Monday, April 26, 2010

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust - The springs in ma mattress aint never gonna rust.

Not my words, Anna, but those of Marilyn Middleton Pollack, the singer on ‘Mardi Gras’. Still, as precepts go, that’s not a bad one. Precept? Nowadays you would probably call it a ‘mission statement’.
And please thank Brian for the information. As soon as I saw the name ‘Max Collie’ it all came back to me.

As regards my old 78s, I do not think you could buy a machine now that would play then (unless, perhaps, second hand on eBay).

Last night, I thought I would play some ‘happy jazz’ – and what did I find?
St James Infirmary, Careless Love, Since my best girl turned me down, Basin Street Blues… I am lying – I did find some (fairly happy) jazz and listened in bed, with the headphones.

I’ve been talking to John (he of the slim-skull). Well, actually he started the conversation; the usual thing: What are you in for? What are you on? I told him about your impending visit; I think that was a mistake. He asked if you were my first love? Well, not quite, I replied. He told me he remembered his first love. And his first kiss: at the back of the bike sheds, at break-time on a wet Wednesday morning. He said her name was Sharon, and that she was ‘more experienced’. Well, I said, girls usually are. That’s true, he replied – especially teachers.

He says he hasn’t got a girlfriend now, and he’s lonely. (Although how he can be lonely with all those ‘voices’ he hears… I just don’t know.)

The mind is a strange place, Anna. I was going to say it is an alien land – but how can it be alien when it is part of us? Even so, we know more about the Moon than we do about the mind. We’ve mapped the brain pretty well: Frontal lobe, Parietal lobe, Occipital lobe, Temporal lobe, Cerebellum, Brain stem… And this is only the ‘outline’ map; there are more detailed maps showing which bit does which, and to what. But I can’t be arsed going into all this stuff now - my brain hurts. (Actually, if I wanted to be pedantic – and I usually do – he brain does not feel pain. Isn’t that odd?)

But what about the mind? Is it part of the brain? Well, if you slice off the top of the skull and try to find the mind, it would be like looking for the pictures in a television set. The mind is not a thing – it is a process: a function of the brain – isn’t it? Or is it more than this?


I know I have talked about dreams before – well I am talking about them again. I dream every night. And I awake like a traveller returning from somewhere – but where have I been? Of course this may be just an illusion: the brain keeping me entertained while it goes about its ‘off-line’ work: sifting, sorting, deleting information (much of which is taken in subliminally). Freeing-up memory – to use a computer analogy. If it were not for this ‘housekeeping’ the brain would become clogged up. I know all this, but sometimes my dreams are so vivid, so strange, and yet so familiar, that I wonder if there something else involved. But that is silly. What else could be possibly be involved?

Have you read “The man who mistook his wife for a hat”? Oliver Sacks tells about what happens when things go wrong with parts of the brain most people don’t even know exist. As a neurologist who describes himself as a “…theorist and dramatist” (Theorist and dramatist - just like me, Anna!), he stresses the need for a new discipline which he suggests may be called “the neurology of identity” to deal with the “…neural foundations of the self, the age old problem of mind and brain.” I take this as an attempt to bridge the gap between the physical and the psychical, and describe how identity or personhood be related to a physical organ – the brain.

I’ve been farting a lot. Clive says it’s the medication. I think it’s the food. You can have too many vegetables, you know. And when you think of all that stuff fermenting and bubbling inside of you and producing all that methane – well, no wonder you fart.

I think I have lost the manual on life. You know, the one they gave you when you were born, that told you how to react in any given circumstances; the one that told you what to think and feel; the one that told you how to “… keep your head, when all around are losing theirs…”; the one that told you whether someone’s behaviour was acceptable or not – and when to “call it a day”.
So I am cast adrift upon the sea of life, with only the stars to guide me – and it’s a cloudy night.

Sorry to hear about Brian’s car; still, even a Volvo needs attention from time to time. Personally, I favour the Japanese motorcar for reliability. Anyway I hope he won’t be too long in getting it fixed. This place is beginning to get me down and I don’t think I can stick it out much longer.

And by the way - fancy your not knowing flared jeans are back in fashion!

The lonely linoleum yearns for the imprint of Swedish stilletos.

George

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust -

Wednesday, April 21, 2010

Hello Georgie

Problem arise with motorcar of Brian. Despite being Volvo, man at garage say it is needing some work before passing this stupid test. Something to do with ball-joints – some such shit - he tell Brian.
I say to Brian, why not get the second opinion but Brian say this garage man look after his car for many years and he trust him. Well I don’t trust anybody in this life, I tell Brian but Brian take no notice of me in this respect. I do not get angry with him because he is suffering from the constipation, which is not good thing to be suffering from if you are bus driver, causing as it can do, the piles.

I remember your 78s what you play for me on that old record player. I hope you do not sell them because I would like to be listening to them again, but can you now buy such a machine what would play them?

Do not trust this man John. The narrow head is indication of narrowness of mind. This I know to be a fact. Plus the wearing of the flared jeans show he lack any dress sense which again indicate a retardation, like he is probably still living in the decade of the 1970s. How old is this man?

I do not like all this talk of death. This is doing you no good. Do what the lady Purple Cow say and play some happy music. Much of jazz is happy music – excepting of course the blues – so stick upon the ears the headphones and play some happy jazz.

Oh, and on this subject which is jazz, I ask Brian - who is fan of the New Orleans jazz - if he know who this band may be. He ask is it the version of ‘Over The Rainbow’ what has the great bass solo? Because if so then the band is ‘Max Collie Rhythm Aces.’ And the album (which is now CD) is called ‘New Orleans Mardi Gras’. Brian also tell me (which I do not require to know) that Mr Collie come from town of Melbourne, which is in Australia, but he reside in America since 1962 so is now probably American. I am thanking Brian for information when he insist on going on Internet to show me this band in their concert. I am stifling the yawn but surprising to find this excellent swinging group – even though they all look to be 100 years old. All except drummer who is young man and cool dude who can bang my drum any time he like.

Brian dyes his hair. He try to keep this secret but in small flat with only the one bathroom this is not possible. But when I tell him I think it good that he enlist the help of cosmetic to try to remain young looking he is getting angry, and when he get angry his eyes go funny, like they both trying to look at his nose. I tell him – no need to get distressed, and that I remove hair from under arms – and also from pubic region. (This he already knows). Anyway, we are still good friends and when car is fixed he will bring me to you.

One last thing about death then no more talking of it. Here is joke what Brian tell me:

Two men are watching Houdini’s funeral. As coffin is being carried into church one many say to his friend: I bet the twat’s not in there!
(I am sorry for rude word, but Brian is using a ruder one which I thought had better not say in blog).

Oh yes, you shall soon be hearing the clackety-clack of Anna’s high heels on the linoleum of the floor. The shoes I shall be wearing are the red stilettos what you used to like so much for me to dress up in but unfortunately I shall not be able to wear rest of costume when I come to see you. This I do not think would be appropriate. But, when we are together again!!!!!

I must finish here because I need to visit bathroom.

Your Anna

Saturday, April 17, 2010

Capturing the moment


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"In the evening I will fly you to the moon,
to the top right hand corner of the ceiling in my room,”


The lines are from “’Tis the morning of my life” a belter of a song, I think.

On the left is a picture of the top LEFT hand corner of my room.
(I do not want to infringe Bee Gees copyright)

I like all kinds of music, in fact you might say I have eclectic tastes.

Jazz is my first love – do you remember Anna when I took you into my bedroom at Wynorin and showed you my old 78s? I bet the collection is worth something now:

Louis Armstrong: Savoy Blues/Sweethearts on Parade; Muskrat Ramble/Someday you’ll be sorry; Sydney Bechet: Careless Love/Down Home Rag; Dixieland Jug Blowers: Boodle-Am-Shake/Memphis Shake; Jelly Roll Morton: Jelly Roll Blues/Doctor Jazz Stomp; Firehouse Five plus Two: Chinatown/When You Wore A Tulip: Kid Ory: Maryland/Didn’t He Ramble, to name but several… Plus some great British bands: Humph, Ken Colyer, Chris Barber, Crane River etc. I transferred some of these to CD but I still keep the 78s – there’s something romantic about a wax 78 – with that faint crackle and hiss that somehow takes me back to New Orleans.

I like all types of (good) jazz: Gerry Mulligan, Chet Baker, Stan Getz, Zoot Sims, Lester Young, Stefane Grappelli...I could go on – but I hear you saying: Please don’t!
I haven’t had chance to practice the drums for a bit… but the rhythm is still there.

Whilst we are on the subject, I have put the music for my funeral onto a CD:

Fields of Gold by Eva Cassidy; Over the Rainbow by Mardi Gras (a terrific jazz version by a little known American band) and, the first jazz record I ever bought: Get Out Of Here And Go On Home by Humphrey Lyttleton.

I've just realised: CD players have been replaced by iPods and stuff, haven't they? So perhaps I should transfer them to the new technology. Snag is, by the time I shuffle off these mortal coils, the iPod/iPlayer technology may be obsolete. I shall try not to worry about it for now.

Humph tragically died last year. I was devastated; he was my jazz hero and mentor. I last saw him at a concert in Warrington only a couple of months before he died (he was blowing strong at 82 years old, and as witty as ever). When I shook his hand I little realised he had only a couple of months to live.

I don’t like death. It spoils everything. Don’t you think?

Talking about poetry (well, songs are a kind of poetry) I think it offers as valid an explanation of the world and life as does physics (and I am a great fan of physics.)A different explanation.

I wrote a poem about my grandson's first day at school. It describes my feeling at seeing him walk bravely down the path in his new uniform. I think I may include it in my next post.

We have a new inmate/patient/client - his name is John. I don't like the look of him. He has a narrow head. AND he wears flared jeans. Now can you imagine anyone with a narrow head wearing flared jeans! He looks like a very thin pyramid, on the move.

I saw a programme on tv: 'Location, Location, Location'. All about middle-class couples looking for their 'dream property'. You don't call it a house when you get to this level. Like you don't talk about 'going for a job' but 'applying for a position'. Anyway this programme was so boring - I don't know why I watched it. The agent kept telling them about how 'convenient' a house was for the rail station/schools/leisure facilities etc etc.. I suppose it all depends upon your needs: if you live near a station it's handy for a train; if you live near a brothel it's handy for a shag. (Funny, but they never mentioned the brothel). I visited a brothel once. It was advertised as a 'massage parlour' - and I just wanted a massage. It all got rather confusing. I haven't been back.

I was thinking about when Freddie asked me what I really wanted. I know what I THINK I want - but is this the same as what I REALLY want? Perhaps it is enough to know what I DON'T want. What do you think?

By the way, I am back in my old room. They say they are carrying out refurbishing on the rooms at the back of the building - I think they are doing a drug sweep. Well they won't find anything in mine, but there are some pretty dodgy characters in these rooms.

I've had enough of things here - I really have. I am going to do a runner. Not before you've been to see me of course. I know where I can go, but I'm keeping it under my hat for the moment.

And I AM going to vote in this election. I am not saying who for, but I am a Socialist - so I won't be voting 'Labour'.

I'm still glum, Anna. I try to lift myself out of it, without much success. But I am definitely not increasing my medication. I think I need some exercise and Freddie has said I can borrow his bike to go for a spin around the grounds. I'm going to take him up on his offer.

Can't wait for the sound of your high-heels on the green linoleum.

George

Friday, April 16, 2010

It is with pleasure, Georgie, that I learn of Freddie the shrink permitting the visit of myself to his lunatic asylum. Brian does not mind at all to take me because never before has he seen inside of hospital for brainsick people. Only fly in Kay Y jelly is Brian having to take car for the MOT type test but car being of Swedish manufacture, which is to say VOLVO, no problems should be experienced.
Why is Freddie requiring the 48 hours notice? Is this because he want to make sure all leather straps and canvas jackets tucked neatly away in cupboard? Nor yet any bodies threshing about and having to be restrained by muscular attendants? (Do not worry – this is joke Anna is making. The 48 hours notice is not problem. Nothing is problem which bring reunification with my Georgie.).
Regarding your strange habit with the jam in the pudding, could not they give to you small jar of jam what you take into dining room and apply yourself to the pudding? This seems satisfactory arrangement to me.
I enjoy the lady what is strutting her stuff along boulevards of Liverpool city. This is city I would much like to visit, being as it is home of Fab 4 who are called The Beatles and are second only to ABBA in history of popular music.
But this man Clive is idiot person, wanting to be shot up into space when dead. Wherefore would we be if everybody want this? We would have a sky full of stiffs. A hazard to aircraft is what they would be. This is like the volcanic ash which at present causes no flying of aeroplanes in Europe. And this disaster gives to me another thought. What if everybody want to be cremated? (When they are dead, I mean). And what if they want their ashes to be scattered to the four winds? Could not there happen another crisis with ashes being sucked into jet engines? We need to think carefully about environment, and so why not take those who can afford to pay to Antarctic, and there drill hole in ice and shove them in standing up? No expensive coffins would be needed and this has added advantage that if medical science should advance they might be later extracted and brought back to life.
Tonight I go to play cards with Phyllis (Mrs Dinky) because Brian is on the late bus shift. She cheats but this I do not mind because we play only for small amounts of money. She tells me many interesting story of life in the WRAF – what hilarity! She recounts to me of the occasion when after a demob do (this is kind of party for person who is leaving the Air Force) a friend who is called Clare get very drunk and Phyllis have to hold her head while she vomit down lavatory. Unfortunately this lady have small dental plate with two false teeth at front of her mouth and unbeknowningly to either lady this shoot out and get flushed down pan. This is only discovered next morning when it is well on way to sewage farm. Naturally this cause distress to owner of teeth who no longer own them. And who before times had lovely smile which is alas no more, so she keep mouth shut for several days - until new teeth fitted by dentist.
Georgie, you do not need large crane to lift your mood. I know what is needed and this I will supply!!

Until then

All my love

Anna

Tuesday, April 13, 2010

I LOVE A PARADE


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I saw Freddie this morning and told him that if he did not allow you to visit I would do a runner. He said that I was fragile and vulnerable at the moment but that you could visit me. The only stipulation is that you give 48 hours notice. Perhaps you could find out when Brian has his day off and ask him to give you a lift? Anyway, let me know. I am excited but a little bit nervous.

So in celebration I have posted this picture. It is one I took some time ago in the city of Liverpool. (Although I no longer have the camera, I brought with me 5 of those SD card things with loads of images.) I include it also in the hope that it will lift my mood - my mood is pretty heavy and probably requires a large crane to lift it. Nevertheless, let us press on.

I try to remember some Buddhist sayings (I used to know a lot) because I think there is much good stuff in Buddhism. I don't go along with all of it; it is a case of taking what you find useful and leaving the rest. I wonder though, why the Buddha is always depicted as a fat bald bloke. Okay, perhaps not even a very wise man can fight hair loss, but if he was so enlightened would he not be alert to the dangers of obesity and a sedentary life style? I mean, what kind of role model is that for today's teenagers? Still, he looks happy enough. Wasn't it Shakespeare's Caesar who said "Let me have men about me that are fat;" Of course some men prefer to have fat women about them - I think they may be called "chubby chasers". But I am rambling again.

As I sit here tonight in a room with drawn curtains, I ponder upon Life. (yes, I know, I think too much. Can't help it). Did you see "Chicago", Anna? Billy Flynn the lawyer said something about life being a circus. I'm with you there, Bill. Some of us are brave lion-tamers or heroes of the high-wire; others are beautiful girls pirouetting on the head of an elephant or riding bareback on some noble steed. And what about the daredevil "man on the flying trapeze."? And then there are the clowns, capering around the edge of the ring in our grotesque make-up, tripping and falling, trying to make people laugh - and frightening small children. Of course we are only there to provide a diversion while they change the ring for the next act.
We no longer have 'freak shows': the bearded lady; the Siamese Twins; the midgets and the giants We hide them all away now. Except for the 'Unusual Bodies' type programmes on Channel Four, where you can get away with it under the 'medical science' label. Is that progress?

You know what Freddie asked me this morning, Anna? He said 'What do you really want, George.' He's always springing these trick questions on me. So I said 'I want to be understood... no, that's too much to ask of anyone... I want to be listened to.' Then I though for a bit and I said 'No, it's more than that - I want to be heard.. Yes, that's it: I want to be heard.

We had chicken pie for dinner. Followed by rice-pudding. I like a spoonful of jam in my rice-pudding. They know this. And yet I always have to ask for it. That's not right, is it?

Now you know how I want to get away from this preoccupation with death. Well, I was doing fine until Clive handed me another of his poems:

If they have the technology in place
I want to be shot into space -
I mean when I die -
Up there in the sky,
With a cheeky grin on my face.

I'll orbit the earth,
Give cause for great mirth,
And once every year
Crowds will gather and cheer,
And shout: Here comes Dave!
Let's give him a wave.

Just you wait and see,
They won't forget ME.


I said 'But your name's not Dave - it's Clive.'
He said 'Don't be so bloody pedantic, man. And, for your information, my middle name is David.'
I don't believe him, but I didn't say anything.

I've just remembered something else I could have said to Freddie in response to his question. I could have said 'I want to know who I really am.' Yes, I'll hit him with that one, next time.

It is nine in the morning, Anna, and I am going down for breakfast. I usually have cornflakes, with a banana and nuts (wallnuts, to be precise), followed by an apple. Sometimes they run out of apples, which is pure negligence, in my opinion.

Let me know when you are coming.(48 hours notice please - just to pacify Freddie).

I can't wait.

Your soon to be lover

George

Sunday, April 11, 2010

No title

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I am glum tonight, Anna. And I wondered if one could be 'clinically glum'. So I looked up 'glum' in the dictionary. It said: dejected, despondent, downcast, lugubrious, morose. And I thought: that's me. The word also connects with 'gloomy' and when I looked this up it gave 'depressed' as a synonym. And since one can be clinically depressed then I can be be clinically-glum.

As a matter of fact I feel like I have painted myself into a corner (in my life, I mean). I will tell you more when we meet - which will be soon. I am seeing Freddie in the morning.

Goodnight Anna

I said I would post a photo. This is one I took many years ago. I shall be returning to this place.

Friday, April 09, 2010

OH YES I DO READ COMMENTS. I wish to set straight the record on this, Georgie. Always you are treating me as if some dumb bimbo, which I am not.
And so I now refer to comment by Purple Cow. You tell me in past that you smoke twice the marijuana which was obtained for you by one of your students because you tell her you wish to do research for paper you write on legalisation of cannabis. Now is this not so? Also you tell me this have very pleasant effect and relax you so much. And you would try again but this person who obtain drug is no longer student and anyway you are not longer tutor. I do not use any drug as this well you know. Except if you want to call sex a drug. But this is legal anyway so I do not transgress the law.

It is very friendly I am become with Mrs Dinky since I have been penetrating her wall. She ask - call me Phyllis (which is first name.) And so I do. Also she very kindly open window and blow smoke outside when I am in her presence to avoid me being victim of passive smoking which is very dangerous to health. Is not this considerate?
Phyllis used to be member of WRAF. This is women’s Air Force. And she travel to many places in the world while doing this job. I ask her about Mr Dinky and she makes the funny face. His name is not Dinky but Smith. She change back to old name when he is dead. She say hers was not marriage made in heaven – it was made in India (some place I cannot spell) and Mr Smith was very unpleasant to her in many ways, like he give her the black eyes and such. But she stay with him because of children (7 ). Does she not know of contraception I ask Yes, she say, but Mr Smith does not like the use of condom because he say holy estate of matrimony is ordained for procreation of children. When, after 4 children have been procreated in this way Phyllis puts down her foot, Patrick (for this is Mr Smith’s name) give her severe blow to the head, because he is deeply religious man and she is violating sanctity of marriage. Patrick have to strike her several times in similar fashion over the years to remind her of importance of spiritual nature of their union - this is what later account for the many black eyes. I tell her – You are more than receptacle for this man’s sperm, why not do you divorce the tosser?
Phyllis say there come time when she has enough of this shit, and starts to proceed with the divorcing of him - but he dies of his own accord. This is very disappointing but turns out to be useful because it avoids much legal expense.

Last night as we lie in bed holding hands Brian express desire to attempt lovemaking for first time with woman (which is me). I say, Hallelujah! - but I tell him that in order to give assistance toward satisfactory experience it is necessary to release my hands. But Brian is so nervous he cannot do this. So we spend awkward minutes and then give up and watch ‘East Enders’ on the television – where much copulation takes place. But this is not the same. Have you fixed for me to visit yet?

Your frustrated

Anna

Wednesday, April 07, 2010

Tip for the day: Don't buy your Vaseline and your rubber gloves from the same pharmacy

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Thanks for your speedy reply. You do seem to be having some adventures. I like adventures. I could do with one right now.
Did you see the comment by Purple Cow re your Mrs Dinky and her cigarettes?

Elaine Stritch the American actress and singer used to be a heavy smoker. She tells the story, how, after giving up for health reasons, she was performing in a club in Yorkshire. Afterwards, a lifelong fan came backstage to see her. He offered her a cigarette. She politely declined, telling him she no longer smoked. 'Why?' asked the man. 'Because I don't want to die of lung cancer.’ Replied Elaine.
'So what DO you want to die of?' he asked.

(I have quoted this in a comment replying to Purple Cow but I sometimes wonder if you read comments. You have not said anything about that fellow Adams’ remark about my photo: that it must have been taken just after the Romans left Chester. Well, I say: come on R.J. where’s your photo? You must have a daguerreotype knocking about somewhere)

Talking of photographs I have seen mine pop up as a ‘follower’ of my own blog! Obviously I have done something silly and will try to find a way to remove it.
And, on the subject of technical know-how: I have noticed that lots of commercial sites are ‘hitting’ my blog and wondered if anyone out there knows a way to stop them, because it gives a fictitious reading to the ‘counter’.

As you know, Anna, I do not smoke. I did try a couple of times but never quite mastered it. I had more success with alcohol – so I concentrated on that.

Life is indeed a lottery. None of us know when or how we are going to die. Except the suicide. She gets one up on life (or is it on death?) by deciding both when and how she is going to die. Brave decision, to tear up your lottery ticket.
I suppose some of our choices (either directly or indirectly) influence the time and nature of our death. But then there is the accident, or the deliberate action of someone else: the suicide bomber for example. Now I think that is a cheek: choosing to opt out of life but denying that choice to others; that is the height of selfishness.

– I’m glad I got a ticket, though. Just think of all those who didn’t get the chance to take part in this a wonderful adventure.

I like to write in the morning. It is the best time for me. I think that is because I have just returned from that marvellous landscape of dreams I inhabit every night. And the primal brain is still awake; it has not yet been suppressed by the demands of the day.
I was – yet again – dreaming I was back in the Air Force. But I was the age I am now, and did not fit in. I walked to the cookhouse for an early breakfast but the woman who was supposed to serve it was lying on a bed. She scowled at me and said they did not start serving until 7.30. Later the place was full and nearly all the food had gone. I managed to secure a slice of fried potato and an egg. I was afraid I was going to be accused of queue jumping but I was desperate to get something to eat. I was also dying for a cup of tea.
By the way, I interpreted one of my 'follower's dreams - correctly, so he tells me. So if you want any dreams analysing...

Oh, and don’t worry about Gretchen; she is really an ok person. Likes her pint of diesel, but a fine woman.

I look forward to seeing your London photos; I might put a photo on here if I can find a suitable on.

Oh, and I agree with you about giving your parts to medical science and repairing other bodies and all that - though I have not signed the form yet.

I see Freddie tomorrow and this time I am going to INSIST on a visit.

Your George

Sunday, April 04, 2010

Brian does not have the broadband wireless connectivity. This problem we have overcome by penetrating Mrs Dinky’s wall. Mrs Dinky is lady in flat next to Brian. She has dead husband and smokes many cigarettes. I say to her – you will be dead yourself if you continue with such filthy habit. But she is nice lady and when she know about my new laptop which is lacking connectivity she say’s - I will give you password and you can come through my wall – which is what I am doing now. (though how wireless is getting through all that smoke I do not know.)
But Brian is saying that he will get connected himself to the wireless broadband, and I am telling him not to do this because my stay with him is for only the short duration and so not worth purchasing broadband. But he say that is okay, he will get it anyway and I may leave whenever I wish. This I think is so sweet of him.

Now, as regards intelligence of horse, I see film called ‘The Horse Whisperer’ where American talks to horses. Now if that is not intelligent please tell me what is? (Not man – I mean intelligent of horse to know what this man is talking about.)
But also as indication of intelligent horse, what about horse having to manage four legs! And get them all moving at same time, whereas we have only two? What about that, eh?

I am not sure I like this Gretchen person. I do not like way she swear. Do you really think she is suitable companion for hospital visitations? She sound to me more like bar-room harpy than carer for the sick of mind. Also what make her to think she know how you have taste for which women?

I am sorry for friend Jim with the blood clots. This does not sound very pleasant for him but the medications now to hand are such that treatment may be effected without the need of surgery. At least this is so in Sweden.

I did take some pictures in London. I take them with the disposable camera which I purchase from Boots. I have not yet taken back to shop for the processing into pictures, which I will do and see if any good ones which maybe suitable for posting into blog. I am also glad you throw away camera which although not of disposable type is buggered and therefore of no use. Well done. This indicate therapy done some good. I do not know of this lady who has her chimney swept by Mr Freud.

Oh, and Georgie you are making me laugh with the people having to be put together on Day of Judgement. Of course I do not believe in Day of Judgement but I think spare parts of dead people are best used to repair living ones. I have already filled in form back in Sweden, ticking boxes for all my bits to be used in this way or for the research or whatever. Strangely there is no box to tick for ‘vagina’. This I cannot understand, but do not wish to discuss here.

Now, I hope you will be glad for the speediness of my reply knowing that I am loving you as hard as ever.

Your little playmate

Anna

Saturday, April 03, 2010

A trip outside the walls

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It’s Friday and the Bong Motor comes to gather up our detritus in its giant steel maw. I have been moved to a room at the back of the building so I don’t hear it now. I used to be on the front and was awakened around 7.30 on a Friday morning by the sound of the wheelie bins being scooped up by the yellow monster. It was a rather comforting sound: all our rubbish being cleared away for us. I used to think, wouldn’t it be nice if something similar could happen in our mind: once a week something could come along and sweep up all the shit that’s accumulated in our heads and take it away and dump it. I am reminded of Freud’s patient, Anna O, who compared her therapy to ‘chimney sweeping’.

Yes, Anna (my Anna), I find myself in reflective mood. I had a phone call from my friend Jim. Jim’s problem is alcohol. His 50-year-old body has taken a battering from the demon drink. Extra strong lager used to be his favourite tipple but, in recent times, financial constraints have steered him towards ‘White Lightening’. I’ve never drunk the stuff myself but somebody said it is one step up from meths. I don’t know. He is in hospital. Not this one: one of those ‘If in doubt, cut it out’ places. You know, where they do ‘investigations’ and ‘procedures’ and chop bits off you. I went to see him. I was given dispensation from Pope Freddie. It’s at the other end of town and Gretchen took me in her car.
Jim told me he has ‘deep-vein thrombosis’. A recent scan has revealed a blood clot on his lung. It looks like a piece may have detached itself from the one in his leg (already known) and found its way into the lung. He is waiting to hear if surgery will be necessary. As you would say: it is the bugger.

In the car park I saw a Moslem woman praying. She took the floor-mat out of her car boot and laid it on the ground. Then she turned around a bit – she had something in her hand, I think it might have been a compass. Finally she seemed satisfied and knelt down facing the McDonalds in the far corner of the car park, beyond which, I assume, was Mecca. She began to pray, or at least I could see her lips moving. People were walking by but that did not seem to bother her. When she had finished she stood up, calmly folded the mat, stowed it in the boot and got into her car. I am not making this up, Anna, I actually saw it, and it seemed so strange.


I asked Gretchen if we could call at the pub on the way back. I didn’t think she’d mind - she enjoys a pint. I picked the scruffiest pub I could find – I like a bit of sleaze. The pub was serving food so Gretchen ordered a curry and I went for the gammon, egg, chips and peas. I thought, it’s a bit risky ordering curry in a place like this but there’s not much they can do to gammon and egg. Gretchen had a pint of Guinness and I tried the local bitter, which was quite good as it turned out. We went and sat down. There was a man at the bar scratching his back. To facilitate access he had pushed up his sweatshirt, revealing an expanse of pasty-white, and rather hairy flesh. Gretchen said, ‘I didn’t know there was going to be a cabaret.’

The thing I noticed about the man’s companion – a statuesque young lady – was her dark-blue thick ribbed stockings and leopard-skin stiletto heels, and her perfume. I know I am sensitive to perfume but this lady’s scent was reaching me in waves, over a distance 20ft or more. It wasn’t subtle but it was certainly powerful. Gretchen said, ‘She’s just your type, isn’t she.’
I didn’t realise she’d been watching me. ‘How do you mean?’
‘Tarty. Big and blousy.’
‘I like all kinds of women.’ I replied, ‘I think women are wonderful.’
‘That’s nice,’ said Gretchen.

We sipped out drinks. Actually, Gretchen’s pint was already half empty. ‘See those two over there?’ She nodded in the direction of a couple huddled together at the end of one of the red plush banquettes. They were drinking pints of lager; he was feeling her thigh and whispering into her ear. Every now and then she let out a high-pitched giggle. ‘I bet there’ll be some serious shagging going on later.’
‘And why not.’ I said.
‘Exactly.’ responded Gretchen.

Anyway, Anna, did you take any photographs during your London trip? As you know – well, I keep going on about it – I used to take lots of photos. In fact I was looking at a print taken in Paris: The Eiffel Tower, lit up at dusk, with a boat going by and all the lights reflected in the Seine. I was speaking earlier of the Bong motor – well, this Friday it carried away the camera on which that picture had been taken. It was broken, and I had been hanging on to it for weeks. I was finally persuaded by my therapist to ‘bin it’. You know how part of my ‘problem’ is hoarding; well I am getting better at chucking things away, so that is real progress.

Oh, I’m going to have my hair cut on Tuesday. I don’t have to go into town and sit for ages in some unisex barber’s shop; a lady comes here, and 'does' us. Now isn’t that great? You always used to admire my hair. The lady is called Sharon and she reminds me of Madonna.

Have you noticed how the days are now lengthening? I think that is bound to be good for my depression. But reading that book by Sally Brampton has made me realise that my depression is nothing near as severe as that from which she has suffered. I do, however, have other stuff that needs resolving, and I think we (me and Freddie) are getting closer to the source of my troubles, and that is a bit scary.

Thinking back to the Bong Motor: everything is recycled nowadays, and a good thing too: we do need to take care of the planet. But I wonder if recycling will be introduced for dead humans: imagine: a blue bin for heads, green for limbs and brown for torsos. It would be a hell of a problem, trying to sort ourselves out at the Day of Judgement.

Oi! That’s my leg you’ve got there. Chuck it over.
I can’t chuck it over; I’m still looking for my arms.


Now I don’t mean to hassle you, Anna, and I certainly do not wish to sound ‘needy’ but I have not heard from you since your return to the environs of Purley. And you really have no excuse now that you have got your own laptop. So come on, get those long Swedish fingers dancing on the keys. You don’t realise how alone I feel. Oh, yes, I have my friends: Clive, Derek, Eric… but they are not really friends. Not like Brian is your friend: I can’t hold their hands in the night. In fact they are beginning to scare me. I know that sounds melodramatic but this place does things to you, it really does.

So, please Anna,

Post soon.

Yours expectantly,

George.