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.