what we are told in boring history lesson at school. Also we learn men often times wear skirts with something called ‘sporan’ which is furry pouch thing hanging at their crotch. I think this is because they are wanting to pretend they are women. Why they want to do this I do not know, because next thing they are running around fields tossing their cabers (big log). Such strange people.

When I was in England I meet one such Scotland person who come from capital of this rocky barren land, which is called Glasgow. I could not understand one word of what this person is saying. For all I know he could be the alien what has landed in space rocket ship.

Another thing about this dreadful place Glasgow – everybody has same name of Jimmy (all men I mean). This must be so confusing. Also I read in newspaper that they kiss by butting each other in face with top of head.
And you are telling me you have a person from such place as therapist!

What is it with you English that you employ so many people from backward countries in medical services? Is it because they will work cheaply (like Polish plumbers)?

If you not careful you becoming backwards country yourselves. When I read about these people what have been living in such squalor in Calais just hoping to stow away to England, I am thinking, are they crazy? Are they expecting to get jobs as doctors, or nurses or even therapists? Perhaps they not so crazy after all.

I am sorry you have head in whirl and that bitch of landlady is kicking of you. Though I do not understand about album and photo. This is not making sense to me.

I am also sorry Sven give your name to police but but do not be too hard on my brother,he has not had easy life. Also I think you exagerify danger of them finding you. You need to be more strong in yourself Georgie. You are right, it is humiliating to be always doing the ducking and the diving - you are not water fowl (little joke).

I am doing much to improve myself and have bought copy of this book by person called Roger what contains all different kinds of words which basically mean the same thing but which slightly different. This is called Thesaurus. It is brilliant. How one man can write such a book is
astounding me.

Also I have been reading Mr Adams writings (www.sparrowchat.wordpress.com - I think that is it) which is giving me a broader view, perspective, outlook, understanding, of the world and such goings on, like I am not getting from you. (not that I am critical of this)

And another thing, why is it always taking you so long to reply to my writing to you? It is almost a week since I write before I get a reply whereas I get my bum on seat and reply to you right away – or nearly right away depending what I have got on at time.

I am sorry to be sounding so tetchy, cross, irritable, annoyed, angry at you but it is that time of month… you know - when rent is due. I am no longer living in my home town which is the beautiful city of Stockholm (although you never ask) because the cost of the living is so high and cause me to move to smaller town of Nynashamn which is fishing port and so plenty of sailors. I have understanding with person who own flat (which is over bakery) who is named Petar, and we usually able to come to some agreement about rent if things are difficult for me, being no longer in adult movie business as I told you.

I have not yet had time to try laying hen on its side to see if it looks like map of Australia, though why this is important to you I know not.

I think that perhaps you are needing to get a grip upon yourself – if you will pardon me for saying so.

Anyway I still love you and I too am wishing I was there to comfort you. Maybe soon, eh?

Always your Anna

"Another suitcase in another hall"?

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

Did you know that if you lay a hen on the ground it looks like a map of Australia? You have to turn it through 180% and lose the legs, but it really does. Now I think this is more than just coincidence, but I must leave this interesting line of study for the moment

Oh, Anna, what am I going to do? I know the police are not very bright but after that little incident at Hendon Tube Station. They have got me on their database. And, if you remember I was released into the custody of my brother Hector so they will have Myra’s address. They will go to see her and say something like they are concerned for my safety (the police will not hesitate to lie if they feel it will get them somewhere) and ask it she knows my present address. Innocently she will direct them to No 29 Arcadia Close. And I will have my collar well and truly felt.

It’s funny when you think about it, crime keeps the police in employment, just as doctors depend on disease; the clergy’s stipend is the ‘wages of sin’ and the pornographer… well, where would he be without sex?

In ‘Zen and the art of motorcycle maintenance’ the author’s son says to his father, “You’re not very brave, are you?” To which his dad replies, “No, but you’d be surprised how smart I am.”

But what if you are neither brave, nor smart? No, I am not talking about me, but that cowardly, wooden headed brother of yours.

I am not blaming you Anna, please don’t think that.

But I am tired of all this running, this “ducking and diving”. It is so humiliating. Why should I have to live like this? Especially since I have done nothing wrong. I don’t even have the bloody videos. But of course the police won’t believe me.

I have a corn on my right little toe, and it hurts. Also I have arthritis in my finger joints and in my neck.

You can see the state of mind I am in by the disjointed, fragmented writing, so unlike my usual lucid, elegant prose.

But I am not going to give in. And if I do run I will not run far. For one thing, I have appointments with my therapist – who, by the way, is not from one of the hotter lands, she is Scottish. And I am hoping to sort something out with her. She has asked me to do a ‘Time Line’ of my life, from birth to the present day, indicating significant events (especially those which caused trauma). I am amazed how illuminating it is proving. I won’t say I see a pattern emerging but I certainly see where the concentrations of trauma occur. But I will say no more of this since it is between me and my therapist.

I have had a difficult couple of days on the home front. A photograph has disappeared out of one of my albums. I am pretty sure I have not removed it but when I asked Gwen if she had seen it she kicked off: accused me of accusing her. I was doing nothing of the sort. It left me feeling strangely depressed, and also doubting my own reality. But I must not do that.

I have a lot more to tell you, but my mind is in a whirl. I wish you were here to comfort me.

Thinking of you as I sit here in the library.

George

Dearest Georgie.

It is with great joy that I read the words which are coming up on my computer screen from your far away septic isle.

I cannot tell you how much I fear getting news you are in some Insensitive Care Unit in one of your National Health Hospitals what breed super bug MRSA. What is it with you people who once conquered world and now cannot stop the spread of bugs in place where people suppose go to get better?

And another thing. This therapist what the aforesaid National Health People is providing so. please tell me she is English. Now this is not racist – so let us not get into such murky waters – but how can person from hot land (which I know mainly staff your hospitals) understand the subtle brain problems what people like you have. I mean no disrespect, but feelings and emotions are very difficult to communicate when culture is different.

Like I will give you a for instance. These foreign people have great big families what all live together. They do not enjoy social mobility (how’s that for technical term, eh?) like what we in West do. So maybe they have old mother, or even ancient grannie living in same room with them. So how can they understand when you say, I need to shove my mother into home or else I will go mad because she is so stressing me out man, and this why I am taking the Valium and maybe overdose on it before long - if I don’t do old cow in before this. How can they understand what is essential cultural difference, eh? How can they understand that your mental condition is being caused by family, when they hold ancients in such high regards?

I am sorry to go on to such lengths on this sad topic and so… now for some Good news!

Sven has given up of himself. He says prison better than living outside in this dangerous society which is England in the twenty first century. (Even as boy he was softie).

Anyway he goes to police station and says he wants to handle himself in. And though he expect to be taken to cell and beaten with truncheons, this does not happen. Instead he is given cup of tea and told he is naughty boy! Can you imagine?

Then head policeman come in and say they going to deport him, which is fine by Sven. But when he ask can he have his videos back, head policeman says – Don’t push your luck son. (This policeman not old enough to be Sven’s father but it seems this is term of endearment often used by British police towards persons in their care.)

Also policeman says videos needed for evidence so are at present safely locked up in his house. He also ask my brother if he have other similar type video. Sven tells him he does not but that you have six.
But do not worry, Sven don’t give policeman your address (because he do not know it), he just give him your name. So no worries there then.

Oh, and in case you wondering about Big Winston, he does not give up of himself because he have steady, respectful job as bouncing man at nightclub in Purley.

I advise you should keep away from this place Purley because Sven tell him many unkind things about you, and Winston is very fond of my brother. In fact he want to share home with Sven and very upset when Sven leave him to go to police station. But my brother promise to keep in touch and say he will invite Winston over when he get job and somewhere to live. Sven is giving up the porn business, he say everyone at it now, amateurs what put videos for free on internet is killing the industry.

Anyway I say to my brother – okay, fine, you come back, but do not think you are living with big sister. I live only in small flat now with one bedroom, and no you cannot sleep on living room floor because I like to entertain gentlemen sometime (as I tell you Georgie, no relationships – just the sex) and a brother would be in way.

But let us not dwell on such matters. Let us talk only of me and you, my displaced across the sea lover, and dream about the time when we are coupled once more. Oh, and do not be thinking what I say to Sven applies to you. No, when you come over such gentlemen as may be accessing me at the time will be told to sling their hook. (I remember that saying from when Georgina tell you to do the same).

Do not leave it so long this time.

Your Anna

Postscript

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

I would just like to say a thank you to Matilde Bonaparte for enquiring after my health.

Sorry it has been so long

Oh Anna, where to start. I have made several attempts to write to you but just got nowhere. The fact is, I have been a bit depressed. I know you don’t like that word and I, too, think it is much over-used, but what else could I call my mental state: Melancholia? (That was the term before someone thought of ‘Depression’) or how about Glum? No? I have tried to get the compilers of ADSM to recognise the diagnosis ‘clinically fed-up’, but have got nowhere. So let’s settle for your ‘slight problem with the brain’ – I like that.

As to the cause, well, it is certainly not because of the threat of Sven and his outsize friend; you can tell him I am prepared to meet them any place, any time, on my own. I don’t need to bring a friend. In any case most of my friends are women – mind you, I think Myra would be more than a match for Winston! I have always got on better with women than I have with men. I have a couple of male friends, but they are more acquaintances than mates.

Come to think about it, I have never really had ‘mates’, the way some other men have. I had school friends of course, and work colleagues (some of whom were friends). And people at university. And when I joined the Air Force, I remember the drill sergeant telling us ‘Don’t have mates – they get you into trouble' But of course I did have friends.

But I have never had ‘mates’ in the sense of: ‘I’ve got a mate who can get you that wholesale…’ ‘My mate’s a plumber, he’ll fix your lavatory…’ ‘Me and my mates are going on a fishing weekend…’ Also I don’t have a ‘local’ (for those outside the UK that is a public house, or a bar) where I am a ‘regular’, and a member of the pub quiz team. Perhaps the two go hand in hand: a local pub, and mates.

I think you are partly right in ascribing my ‘slight brain problem’ to lack of love. But I also feel trapped and powerless. Frustrated in my attempts to achieve my goals. And that is not good. I have not been sleeping very well, and the other night I got up and made myself a cup of tea. I took it and sat in an armchair – and immediately fell asleep. When I woke up the tea was cold.

Anyway, today I visited a therapist. I have been on a waiting list for six months. I will not say any more, except that I am hoping that these sessions will be what I need. I am more positive now.

The roofer came and fixed the roof.

I know you worry about me when you read things like the conviction of the three barmy bombers. But don’t. You are right when you say MI5 will keep the lid on things.

Gwen has been reading a book by Stella Rimington, the former Director-General of MI5. She was the first woman to hold the post and the first Director-General whose name was publicly announced on appointment. I understand that when she retired from MI5 in 1996 she became a non- executive director of Marks & Spencer. (Gwen said, “I bet shoplifters were shitting themselves.” – she can be rather vulgar)
I don’t know who is in charge now but I am sure he has his finger on the pulse of terrorism – and a boot on the scrawny neck of Islamic Militancy.

Yes, I do remember that time in the orchard when there was more than Coxes Pippins on the floor. I thought my wife made a quite unnecessary fuss. But there you are, you see: only child – can’t share.

Write soon

Your George

Georgie - You have not been responding to me and I am concerned for your health and safety.

Please let me know you are well and fit.

Anna

Oh My Georgie. I am feeling compelling to write again so quickly because I see on the television about those three Moslem extremities who seek to blow up the airplanes. Good for the MI5 people who catch them with trousers down, making their bombs in quiet English street (such as could be in Chingford or Hackney) and I bet they also on Social Securities – the scroungers.

As I look at ugly mugs on the television I think how they managing to do such a thing? They look halfwits! Like they just escaped from lunatic bin asylum, and could not blow up football, even.

Anyway they now will be bunged up in chokey for which they deserve. Only problem being there still others in the Pakistan who will try to do same. And Afghanistan. What a shithole. No wonder they are pissed off living in dump like that with only goats and sand - which get in all their crevices and make them itch like fuck (serves em right). They just jealous of us, that is what I think. Even though stupid man in frock who make video is banging on about what Britain has done to him and his fellow Moslems. Get a life buster – I shout at the television set. Of course he will get life now! Little joke to lighten mood, eh?

As you know, I am not racist - I have romanced with men of all shades and hues – and I believe everyone entitled to their religions, however stupid and backwards. But not when this causing them become making bombs in plastic bottles to blow up airplanes. No way is this excusable.

Seriously Georgie, I am worried for your safety because
your tiny island do seem to be getting on tits of lots of sandy countries. Even though Mr Brown seem jolly nice chap – despite peculiar facial problem.

Now we in Sweden just mind own business. We don’t invade anybody. Keep the low profile, like the gnomes of Switzerland. (Though we do not make those bloody silly cuckoo clocks). And we control the immigration. Which is where you make mistake by not doing.

Also you too soft with all these people you let in. For one thing you should be like French and not allow them wear that burkha thing where you can’t see face and don’t know if they man or woman – or what they got tucked up their skirt.

Anyway I think it best you do not use airlines for the future. Except you might be safe on Pakistani Airline – do they have one?

I think I will have to come over there to take personal care of you. Luckily we two are only a train ride apart, living in civilised part of world as we do.

Anyway, do not get too paranoid. I have every faith in your MI5 to keep lid on things – and kick many more hairy arses into the can.

I am not political person, leaving this to others who know more about such things. Each to his own trade, is what I say. After all, you would not expect Mr Brown to be able make porn film (would probably be bloody boring if he did)

Keep yourself safe for Anna

Oh Georgie. So good it is to be hearing from you and knowing you all of a one piece and no ill has befallen from brother Sven and big Winston (such as Mr Adams is being suggesting possible) but only respiratory infection of the nasal tubes, and slight brain problem.

I think as regarding brain problem this is no big deal since you have been having such trouble since all times I have known you. In my opinion this due to lack of love.

Do you remember when I am first being engaged as au pair, your wife is away visiting mother what suffers from old person’s disease and is going slightly mad? And when she come back she find us in orched (should this be orchered?). Anyway, is place with apple trees and we are on floor in uncompromising position. And she say – what do you think you doing with my husband? And I say – if this your husband you ought to be ashamed of yourself, the poor man is starved of affection.

Later, however, we get on like houses which are on fire because I help her to find her sexuality, which she has been hiding from herself, under bushel, so to speak.

One thing bothering me. This bitch Myra. When Mr Adams talk about girl on motorcycle I am convinced he is talking of she, yet you go on about some ancient movie type film which I never hear of. And I wonder if you are sending me on some wild red herring chase, perhaps.

So what I want to know is have you had bunk-up on pillion with this harlot? If so, I surprise myself that you risk your body by placing in tobacco-stained hands of such a woman. How do you think your Anna feel if you fall off and do damage to your person, like breaking leg or similar. Then requiring to be held together with metal rods and nuts and bolts – like famous motorcyclist Barry Sheene.

Can you imagine what clunking and clattering might occur when we come together in love? It would be like making sex on tin roof – not that I have ever done such a thing.

As regards the sperm donor problem, well that is up to you. I understand what you say about making babies in heat of passion. I have had lots of hot passion but not made any babies – thanks to excellent Swedish contraception methods. But if there was anyone I would like to have the baby of, it would be you, my love – by the passion method, of course.

Do not worry about joke you say you make ‘in poor taste’. I remember you telling me that best jokes are in poor taste. You always make me laugh, I remember. And not at wrong time, like some men I have known.

Loving you in so many different ways,

Anna

Oh, almost forgetting. Sven telephones (he no longer live in Chingford but move to some place called Hackney. Do you know where this is?) and he agree to meet with you. But he is insisting he bring Winston with him, and say you can bring a friend if you like. Let me know what you think.

Life on demand?

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

Well, I am back. I have not been well – in body or in mind. ( But is there any difference? No, body and mind are inextricably linked – and don’t let anyone tell you any different, my lovely Anna.)

And, may I say, you would not be feeling so good, if you had gone through what I have gone through – and am still going through

Did you know that Fall Guy is an American term from the world of professional wrestling, which enjoyed great popularity there in the late 19th century? It means, loser, dupe or victim. Many of the bouts were rigged – one wrestler would promise ‘to take a fall’ if the other agreed not to 'go easy' with him. The winner often broke his word and knocked seven bells out of his opponent. In such circumstances the loser became known as a ‘fall guy’.

I have always tried to see the other person’s point of view. Trouble is, the person whose views I have mostly ignored has been ME. Well it won’t do. As the jazz song says: There’ll be some changes made.
Myra put a proposition to me. She is in a ‘meaningful relationship’ with a doctor from the local health centre, who is also a woman. And the one thing that would really set the seal on this blissful union would be – you’ve guessed it - a child.

Now, obviously, this presents certain difficulties. So Myra has asked me to be a ‘sperm donor’. She said, ‘You won’t have to fuck me – Shaz knows how to do the necessary’ (I do not like to swear but those were her exact words) I felt insulted.

Don’t get me wrong; it is not that I object in principle to a bit of the old intra vino veritas (joke, Anna – admittedly in poor taste - I do know the correct expression), if it enables couples to have a child who might otherwise be denied through a sheer biological fluke (and this applies to single sex couples as well).

I am all for ‘interfering with nature’ if that means taking advantage of scientific progress to ease pain and suffering and generally improve the lot of the humankind here on earth – I will let heaven take care of itself. So, three cheers for stem cell research, genetically modified crops… all that stuff. As a matter of fact I think you lot over there are way ahead of us in this way of thinking. Of course – Emanuel Swedenborg notwithstanding - you have not been hampered by centuries of religious tradition (or claptrap) as we have.. But we are evolving - slowly

No, this is more of a personal thing. How shall I put it? I think I would rather feel that I had come into existence as the product of a good fuck (or an indifferent fuck) than a jerk in a jar and a syringe up the uterus. But this is a personal opinion, and has no scientific basis.

Anyway, I said as much to Myra but she said she would have to speak to doctor Shaz about it. I told her to forget it. In any case she was a bit drunk at the time so the whole thing may just another of her flights of fancy.

Anyway, how are you my darling? I hope you are taking care of that lovely long Swedish body, keeping it free of all infections – including the common cold (I have had a stinker, which is just one of the things that I have been suffering from), so that when we meet our bodies may come together like young lovers, fresh, clean and (almost) virginal.

Have you heard from brother Sven? I really am most anxious to clear up this ugly misunderstanding.

Oh, and I notice RJ Adams has posted a comment re ‘Girl On A Motorcycle’. I saw this film on TV – in the eighties I think, although I believe it was made in the late sixties or early seventies. I am a big fan of Marianne Faithful and I found the film most erotic. I also have several of her CDs including ‘Broken English’ which is brilliant.

I can remember my uncle (George) telling me in great detail about the Mars Bar incident one day as he took me to Sunday school. I now know this to have been a complete fabrication – an urban myth, created by an unholy alliance of police and media.
For one thing, Mick and Keith would never have stooped so low, and for another, a convent-educated girl like Marianne would never have thought of such a thing.

I am sorry I have been late in replying. I will make sure I do not leave it so long in the future.

All my love.

George

Where are you Georgie............................

Oh Georgie, such a crossing I am having on the boat ferry over that bloody Baltic Sea. We are getting a bashing from the tail of the hurricane Bill. Luckily I am good sailor so am not chucking up like most other passengers are. The girl crew persons being run off their skinny little legs, rushing to fetch the sick bags and carting away for disposal of the full ones. I take photo of one with a full sick bag in each hand and looking very pale in the face herself. You should see look the little kossa give me – well, I show you photo and you see for yourself.

And what do you think that sister of mine Sophia is saying to me, eh? I tell you – she is saying I need to be getting in touch with masculine side of self. What can she mean, Georgie? I am getting in touch with masculine persons all the time. This is puzzling me.

As regarding brother Sven, I have to wait until he get call me on the telephone line from this place Chingford, then I will do as you request to fix meeting – without Mister Churchill. Ha, ha!

But hey, where is my manners. I am not asking you how you enjoy your holiday – well I am now. I remember woman Myra. She make pass at me, and you know I try not to offend, but this woman is tasting so much of the pipe tobacco, which I cannot stand. Not no way. This not to say that if you fancy giving one to her I would think any the less of you. It is fine by me. I know nothing can diminish the love you have for your Anna. And similarly with me no amount of encounters with greasy foreigners (which is just to pass the time for me) can sully my love for my Georgie. And that is all that is counting. Just do not let that harpy tempt you into the disgusting smoking the pipe habit.

You have been away holidaying for it seems ages. For how long more before you can send me e-mail?

Oh, and I am glad Sticky Carpet woman's odour remind you of me but I am not so glad about fart comment. I always try to control bodily emission when you around.

And also I see Mr Adam call you 'old romantic'. This I cannot understand! Romantic, YES. Old, NO.

On the road again

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

Swindon is not a village; it is a large town. In fact the only thing that stops it from being a city is the fact that it has no cathedral. And then you have a piddling little place like Ely, which has a cathedral and is therefore a city. There you go: religion raising its ecclesiastical head again. It would be more sensible to say you need a slaughterhouse or a crematorium in order to qualify for city status.

I have been thinking a lot about this Sven business and the ‘C’ word is now at the forefront of my mind: Closure– that is what I seek: a mutually satisfactory conclusion to this unnecessary hostility.

It is for this reason, my darling, that I am asking you to contact your brother with a view to arranging a meeting (without Mr Churchill’s namesake, thank you!) so we can clear up the misunderstanding once and for all. Naturally, he has my word that I shall not, in any way, involve the police. All I am asking, at this stage, is that you put the suggestion to Sven and let me know his reaction.

I am going away on Monday. I need a break. And I have been in communication with Myra (Hector’s wife, you remember? Smokes a pipe and drives a motorbike and sidecar) seeking information regarding the whereabouts of my dear brother. Actually, as you know, he is, at best, my half brother, but there is considerable doubt as to his true parentage.

In fact I cannot believe there are any blood ties. He is such a liar. You mentioned the ‘famous Beatle’. Well Hector once told me that it was he who had suggested to a struggling McCartney that he try playing the guitar left-handed – and that Paul never looked back since.

Anyway Myra has invited me over for a few days. She has some possible leads on her errant husband and suggests we join forces to track him down – she wants to serve divorce papers.

I shall endeavour to find Internet access (Myra refuses to have a computer in the house) but if I am late in responding you will understand.

I have decided that I am an optimistic pessimist. This is someone who expects the worst to happen, and prepares for it. But also accepts that things might turn out well – and is ready for that possibility too.

Do you ever feel like you want to ‘own up’? To tell everybody what you really think? What you really feel? What you are really like? A sort of confession? Nah! I don’t suppose it would do any good, really. Would it?

Anyway, Anna, my love, I will finish this missive - except to say that you are always in my thoughts. Last night in the House of the Sticky Carpets a woman walked past and I caught a whiff of perfume, and it instantly brought back memories of you. You always used to smell so lovely – except when you’d farted.

Your George

Oh, Georgie –

I knew your jesting would get you one day into trouble. Now you have gone and given name of village where you are living, on this blog.

So unfortunate is this. Now Sven only has to log on to blogsite and he will gain relevant information for which he needs. And then may pay you unpleasant visit with friend Wilfred – whose name is not Wilfred because I heard wrongly on lousy English telephone lines. Wilfred is really Winston on account of him being named by parents in honour of great statesman of same name, Winston Churchill. This is man they say saved them from being crushed under heel of jackboot (even though they are living in Jamaica at the time, which is bloody long march from Berlin). Anyway this is why they name son Winston, in praise of great war leader. It is pity he turned out to be such a knob-head (Sven’s friend not Mr Churchill).

I do not intend to stay for so much longer in this place. My sister is doing my head in – as you English might say. Also because of bawling and squawking children I cannot sleep well and therefore am up at crack of noon each day.

Plus my friend Vadassy I do not have any more. He has ceased to come into café and he was going to give me address but did not. His mobile cell phone he does not answer. Am glad really because he had severe nervous tic of the face, and used to embarrass me by this mannerism when we walk together in daylight hours.

I think you quite right not to pay for roof which is like soggy Weetabix . I remember this breakfast cereal for which I used to prepare for the breakfast when I was au pair at your house Wynorin. Happy days, eh? How is son Sydney with whom I used to help sort out his sexuality because he was so confused, poor boy? I think I finally straightened him out.

And the lesbian? I hope she is no longer taking you to the cleaners. This is another lady not too attentive of the personal hygiene – Best not to go there, eh? (See how I try to use the English idiomatics wherever possible?)

Which reminds me because I cannot remember if I tell you that I am applying for job teaching English in school over here. To this purpose I am requiring referee to speak up on behalf of me, only in writing. So I would be very grateful if you could say something which would impress old professor I am to have interview with.

This job will be only temporary of course – just until things pick up in video industry, although I think I make good teacher for little buggers of a young age, for I am very patient – well you know that, eh Georgie!


Well I will have to stop writing now because time is nearly up on café machine, and also Sophia require me to do the favour of removing hair from under arms and similar because she is deciding to forget about husband and seek new partner.

I encourage her in this venture and seek to boost self-estimate which is in low ebb. I tell her not to worry about thickness of ankles since some men are attracted to physical abnormalities in woman. For example, I say, look at famous Beatle man who marry one-leg lady, and although, unhappily, such blessed union did not work out I am sure this is not because of leg deficiency.

I still miss you terribly and look forward to our meeting.

Anna

The Roof Man Cometh

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

TRAGEDY STRIKES. Gwen’s roof is like a soggy Weetabix – at least the flat bit is. That’s what the surveyor said, yesterday. The whole thing will have to be replaced

And, would you believe it, she wants me to pay half the cost. ME! – A lodger! I told her I was broke, skint, in Queer Street.

You know what she had the nerve to say? Well, you could get a loan.
Now who is going to give me a loan?

Of course things could be worse. We could be living in Kabul. Which would you prefer: a bomb up your alley or a Weetabix roof? I saw on the TV news that the Taliban have been busy again: another suicide bomber, another 7 killed and I don’t know how many injured.

You see that’s the difference between different religions and cultures. I suppose disenchanted elements in England would just sneak up in the night and damage people’s roofs. Come to think of it, how do I know that is not the case with Gwen’s roof? It could be the work of the PFLS (The Popular Front for the Liberation of Swindon)
I jest of course. In this country we just couldn’t be arsed. Do you know that song “… As soon as this pub closes, the revolution starts”? As regards your friend: Vadassy does not sound like a Latvian name to me. I should keep an eye on him. He may be after your money!

And I wish you would not keep going on about those videos. SIX – that’s all I took. And I only took them because your brother owed ME money. In any case I haven’t got them now. I passed them on to my brother, Hector (you remember him? You should do, you had a bit of a fling with him. Nothing wrong with that. I’m not jealous. Water under the bridge and all that) to dispose of via his Fulham contacts.
I should have known better. I haven’t seen him since. Or the videos. OR the money.

How long do you plan to stay with sister Sophia? Is she the one with the thick ankles?

Allo Georgie, and greetings from Gotland.

I am visiting my sister Sophia who has just lost her husband and so is very traumatic as you will understand, and upset.
She lose him in supermarket at Katthamarsvik - what a bloody mouthful to be getting your tongue into, I hear you say - which is town in which they live on account of husband being Latvian gentleman, and this country being just across the water. It is for this reason they compromise since Gotland being halfway between Sweden and this god forsaken land, though personally I think this stupid since they both get homesick at same time.

Anyway I think he done the bunk – I think he get boat to Latvia and leave her with several children, some only at bawling and squawking stage. What a bummer.

Anyway, miserable kossa don’t have computer so I have to go to Internet Café. This where I meet very nice man who want to show me delights of downtown Katthamarsvik. We go to place very similar to what you write about in poem, where floor is sticky - but furniture here is not bolted down on account of being of iron construction so very heavy to lift and throw. We have fine time.
I am, however, not having romantic relationship with this man – only sexual.

But I am digressing.

With regarding towards the photo. Please do not think I am being a meanie (you know Anna would bend over backwards to accommodate her Georgie). But you need to understand, I am professional – not silly teenage tart what photos boobies and post on MyFace to please chav boyfriend. And so end up looking like slag - which she probably is.

You might think strange that your Anna whom appears on videos in homes across Sweden (and international places) showing herself to advantage in adult movies should not wish her photo on Internet. But you do not understand ethics of profession.

These videos are for discerning viewers only (some, even have been specially commissioned) and beautifully photographed with artistic lighting and excellent recording of sound where you can hear everything – absolutely everything.
But of course I am anonymous to these viewers and if my photo was splashed all over the cybernet then everyone would know who I am. I know you say no one read blog. But how about Mr Adams who write so eloquent about America, eh? For all we know he might have purchased one of my videos (we dispatch to America – under plain wrapper). So you see dilemma?

However, I have publicity stills from such videos and would gladly be sending these via postal service to you, except that bitch of landlady would probably steal them and take to her bedroom to indulge with herself, which I would not wish to occur.

Anyway, have just had thought in head. Did you not when in hurry you decamp from Sweden’s shores take with you in bottom of suitcase many such videos by Anna-Sven Production Inc? Is this not why my brother anxious to re-unite with you at earliest possible moment to discuss in friendly manner little matter of copyright – and money?

I know you used always to be going on about ‘the primacy of the still image’ but you could ‘freeze frame’ when a primacy image appears (which it often does when Anna on screen --- ha, ha).

Anyway, I must end my communication of love. My hour is nearly up on computer in café and I see that Vadassy (my friend) has just entered. And I think he has something for me.

(Vadassy tell me he also Lithuanian, but he may be spinning me the wool over my eyes. Anyway all these bloody foreigners look alike to me - especially in the dim lighting)

Please post soon.

My body ache for you.

Anna

SORRY

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

Anna, I should not have asked you for a photo -

Forget it.

George

Where there's a will

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

My sweet Anna

When you were talking about what God did to those citizens of Sodom it made me think. I mean I am not condoning that sort of behaviour, certainly not, but sometimes it can be quite tricky to know exactly what God wants. I suppose that is why we have to have a Holy Book, or three, where ‘God’s Will’ has been written down. But even they can be confusing because they seem to contradict themselves so much. And that, of course, is why we need priests, ayatollahs and such like: to interpret God’s Will.

The Taliban knows what ‘God’s Will’ is. I was reading in the Independent (It’s a newspaper) that they are “… running a school for suicide bombers” where boys as young as nine are trained to “fight jihad” (all kids need motivation). As one Taliban commander put it “Children are tools to achieve God’s will.”

One might might ask, if God is omnipotent, could he not achieve His will himself, without the help of child suicide bombers? But this is probably being picky, and just shows an ignorance of religious matters.

I wonder if God got any children to help him achieve His will with them poor buggers in Sodom? Probably not - I think that would have been inappropriate.

But I am digressing.

How are you? What are you doing with yourself now that you no longer work in the ‘sweat shop’ and your creative director of the porn movie is now cooling his heels in Chingford? Whatever, just remember to keep having those ‘checks up’. I want my Anna to be in pristine condition when we finally meet.

Yes, I use the XYLOPROCT, it is indeed a fine preparation.

The IBS has been a bit of a nuisance this past week. In fact I have written a little verse, but I will save for a later date.

But I am getting pretty fed-up with this problem and so I am going to change my diet, also try a period without alcohol. I don’t drink that much, as you know, but perhaps if I give it up altogether – say for a week – then I can see if it makes a difference.


Yes, you are quite right about 'autoeroticism'

And the policeman game sounds fun. In fact I can think of a few variations on the theme.

I am missing you very much, and I was wondering if you could post a recent photograph of yourself on the blog? No - I don’t mean of your bits and pieces – head and shoulders would be very nice. I know you are shy, so it’s okay if you don’t want to.

Love

George