Visiting hours

I am not allowed visitors just yet. I am allowed mail but this is scrutinised by the staff before being passed to me. So far I have only had one mail (thank you 'girlzoot'). Perhaps the printer has run out of paper. They are very inefficient in the office here.

Another world

If the lunatics really are running the asylum, which would you rather be: a patient or a member of staff?



It was New Year’s Eve on the Locked Ward,
The lithium flowed like wine,
A psychiatrist from ‘G’ wing
Was singing Auld Lang Syne;
And sometime after midnight,
When sane folk are abed,
They started telling stories
And this is what they said:


I am being detained under the powers of the Mental Health Act, 1983 - Section 2, to be precise. This provides for “detention for up to 28 days for assessment of condition… this may be accompanied by treatment.”
Ah, but what kind of treatment? I have refused to take any of the medication they have offered, although I am prepared to talk, to anyone who will listen – including the other patients. They don’t seem such a bad bunch. They’re all mad of course: why else would they be here?
I am under twenty four hours surveillance. They call it “observation”. Anyway, the hospital rules refer to “the necessity of watchfulness at all times…in the interests of the patient’s own health or safety.” All this, demanding “a high standard of tactful guidance by nurses”. How do I know all this? I told you: I’m in the trade.
But they are not very tactful, most of them. They write everything down. Everything I do, even when I go to the lavatory. And of course they write down the fact that I am always writing. Talk about “Alice in Wonderland”. At night I have to leave my bedroom door open, and it’s hard to get to sleep with someone peering in. I’ve tried telling them I have no intention of attempting to take my own life. But they don’t believe me. Incredibly, they’ve put me in a room on the 4th floor. The 4th floor – and me a “jumper”!
Of course, I’m not really a jumper – more of a “slipper”. I’ve tried telling them that as well. Waste of time. You can see their point of view. What was I doing up on the bridge in the first place? Okay, so in the end I had decided not to do it. I was coming down. Unfortunately, I stepped on that patch of oil. An accident. Ah, but Jung says there are no such things as accidents; my psychiatrist is a Jungian.

The Dream

I am walking under water, slowly, awkwardly, because I am encased in a ‘deep-sea’ diving suit: thick, heavy rubber, the sleeves ending in clumsy gloves, a huge globe of a helmet, and on my feet, great metal boots. As I ponderously move my legs, I am aware that I am treading on all manner of nasty things: crabs scuttle away – some are not quick enough and I hear them crunch underfoot. There are other things too; I can’t see them but I can feel them: slithery, slimy abominations, they brush against my rubberised legs. And although I know that neither they nor the crabs can harm me, I am sweating with a mixture of fear and disgust.
The water seems to clear, and I detect a movement out of the corner of my eye. With difficulty, I turn my head. To my right, there is a large metal cage; inside are about a dozen creatures: although they resemble huge pike, these ‘things’ are hardly fish, for they have the snouts of crocodiles; sharp teeth gleam in their gaping red mouths as they snap their jaws. But the worst thing is their colour: grey, like dead flesh. The reptile fish appear to be decaying – yet they are still very much alive. They have seen me. Wild, bloodshot eye fasten in a malevolent stare, and they begin to butt against the bars. Suddenly, a door in the cage opens. Here they come. Heading straight for me. I think my suit will protect me but I am not sure. One of the ‘things’ has sunk its jaws into the rubber of my sleeve. I jerk my arm and shake it off. They are all around me now. I turn and try to get away. My legs move as in ‘slow motion’, my steel boots dragging in the silt. I am breathing heavily now, and I start to worry about my air supply: will the men ‘on top’ continue to keep turning the big wheel, pumping air into my helmet? What if they tire? Just stop pumping?

Then I am walking up a gradual slope, the water above me becoming lighter with each step I take.

If I should fall from grace

Stomach lurching. Wind rushing. Ears roaring. Blood pounding. Spinning. Falling. Terror. Help. Too late. SMACK..…………Pain. Blackness. Nothing.

Exit

I am feeling tired; not physically tired but mentally, spiritually tired. I just want to sleep. But I am not going to give up, not just yet.

‘Do you believe in free will?’ I startle the officer.
‘Er, well… yes I do. I believe we all have choices’ he says, at last.
‘Ah, but it all depends upon what you mean by “choice”. You may argue – you probably do – that I chose to climb up here tonight. Right?’ I don’t wait for him to reply – I don’t want to be interrupted. ‘But are not my actions the end result of a chain of circumstances: my genetic inheritance; environment; everybody I’ve ever met; everything that’s happened to me; every action, every reaction? A long chain, reaching back to when I was born; in fact before that. What does the bible say about the sins of the fathers being foisted upon the sons. Yes, I know it doesn’t say foisted but I think that’s more appropriate for our age and times’.
‘That’s the old ‘billiard-ball’ argument.’ Sam shouts back. ‘You might as well say that from the day the first organism managed to crawl out of the primal slime it was inevitable you would end up on this bridge tonight’.
I think about this for a minute. ‘That’s about the size of it’ I say, cheerfully.
‘So the outcome is already pre-ordained. There’s no point in talking about it then’.
‘Well, I didn’t ask you to come here’ I say. But I already know the answer to that. So does he. He replies.
‘Ah, but that too was written in the primal slime’
You know, I’m beginning to like old Fast-track. ‘What are you doing in the police force? You’re far too clever’. I think he is smiling; can’t really tell from this distance – he may just have cramp. Like I’ve got, again.
He sees that I’m in some sort of distress and starts to climb towards me. I wave him back. He stops. Gradually the cramp eases.
‘Look, why don’t you come down and we can have chat?’
‘What about?’
‘Whatever you like. We can continue this discussion about free will, if you like.’ Before I can reply, he continues. ‘There’s a flaw in the determinism argument, you know. I mean, yes, we do come with a load of baggage – genetic inheritance -‘man hands on misery to man’ and all that. And I agree that our environment – particularly family, in the early years - has a powerful effect. But what about you as an individual?’
‘How do you mean?’ I am intrigued now.
‘Well, you are unique. There has never been anyone else quite like you, and there never will be. In fact there cannot possibly be. Wouldn’t you agree?’
I think about this. ‘I suppose so, in the sense that I was born at a particular time and in particular circumstances. But what does that mean?’
‘It means that your uniqueness is the missing factor from the determinism argument. It is that uniqueness that makes change possible; that enables you to break the link with the past. Think about it. How else could the human race have evolved to the stage it has?’
You know, I think he might have something there. I have never thought of it like that before. I had a friend once who believed that sometime before we are born – while we are still in the womb – a ‘soul’ enters into us. And it is that soul that gives us our divine spark – our uniqueness. Has this bobby cottoned on to something really profound? I ponder on this for a while. ‘Are you saying that we have a soul? I ask.
‘Well, that’s one way of putting it. People tend to shy away when they hear “religious talk”. But these are just labels: people doing their best to describe something that is perhaps beyond description, beyond explanation – but nevertheless real.’
He’s got a point.
‘For example, Christians believe we are made in God’s Image. But I don’t think we should take that literally.’
‘No,’ I answer, ‘because if we took it to mean physically, what about all those poor sods who are crippled and deformed? What about dwarfs and hunchbacks?’
‘Exactly.’ Replies old Fastrack. ‘But if we took it to mean spiritually in God’s image, then that would make more sense. Wouldn’t it?’
‘Exactly how do you mean’. I am interested now.
‘Well, the God thing is just one way of putting it, but it would mean that we really were free to decide how we were going to live our life.’
‘You mean the ‘good’ or ‘evil’ choice’ I say, rather sarcastically.
‘I would put it more like choosing life rather than death’
I lean forward trying to see if he has a bible in his hand; he hasn’t. I try again. ‘But what exactly is the nature of this spirituality? That we share with God?’
‘I don’t think it’s something you can explain. You can only feel it’
I am a bit disappointed by his answer. ‘But that isn’t very scientific, is it?’
‘Why not?’ Are you saying that the only reality is that which we can apprehend by our intellect?’
‘OK. I suppose you are going to say that true science would expand to take in all phenomena; all ways of ‘knowing’?’
‘That’s about it’.
I am beginning to shiver. And I’m not sure it’s just because of the cold. He continues.
‘Do you have any children?’
‘Yes’.
‘Well, did you ever watch them when they were very young?’
‘Of course I did’ I am wary now.
‘And didn’t you think that they were something more that just the product of you and you partner?’
‘You mean just because you inherit your grandfather big nose, your mother’s taste for gin and your dad’s tendency to avoid work… it doesn’t mean you are a carbon copy?’
‘Exactly’
He is right or course. I often look at a young child in the street, with her mother, and think: you are more than the product of a…. I find it hard, even here up on the bridge to allow a word like shag to come into my mind. But it does.
No. Somehow the child transcends the parents – and when you see some of the parents… it’s just as well. My bridge partner is speaking:
‘And what about imagination? The ability to ‘see’ something before it has happened; which gives us the courage to take a leap into the dark? No. I would say that the past influences but it doesn’t determine.’

Suddenly I just want all this to end – somehow. I want someone to take the decision away from me.

‘If I come down you will arrest me’. I say, rather half-heartedly.
‘Why should I do that?’
‘Well, I’ve committed an offence, haven’t I?
‘Technically yes. But the paperwork! You wouldn’t believe it.’ A pause. ‘Look, me and my colleagues, we just want to get you down from there and then we can all go home… after we’ve had a chat’. He sort of tacks this last bit on, and I wonder what he means.
Holding tight to the rail, I take one last look at the sky. I’ll probably never get this close again. Not like this, anyway. And snatch of Dory Previn’s "Mythical Kings" is playing in my head - "I have flown to star-stained heights on bent and battered wings." Well, I’ve not actually flown, but I’ve come close.
I turn, and begin to ease myself slowly down the steel slope, sliding my right hand forward on the rail before I take the next step. Sam the bobby is standing there, watching me, anxiously. ‘Back off, Sam – I want to do this myself’.
Reluctantly he obeys. Turning, balancing gracefully on the narrow girder he walks to the wire, and jumps the six feet to the ground.
I feel strangely buoyant now. Confident, even. Maybe it’s the night air or the chat with this policeman – or both. But my head has cleared. The confusion that has clouded my brain for weeks has miraculously disappeared. I actually feel good.
The steel curve in front of me has become a wide road. I’m still holding on to the rail, but it’s dead easy now. My weight evenly balanced, I traverse the last few feet of the main arch, where the handrail ends. I straighten up to take the last few steps. Glancing down I see the little reception committee waiting for me. I smile to myself.
My right trainer hits the patch of oil.

The short arm of the law

He’s short for a copper. But of course now, what with ‘non discrimination’ and stuff, you can join the police whatever your height – I wonder if they have any dwarfs? Or midgets? Or what about one-armed policemen? Or WPC’s with a wooden leg? That would be true non-discrimination.
He swings himself up with an ease that shows his youth – he’s far more agile than me – and he’s on the girder. He picks his way delicately over the wire. ‘Watch out for that patch of oil’ I call out. There I go again, taking responsibility for everyone. I don’t know if he’s heard me.
In a matter of seconds he’s traversed that first sloping walkway – it took me minutes – and has reached the handrail at the start of the main arch. He stops, holding on to the rail. What’s he waiting for? A round of applause?
Suddenly, night turns to day. They’ve switched on the bridge lights. I find myself looking down a long, curving arc of steel, bolt-heads glinting in the electric glare. And fifty feet away, looking up at me, a rather small policeman with a strained, but determined expression on his rookie’s face.

That could have been me, thirty years ago. I applied for the police force. Got accepted too. Then, at the last minute, I got cold feet, and backed out. I don’t know that I would have made a good copper. I think I would have been too tolerant – me with my philosopher’s temperament. I would have always seen the other person’s point of view. And that is not a good trait for a policeman.

We stare at each other, for what seems minutes. Then,
‘Would you like to tell me your name?’
His voice is surprisingly melodious, and strong, for such a small person.
‘Not particularly’. I don’t want to encourage him.
‘My name’s Sam. Do you want to tell me what this is all about?’
‘Are you Jewish’ I call back.
‘No – why?’
‘Well, ‘Sam’ – short for Samuel; that’s a Jewish name’
‘ I’m C of E’
C of E. The old faithful. I’m C of E too. I was confirmed and all that. But it’s a long time ago. I’ve still got a photo though. I’m standing at the back of the group with a sort of sheepish grin. Come to think of it, I’ve got that same sheepish grin in most of the photos I’ve had taken. It’s almost like I’m apologising for being here. As if I am some kind of intruder, and shouldn’t be there at all.
I wonder if this Samuel person is a church-goer.
‘Do you believe in sin? I shout. He doesn’t reply; he’s thinking it over.
‘Well, I think we all know right from wrong’
Of course he would say that, he’s a policeman.
‘You speak for yourself’, I retort, ‘I’ve always had the greatest difficulty in knowing right from wrong.
‘Is that why you’re up there? Because you feel you’re a sinner?’
He’s inching slowly up the slope while he’s talking to me. He thinks I haven’t noticed.
‘Ok. That’s far enough’, in my sternest voice. He stops.
‘Well, we can hardly have a metaphysical discussion shouting at one another’. Oh, metaphysical. This must be one of their bright ones. What do they call them? Fast track? PC plod this month, sergeant the next, inspector the next. He’ll be Chief Superintendent within the year. Unless he cocks this one up.

‘No, that’s not the reason I’m up here’ In fact, I realise with a shock, it may be the real, the underlying reason.
‘So why are you up here then?’
‘Well, if you really want to know: I’ve travelled over this bridge hundreds of times; in a car; on a motor-bike; a push bike even. But always on the road. I wondered what it would be like to walk across over the arch, like’.
Sam ignores the sarcasm. ‘I came here from Birmingham. My dad got a job. When I first saw this bridge – I’d be about four – my dad told me that if you wanted to walk across, you had to climb the arch. I believed him. Funny what you believe when you’re a kid. Anything your parents tell you.’
Almost without thinking, I find myself saying ‘They fuck you up, your mum and dad…’
He finishes it off for me:
‘They may not mean to, but they do;
They give you all the faults they had
Then add some extra, just for you…’

I am impressed; a Philip Larkin fan! What did I tell you – he is fast track: a policeman who reads poetry. But the bugger’s started creeping up again. I make to put my leg over the rail. He stops. Sharpish.
‘Okay, Okay’.
I got him worried then. Fast track turns to slow lane if he loses a jumper.
I’m getting cramp now, in my right leg, the one on the side nearest the road. I flex my knee, taking care to hold tight to the red warning light. That’s better. Ignoring the policeman, I look up at the sky. I feel that if I reached up I could touch it. And all those stars; I know I keep going on about them but I’ve never seen them so close. And the nearest one is trillions of miles away – or so the astronomers tell us; they might be making it up for all I know. Still, it makes you think. Is there some divine plan? Some grand design? And if so, what’s my part in it? What’s this policeman’s part?
I glance down again. He’s sidled a few more inches up the arch. What does he think he’s doing? Trying to rescue me? From myself? He might at least have the courtesy to ask if I want to be rescued. But, you see, isn’t life like that? Always someone trying to rescue you from yourself: priests, teachers, therapists and, of course, policemen.
I look at my watch: two a.m. The tide will be starting to ebb. My hands are cold. I wish I hadn’t thrown my gloves away.

‘Isn’t there someone at home who will be getting worried about you?’
I’d almost forgotten about the copper.
‘I may be up here because I have nobody worrying about me. Didn’t they teach you better than that on the negotiator’s course?’ Silence. I bet he thinks I am a real smart arse.
‘I’m sorry’.
He sounds it too. His career might be hanging on this. Now I’m sorry, doubly sorry: sorry for the sarcastic comment, sorry for the uncharitable thought.
‘It’s ok. Actually I do have someone. But they won’t be worrying –they don’t know I’m here; not yet.
‘Is there someone you’d like us to get in touch with?’
‘The Dalai Lama – if you can reach him’.
‘Are you a Buddhist?’
‘I was being facetious’
‘I know’

Despite myself, I am beginning to like old Sam. This will not do. I must not be deflected from my purpose. But what is my purpose? For the first time tonight I am starting to have doubts.

Somebody down there likes me

One of the bobbies is shouting something at me. He’ll have to speak up. I haven’t got my hearing aid in. Mind you, I rarely wear it anyway. And I should do, really, because people can get quite irritated when I ask them to repeat things, two or three times.
There’s another car now. Coming from the opposite direction. It stops. More bobbies. They’re starting to put those red cones out in the road. Now what’s the point of that? They surely don’t think I’m going to jump down onto the road.

Do you believe in sin? My therapist doesn’t, but me? I don’t know. Mind you I’ve always felt guilty. I have sort of walked around with a cloud of guilt swirling around my head. Ready to alight on some deed or other, turning it into a mis-deed. The writer, Fay Wheldon, thinks guilt is a good thing because it acts as a spur to the conscience – something like that. I don’t agree. The kind of guilt I’m talking about doesn’t do anybody any good. I think you can learn from your actions – and their consequences – but that is not the same as guilt.
All this philosophising! A psychiatrist (another one) told me that I had the ‘philosopher’s temperament’. And I think he is right. I have always wanted to know ‘why’: why I am the way I am; why the world is the way it is; why some people are happy, and others sad; why some people go mad, whilst others remain sane: what is mad and what is sane? All these questions. Going around in my mind.
I can hear that bobby now; he must have turned up the wattage on the megaphone.
‘Come down off that bridge. Are you aware you are committing a criminal offence’.
Oh, that’s a good start, that is. He didn’t even call me “sir”. He must be straight out of the Joseph Stalin school of negotiating.

‘I am aware of that. officer.’ I shout back, ‘But that is the least of my worries’
There is a pause, while he consults with another bobby – probably his superior.
‘Why don’t you come down, sir. And we can talk about it’
Ah, I’ve got the “sir” now. And the tone has changed. They think they’ve got a “jumper”.
‘I can talk quite well from up her’, I shout. Actually, I can’t. I hate having to shout – it is so uncouth. And I am having to strain my vocal chords.
There is a small huddle of uniforms now. They seem to be discussing strategy. They may even decide to wait for a specially trained negotiator. They have them nowadays. That would be fun: professional negotiator versus professional therapist.

Silence. One of the bobbies is sitting in the car with the door open. He’s on the radio. Is he calling up a negotiator?

‘Come on mate, no matter what the problem is, we can sort something out.’
Mate! I’m not his mate.
‘Look it’s getting late and I’m sure you have got someone at home who’s worried about you.’
‘How do you know?’ I challenge him. ‘How do you know I’ve got anyone who gives a shit about me?’
Silence.

All the same, I feel sorry for this copper, for all of them. They’ve probably just come on shift. Hoping for a quiet night, so they can get their heads down in some lay-by. And here’s me deciding to go climbing. And now they have got to try and do something about it. Their job, their training demands that they try to talk me out of jumping. Personally, of course, they understand that the quickest way to resolve this embarrassing situation would be for me to jump. And yet, think of all the extra paper-work that would involve! No, it’s a tricky one, this.
Still, if I did jump they could whistle up the paramedics and – Hello! They already have! Here comes the “hurry-up wagon” as my Liverpool friend used to call it. Anyway, it’s zooming up the ramp, lights flashing, heehawing like mad. A bit over the top, I would say. Oh, rather inappropriate choice of words there.
I turn away from the scene below. The little group of “emergency services” (I like that phrase – so reassuring) has grown: police fluorescent green now enlivened by blobs of paramedic orange. My hands are still gripping tightly to the handrail, even though this makes me bend in a sort of crouch. I suppose from below it looks like I am about to jump. But I’m not. I’m looking at the stars.
They look so close. I feel I could reach out and touch them. I wish I knew their names. No I don’t. I read a poem once. “Blue Umbrellas” it was called. It was about how we diminish things by giving them names. How we “mar great works, by our mean recital.” I believe that. We stick labels on things and think we have got them pinned down; think that by giving them a name we understand them. When, in fact, the more we name and label, the further away we are moving from the reality. The Zen Buddhists know that, but you don’t get many of them around here.

Something’s happening down there. A figure has detached itself from the huddle. I can’t see too clearly, but it’s a policeman; he is striding purposefully towards the steelwork. Oh, I don’t believe it! He’s not going to climb up after me? He is!

Life is an acquired taste

I got married when I was twenty-one, an age far too young to get married. But I feel now that any age is too young to get married.
I had just come out of the army; Georgina had just come out of the cinema. We were both lonely, and clung to one another.
And now I am clinging to the steelwork of this bridge. I am much higher now and can feel the force of the wind trying to pluck me off the girder. But I’m feeling more confident. What I’m doing is, I’m pretending I’m one of the maintenance men working on the bridge. I’m a professional. It’s all in a day’s work to me. I actually begin to whistle. I can’t whistle very well. My auntie Nellie now, she could whistle. She would put two fingers in her mouth and emit the most ear-splitting shriek. She tried to teach me but I could never master it. I think I was too much the ‘little-gentleman’ when I was a boy. My mother always wanted me to be a ‘little gentleman’. And I was. George came along later.

I could be in an aeroplane now. I’m so high up. I hadn’t realised how far I’d climbed. I wanted to be a pilot. But I didn’t have the maths. You have to have the maths to be a pilot. And I didn’t have the maths. But I did have one flying lesson. And I also took a gliding course. I did very well. The instructor said I had a natural aptitude.

The curve in front of me is much shorter now. And suddenly the fear has gone. Now, isn’t that odd. I can look down without getting that bottom-dropping-out-of-my-stomach feeling. I look down onto the water, way, way down below. How many feet? Can’t be bothered to work it out. It’s beautiful: a silver mirror. No it isn’t. It’s water. The river: more beautiful than an old silver mirror.

It was all getting a bit flat and stale, when Sydney came along. He wasn’t planned. But the universe wasn’t planned. They say it started with a big bang. How very appropriate – a big fuck. And here we are, trying to make sense of it, when there is nothing to make sense of.

But I loved the little boy; we both did. Still do – each in our own peculiar way. And perhaps we still love each other, but it just isn’t working. It hasn’t been working for a long time. Good intentions are not enough.

I am close to the top now. The red light is dazzling me: a huge lantern thing. You wouldn’t think it was so big, from down on the road.
Suddenly there are lights down there: a car, going very slowly. Wait a bit. He’s stopping. It’s a police car: a dinky police car. And two coppers are getting out: dwarfs with flat hats. What are they doing? Are they looking for someone? George – you fool! They’re looking for you!
Torch beams begin to sweep over the girders; twin searchlights, criss-crossing, like in the war when they were trying to get an enemy aircraft in the cone of light where two searchlights cross. And then they find me: first one and then the other. And there I am, in the spotlight, centre stage.
Instead of an ‘ack ack’ barrage, a metallic voice opens up. One of the dwarfs has a loud hailer. This should be fun.

Towards a red light

Be careful. It’s been raining and the steel is slippery. Also it’s a bit windy when you get this high. I say ‘this high’: I have not yet begun the real climb. I am wearing trainers; not very expensive ones. Not Nike or anything like that. These are from Marks & Spencers – but I guess they’ll do the job.

SHIT! That was close. There’s oil on this girder. Patches of it. My left trainer just skidded and went over the edge. I’m hanging on. So tight my knuckles are aching. My right knee is down on the cold steel. It’s hurting like hell where those big knobbly bolt-heads are pressing into it. My chest is almost up against the girder. I’m clinging like some geriatric limpet to the arching superstructure. And I am sweating now, despite the cold night air. And frightened.
Slowly, very slowly, I bend my left knee and start to inch it back up. Now it’s against the steel lip. But my forearm is in the way. How did that happen.
I know what it is. When I slipped, my body flattened itself against the girder. Now I will have to straighten up. Shit and more shit. I’ll have to let go with my left hand while I get my knee back on the girder.
The wind seems to have increased in strength. I can’t do it. I can’t let go. I think I have stopped breathing. I will myself to slowly lift my body away from the safety of the steel and release my arm. I can now drag my knee, painfully, up over the edge of the girder. I hear myself breathing a prayer.

Do you believe in God? Does God believe in you? I think about God quite a lot.
The other day I wondered whether God was not a person, an entity, or a thing at all – but a process. And to look for God ‘out there’ or even within is futile. Just like trying to cut open the brain and look for the mind. It is not there, because the mind is a process not a thing.
I still pray though.

I look up again at the red light; it is nearer now. The bridge is on the final approach to Liverpool Airport. (Actually, it’s ‘John Lennon Airport’ now – I wonder what old John would have thought of that: I imagine him, up there somewhere – laughing)
Here comes an aeroplane now. He’s got his headlights on, and he is so low the beams pick out the steel tracery. I wonder if he can see me up here? If he does, I imagine he will radio ahead, and there will be a patrol car out here right quick. They don’t half get worried when someone climbs up on the girders. They close the bridge while they try to talk them down. And all the motorists are cursing and saying ‘Why doesn’t the daft bugger jump, and I can get home for my tea.’
For some reason I start to think about Georgina.

CLIMBING

The massive green girder arches away from me, up into the night sky. It must be getting on for one o clock. They turn the floodlights off at midnight. There’s just the red light on the very top of the arch. It is a warning to aircraft to keep away. But to me, it beckons seductively.

I crouch forward and grip the edges of the steel on either side. This is no good. I can’t feel the metal properly through my thick woollen gloves. I pull them off and throw them over the parapet. As if on cue, the moon slides out of the thick cloud cover, and I watch the gloves spiralling lazily downwards. Floating down, down. I am not very good at judging distances but it is a long way. And then I see them alighting gently on the water. Yes the tide is in. I thought it would be.

It’s funny how it is the little things in life, the ‘accidents’, which make all the difference. I mean you plan and plan, and have got things all worked out, and one day you walk down a street and bump into someone, a perfect stranger – and everything changes. Do you believe in coincidences? Or do you prefer Jung’s notion of synchronicity: When an inwardly perceived event is seen to have correspondence in external reality? Buggered if I know.

I take hold again of the steelwork. God it is so cold. But at least I can get a good grip now.

The girder, which forms the main left span of the bridge, is about eighteen inches wide. I had thought this would feel like crawling up a pavement, but I am surprised now how the width seems to have shrunk alarmingly. I inch my way slowly, forwards and upwards. The bolt heads sticking out of the metal give me a reasonable foothold, but I was never a climber, and I did not realise how difficult this would be.

I was talking about my mother earlier. Well I didn’t exactly bump into her as I was walking down the street, but she certainly had a great influence on my life. And, by extension, on the lives of those people I met later on. Funny, but I’ve never thought of it like that before. And of course, she is still influencing us all, even though she has been dead for years. But isn’t that what life is like? We all influence each other. I often think we are like pebbles on the beach. We get our shape by bashing into all the other pebbles around us; have the corners and sharp edges rounded as time goes by. Of course, we haven’t got as much time as the pebbles on the beach. Unless the process continues in the next life. If you believe in a next life. I want to. Believe in a life after death, I mean There is so much to do. You can’t fit it all into one lifetime, can you.