Sleepwalking in Belfast - Part One

I checked my appearance in Moore’s Pharmacy Store window on Botanic Avenue. Average height, average weight, average looks; everything average. You see people like me everywhere—whether it’s New York, Paris, London or Belfast—if you take time to look.

I glanced at my watch. She was late. We met yesterday for the first time. She was just another pretty girl walking down Botanic Avenue. Our eyes didn’t meet until she dropped a glove. I called after her, waving the glove to get her attention. She thanked me with a shadow of a smile and resumed walking. I ran after her. She laughed when I said I was new in town.

I asked bluntly if she was free tonight. Perhaps to Natalie it was my illusionary arrogance, but she stopped, smiled and looked at me from head to toe. She became prettier by the minute. She had never considered doing such a thing before, though said it might be pleasurable.

Walking away she said, “Eight o’clock at Moore’s Pharmacy Store ..."

A thin breeze and a twinkle of neon helped relieve my tension as I stood outside the store. I had given up hope when a hand suddenly gripped my wrist ushering me along the street.

“Just follow me.” It was Natalie, the voice and fragrance unmistakable.

“What’s going on? Why the dark glasses … the headscarf?!” I found her demeanour unsettling.

“I think I’m being followed. Just trust me.” I looked round and saw what appeared to be a caravan of Japanese sightseers coming behind armed with a million cameras. “Japanese?!”

“No!” she responded. “I’ll explain when we get to proper surroundings.”

As we turned the corner Natalie hailed a taxi. Soon it was speeding towards the city centre.

“Why the disguise?”

When she turned towards me some of the apprehensions about the situation disappeared, her eyes sparkled.

“What’s your name anyway?” she smiled.

“Ronnie . . .” I stuttered. “Ronnie.”

She held out her right hand and we shook hands briefly. “Well, Ronnie, it’s good to meet you. I don’t normally talk to strange men in the street, but I made an exception in your case for some strange reason. I admired your style. Hope my intuition hasn’t let me down,” she winked.

“Where are you from?”

“Back there,” I replied, nodding towards the Pharmacy Store. “My past started at Botanic Avenue. Eight-fifteen to be precise.”

“Are you for real?” she laughed, looking at my face. “I guess you are. You’re sitting right beside me.”

The sky was darkening and streaked with scarlet clouds. She asked the taxi driver to pull over. Natalie paid our entrance fee into a small, gloomy cinema where several people were watching an old movie.

“This is my favourite film. I’ve seen it a thousand times … The Maltese Falcon with Humphrey Bogart. Try to chill out.” She took my right hand and caressed it. “You’re too uptight.” Natalie resumed watching the screen. “Sydney Greenstreet as ‘Kasper Gutman’ has some great lines in this film. Anyway, if anyone should be worried it should be me,” she half-smiled.

“I thought we were on a date?”

“We are. I want to discuss a proposition. This place is as good as any.” Even in the dark I could see her soft wavy hair and full crimson lips, and bask in her fragrance.

She resumed watching the screen. Now and then she would glance at me and extend a wink.

“Why me?”

“I don’t like Prima Donnas—tall, pretty boys with strong chins—always someone telling them how great they are. Anyway, you can’t tell someone’s good just by looking at their face, can you?” she said, producing an easy, playful laugh.

Natalie returned to the film. “This is my favourite part. Listen and watch closely. This is amazing dialogue.”

I watched Natalie as she mimed in unison with the film. “Well, sir, here’s to plain speaking and clear understanding. You’re a close-mouthed man? - I like to talk - I’m a man who likes talking to a man who likes to talk.”

She turned and winked again, and it worked every single time. Even though I felt things could descend into a kaleidoscopic nightmare at any moment, I was, for now, mesmerised.


To be continued ...


Reflections: Everyone needs dreams. Some men love soft delicate dreams, and soft delicate woman. I know a woman who loves a man whom she believes does not dream. Yet, jealousy of his thoughts keep her awake. He is a master of deception. Her virtue, wise or unwise, lies in her performance.

A Faint Injured Air, Doctor Wobbleski, and "Sometimes Words Serve No Purpose"

Today I'm quite sick. My head feels like it's made of wood. My temperature is leaping about on the roof of a neighbour's car. I am suffering - to a degree - triple sensory impairment which is affecting my sight, hearing, and smell. I'm surrounded by a faint injured air. Have I a cold, a heavy cold, or a very heavy cold? I'll weight it later when I'm feeling better. The headlines in the morning newspaper confirm a "heavy cold" is sweeping the country. Surely that's a job for Council personnel, not a heavy cold? I considered embracing a tin of meat for comfort when Doctor Wobbleski strutted into my bedroom. Given that I was downstairs in my living room I found his behaviour outrageous!

He had brought his three-pointed, black and white beard which looked ridiculous hanging out of his trouser pocket. He spoke simple, terrible words! "You scum!" I stayed silent. Although I had the gift of the gab I was damned if I was going to give it back. I resumed listening to myself growing old. I glanced at Doctor Wobbleski. He looked like a man who worked hard all day but had nothing to show for it. His jacket was shapeless, baggy; totally in league with his face.

'Well, doctor,' I said, in a polite murmur, 'what do you think?' He seemed indecisive, scratched himself, ignored me, and attended to the "faint injured air"! Suddenly, I remembered why I dislike people who smell of carbolic acid.

I began to howl - as most hypochondriacs do for attention - but the doctor told me to be quiet. My anxiety for my health persisted. Meanwhile, the doctor made vague promises he would tend to me shortly. I watched as he grunted like a pig while examining the injured air.

'I'm at a loss, ' he said. 'Of course, I don't know what's going on inside ... No, indeed ... But you look in terrible shape ... It has been a cold winter. I do believe you've caught a dreadful cold. I'll give you something for the cough'. The injured air looked paler than ever, and had another coughing fit. The doctor enlightened the injured air of the benefits of a refreshing trip to the seaside, or to a quiet corner of a park. He felt it would help its mood, ease its headaches. He further prescribed excitement, music, curiosity, a change in diet, and whistling.

Just as I felt all was lost, Doctor Wobbleski approached. He felt my pulse, listened to the blood racing through my body, then shook his head. I sat motionless, anxious, covered in dandruff. 'You're in a dreadful state ... You smell like a mouldy rope, and worst, look like one ... Do you want my advice?' he said, clearly intent in getting out of my house as quickly as possible. 'You've lost your spirit, ' he replied, looking at nothing, and thinking of nothing. 'First of all, take that cigar out of your left nostril, your glasses out of your mouth, and your false teeth out of your ears ... Get out of bed ... shave ... go out into the street and kiss the first women you meet who is blessed with full, pale thighs ... Also, get a job that doesn't involve work, and remember ... It may be foggy, but it's not raining ...whatever the hell that means!'

After Doctor Wobbleski left, I thought while sometimes I feel I live by myself - like a god or an animal - I can't afford to waste a minute of time looking back on my life. I felt an intense inner glow deep inside melting the icepack that had built up over the last thirty years. I recalled that no one really sleeps alone. Not while memory exists. I put on an extra layer of clothing and got into a warm scented bath. I lit my cigar and dozed with Pleasure, a young lady friend who rinsed my back with her soft hands ...

Reflections: Sometimes words serve no purpose, especially when you know the score, the person, their pleasure in complaining about all things on this earth. In such circumstances music is hard to resist. It enters your soul and heart, and you don't require to debate, argue, proffer advise you never take yourself. Sometimes silence speaks for itself and brings peace.

Of course, some people and things - once important - lose their impact on us over time. Loss of colour and ambivalence speed their demise, and our conviction towards them. Something to be celebrated, surely?

Little Brain & Big Brain, Journalists & Politicians, and "Are We Doomed to Torture Each Other?"

I profess to ignorance, stupidity, to wear a mask that sometimes slips, and to be the owner of a small brain - not a large brain - a little brain. I tend to jump to conclusions about issues happening all over our dear planet. Test me on any subject. I know human existence is stressful, just pick any subject. Any subject at all ... Tomorrow? Well, if you wish ...? Why the silence? No doubt you're right ... I've no patience. My little brain is spluttering thinking of all the questions one can be asked. Some people appear to be blessed with a big brain; one that belonged to a pretentious charlatan and now belongs to them.

Is there an excuse for the above paragraph? Well, ... Yes! The exact issues and journalistic reports are immaterial, and this personal view is not directed at authentic, serious, accomplished journalists and politicians.

This is what happened today. I listened to journalists and politicians on the television and radio, and evidently some seem to believe their thinking and utterances are of special importance. Indeed, superior and of greater significance, to that of doctors, psychologists, philosophers, painters, musicians, etc. Indeed, any other human being on this planet. Give them any subject: the economy, accountability, finance, morality, the role of men and woman in society and culture, motherhood, careers, education, health, prosperity, advertising, mental health, infidelity, how to raise healthy children, religion, automatic washers and driers, gourmet cooking, frozen dinners, interior decorating, fashion, political and social events, flight attendants, dieting, sex, childcare, shipbuilding, pregnancy, fertility, ad infinitum. Then listen and watch as they speak and write with a "drainpipe mentality".

However, their depth of thought and insight into certain issues may be patently shallow, and subsequently their words highlight their ignorance, and unsavoury ability to jump to conclusions on complex matters without access to the full facts. It's a real challenge to listen to their unenlightening, unintelligible, absurd rantings. Of course, the full picture behind the story will emerge, and the newspaper, magazine, and television editors, and staff, can celebrate their role in presenting - not only the telling details - but the dirt dug up to dupe readers into believing it is in their interest, and is necessary to provide a full and accurate picture of the issue.

Life is difficult enough without listening to people talking and writing about other peoples lives, problems, burdens, as if they - alone - possess a unique insight. Inept journalists and politicians should leave people to confront and solve their own painful problems. As we should do ours. Are we - on this dear planet - doomed to torture each other, emotionally and psychologically, for ever?

Hopefully, daylight will arrive soon, and shine light on these motionless, standing, robotic creatures. No-one is totally innocent of anything. A lesson some journalists and politicians have still to learn.

Reflections: By appearance solitude does not deserve praise. However, gazing into empty space has its reward - sometimes you may find something of value.

My Mother's Mince Pies, A Brown Parcel, and Spam and Eggs

Christmas reminds me of my mother's mince pies. She used to throw them at me just as dusk was falling and shout, 'Get a bloody job, and don't come back until you've got one!' Then she would slam the front door. The fact I was eight years old never entered - what I believe to be - an irrational mind. I remember sitting for several hours in a snowdrift listening to the church bells ringing in the distance. I wondered what would be in my brown parcel on Christmas Day? I knew I'd swear and curse if it was mincemeat again.

My elder brother always received the best present: a wooden train set, a plastic trumpet, or a Cowboy Annual. Who in their right mind gives a son mincemeat? My sister once got a wig? What was that all about? Darned if I know? It's not like she was bald, or anything.

My mother often sent me away with cold ironic words: “How nice!” "Whatever!" "Don't forget to write!" "What occupation have you then?!" and tell me to give them to our next door neighbour. I believe my mother may have been struck on the head with a heavy object when she was young, or perhaps had lived too long with old furniture. She once made me sit in our dustbin for three hours because I said Grandmother smelled funny. I've fond memories of Christmas, especially Christmas Eve, when I was allowed into the house to sleep in a warm bed.

I have no photographs of my mother during that time but I remember she resembled Santa Claus to a degree: her red nose, black hooded eyes filled with resentment, pale face, long hair, and white scraggly beard (she made a point of not shaving at Christmas). As she served our Christmas meal - spam and eggs - she smoked a cigar and downed shots of whisky.

The brown parcels were not handed out until the meal was consumed and the table cleared. My father twisted his vocal chords in an attempt to sing a carol, and we all clenched our teeth waiting for its painful demise. I believe it may be the only time we felt like a real family. Then the radio would be switched on - tuned to some station broadcasting melancholy classical music. Suddenly, I understood the need for Buddhism, though I had never heard of it.

While the radio crackled my father would exchange his normal attire for women's clothes?! He would make a short speech about Santa being bi-sexual or something(?!) and imitate our next-door neighbours who - at this juncture - were usually glaring through our front window.

The brown parcels containing our present would then be handed out by my father dressed in drag. I remember feeling faint with rage. A bloody hamburger! I threw the uncooked meat in the direction of my father's new dress, cursed and sweared, and ran out into the cold, crisp air.

That night I rode the subway all night from north of of the Bronx to Coney Island. I hadn't even five cents so I slipped under the turnstile. My heart beat in time with the falling snowflakes. I drifted in and out of sleep. I was a kid, small, with my nose close to the ground, and a curious imagination. I could sense more magical moments, unexpected sights, and wonders lay up ahead.

Reflections: The street outside my house is covered in snow. The wind is bitter and the absence of pedestrians and children is proof of severe weather conditions. One of the great things about Christmas is that you can relax with family, relatives and friends and just be yourself. There is no one to impress. Time to put away the mask. It's a relief to see the faces of people you love, or to hear their voices on the telephone.

All relationships endure conflict at some stage. Hopefully, there is enough love, courage, strength and understanding to ensure it does not persist a lifetime. Life is too short. No minute, hour, or day of the year exists without someone, somewhere, on this earth, thinking about a beloved family member, relative, friend - they though was indestructible - who has died, or become ill. Then our worst fears are realized.

Enjoy those times when the gentle wind blows, and life tastes warm, refreshing, better. And the sound of laughter fills the air.

Merry Christmas to all.

Dedicated to the memory of my mother Tilly Kerrigan (1926 - 2004)

Six Wives (Who's Counting?), My First Day at Work, and "Are You a Disciple or an Enemy?"

I've just married for the sixth or seventh time. I first met Mona in the Louvre in Paris. In fact, it was three days ago. There was mystery in her smile - it didn't have an 'e'. Of course, Mona is not the first female I've met who has cried, or said, "I'm unhappy," as we start to make love. I know some people cry after passionate activity; that's understandable. Frankly, it stifles my performance when a woman sobs at the mere thought of lovemaking, halfway through, or shrieks, "Monster!" at me when in the throes of unfettered lust. It only increases my complexes of failure.

My neighbour, Ivor Whoopingcough, was overwhelmed with Mona's beauty, charm, and intelligence. "She's well-knit that one. It's a delight to watch her ... You must feel happier in bed again ..." His left eye kept winking at his right eye. I hardly knew what to say. I could tell he was thinking hard about Mona. He asked if I was still close to my ex-wife's. When I replied, "Yes. They're all buried in my back garden", he laughed so stupidly, I almost felt alone. He thought I was joking. It's only natural, I suppose.

Ah, my first day in permanent employment. A creature who sat at a desk every day. A man at the elevator said he had been standing on the same spot for two years. He couldn't have been more gloomy. "They take on anybody here. Leave your brain at the door. You're not paid to think, you're paid to do. The funny think," he continued, "is that after a while everyone grows tired and tends to look alike, both male and female. I don't know about you, but I despise dead people". He give me a strange look and stepped into the empty elevator shaft. His last words? "Always check the elevator is in the shaft .........." I never got to thank him.

There are two ways of getting into a rut; sleepwalking, or enduring the misery. I became a hamster on a wheel. Suddenly, I felt old. I became a different person. In the space of a few days I heard stories about affairs, selfishness, insincerity, fraud. The boss had rings under his eyes, a face that turned from pale to red like traffic lights, four strands of hair to cover his baldness, and dashed around mostly with his feet of the ground. Of course, he was screwing his secretary - it was common knowledge - and quite honestly she wasn't up to much.

The place was full of hypocrites who mistakenly sustained a high opinion of themselves. An opinion not shared by their work colleagues (in private), their spouses, or lovers'. Indifference and despair hung like a heavy cloud. I'm sure jealousy kept some staff awake at night. I'm sure it still does. No one who needs release is immune from seeking, or harbouring thoughts of guilty pleasures.

In this concrete environment you become a disciple, or an enemy. The workplace gargles with it. I hadn't the resolve to resign. I wish I had. I was losing something with every hour that passed. Of course, I had yet to acquire the wisdom to stop and question how best to go forward with my life. Perhaps a different path?

Reflections: Who am I? Indeed, who is anyone to judge the desires and hearts of others' when we know so little of our own?

The workplace has its share of women who sob, and men who speak disparagingly of others', and vice versa. The rituals of scapegoating, and the figurative stoning to death of fellow human beings, will prevail as long as workplaces exist. Unfortunately, human malice and greed has no boundaries. Anyway, use what energy you have left after work has exhausted you, to seek what little pleasure, and life, you may have left. Sometimes years of servitude count for nothing but the demise of your soul.

My Father, Uncle Hoppy, and a Family Feud

I come from a respectable, humble family. My father is a great game hunter. One memorable afternoon he found a complete Scrabble Deluxe crossword game, a Snakes and Ladders game board and three dancing dice doing the Tango in a Strip Joint in London. He is an excellent horseman and swimmer. Unfortunately, this has resulted in the death of a number of horses due to their failure to execute the Butterfly stroke successfully, or understand the meaning of the "prone position".

My father is tall, attractive, full of vitality, and is at one with nature. His sympathy with birds borders on the remarkable. In fact, he flies south each fall with a flock of warblers he counts as dear friends. Ladies are irresistibly drawn to him and at the last count fifty-three people in our town bear a striking resemblance to him right down to the "mark of the beast" on their foreheads, and the wearing of bizarre Ascot hats. There is a story in the family that he remains traumatised by a bowl of leftover Banana and semolina sheera he seen as a child.

Of course, everyone within a family likes to score points and "family feuds" provide an emotional battleground par excellence. Children must compete with each other for their parents' attention and it is well known that "pecking order" shapes one's personality. One room is too small to contain the egos of a father, mother, brother, sister, and antique vanity furniture. With the rich the feud may be about property, inheritance, money. The poor? Who eat the last chocolate digestive biscuit?"

Anyway, my Uncle Hoppy - who was born with grey hair, and always wears black (even while bathing) - arrived at my father's house one day. Hoppy's hobbies included shovelling manure and disguising himself as Portland Place in London. For some reason an American bison accompanied him everywhere. He treated her like a mistress (?!), dressed her up, and took her on romantic outings. To the bison, I guess, it was love without responsibility.

The trouble started when Hoppy's wife discovered the bison was pregnant. Uncle Hoppy was adamant that while he did not love the bison, he had at last met a creature he truly connected with; someone to hug, kiss, and who talked with genuine conviction about their commitment to individual liberty rather than group-think and articulated what Hoppy also believed: "I'm tired being someone other people want me to be."

Well, as expected, the incident caused a "feud" within the family that surpassed previous family feuds. The news proved devastating. Some family members seethed with rage, some wept, some played Russian roulette with six rounds in their six-shot revolvers, some bitterly quarreled about the consequences for the "good" family name. What name would the offspring be given? Others' sat exhausted by laughter. Yes, laughter. Previous feuds were brought up and dissected like raw meat. Some family members ran out of the house and took to the air never to be seen again! It was clear, however, that Hoppy and the bison felt unease about their future.

A month later Hoppy phoned me. His voice sounded weary but he said they were happy. They were living in a one-room apartment in the south of France. The bison was taking dancing lessons. I remembered she was strong-minded; a creature of action, not words. He added that she wished to become a ballet dancer after the birth. I wished them well. What does it matter, after all, as long as they are happy? Their passion will weary. It always does. However, no-one wishes an affair to end in failure, except the cold of heart.

Reflections: Nobody's life is someone else's life. Those who accept powerlessness, total passivity, cease to exist in a meaningful way and help to create sadness, confusion and pain for others: family, friends, work colleagues. Some individuals will always find reasons to persecute, judge, sentence and punish fellow human beings. We must face our own nightmares and solve them. Who else will do it?

My Current Girlfriend, A Burnt Wig, and Just One Lifetime

I met my current girlfriend, Kerstin, in a drive-thru pharmacy where she is the Chief Pharmacist. While she looked weary, I was drawn to her intense blue eyes, the curve of her lips, her natural dark brown hair, her overt beauty. I also felt attracted to the tattoo lettering on her forehead: Shake Well Before Use. I tried to cheer her up with a few witticisms. It seemed to work. She listened and smiled, 'You're crazy'. Then she laughed, 'You're crazy.'' I worried this might be the extent of her vocabulary? Thankfully, I was mistaken.

She has a habit of pinching my cheek but always brings it back. She enjoys it when I quietly plead,'Who's stolen my soft, well-shaved cheek?' 'What shall I do without it?' Infantile, I know, but if it makes Kerstin laugh, I'm happy to oblige. Kerstin loves dancing. I love shooting inanimate objects. Perhaps that's why she doesn't hear every word I say to her. She's too busy dodging bullets.

The inevitable road to decay in our relationship hasn't set in yet. I give it another three months, or, until my ammunition runs out. Kerstin can be sensitive and ask stupid questions: "Am I beautiful?" "Is my sister prettier than me?" "What time's tea?" She's still cute, so I take whatever she throws my way, including furniture.

Today a passer-by told me my hair was on fire. Unfortunately, I left it on the train. I immediately ran down the rail track like an escaped convict. I had to retrieve the wig at all cost as it belongs to my neighbour, Herry Guttenchest, who likes his hair uncombed, not half-cooked. He had kindly lent me his wig to wear (crooked, of course) in a "police lineup". It appears the victim - Monsieur Flambé - had the sharp creases stolen from both trouser legs while going to the top of the Eiffel Tower. What if the assailant looked like me? Who would believe it wasn't me?

As I raced past a station platform I was chastised by waiting passengers for never being on time. I remember thinking I would write to the newspapers regarding this matter when I suddenly fell from a railway bridge into a river. Some men on a barge fished me out. The water was icy and black. I asked if they'd seen a burnt wig. My inquiry was met with silence, distrust, strange looks. I knew they thought I tried to drown myself.

I had to think fast. YES ...! I'd bath and tell Herry Guttenchest his wig had been stolen. To make it viable I'd say the assailant had one-leg, and had been riding a unicycle sideways down an escalator in a store downtown. He should buy that; he bought the wig, after all? I started to laugh. The men on the barge looked at me with bewilderment and silence.

Reflections: One tends to make a lot of mistakes in just one lifetime. For example:

• measuring a lover's arm with a spring tape measure during lovemaking;
• following a spouse disguised as a cigar, a dress maker's dummy, three policemen, or, an adjoining room, to establish if they are up to no good, or, at least, shoulder height;
• saying 'perhaps', enigmatically, too often;
• helping someone on with their overcoat while they are sound asleep in bed;
• mimicking the cry of the Great Black-backed Gull during a long silence at a senior management meeting;
• placing soap on interior door handles, cupboard and drawer knobs, and your Grandfather, etc., while leaving a nanny in charge. Then have the audacity to shake their hand when they depart to see if they have tampered with your possessions, or, indeed, your Grandfather's;
• misconceive the green grass in a field swaying in the breeze to be an ocean and decide to go scuba diving.

I could conclude the list with something memorable but who would remember it?

German Tunes, Beta Blocker, and "The Seagull"

I've fond memories of my first wife. If only I could find them? One Sunday while throwing stones at a neighbour's house - they constantly complained about the noise of our gramophone which only played German tunes - I saw her for the first time. That morning I felt like an empty bus going back to the depot but I couldn't find one without a driver. Suddenly pleasure came back into my life; albeit temporarily.

In the half-light - a slender girl with a pale face named, Beta Blocker - looked beautiful with her crossed legs, crossed arms, and crossed eyes. It was only when she stepped into the full light I could see all her sensitivity. She only had two teeth: an upper and a lower at the front, which she brushed with vigour. If only she had used toothpaste ...? She talked without thinking and I thought without talking. Did I love her? No. Did she love me ? No. At least, we had something in common. Something attracted me to her. It may have been clean undergarments?

I was only eighteen when we decided to run away. For a while we were as thick as pillows. I once give her a black eye and she refused to take it! Then a split lip. She refused that too! How could I express my feelings for her? I became panic-stricken and confused. I began to speak with an American accent and wear lip gloss on my nose. Then it became all surface, a calamity, my stomach ulcer made its debut in Bjornson's "Mary Stuart" as a lord with one line to speak. The ulcer became inconsolable and used to shut itself in the washing machine and weep. It finally left to join a group of painters and writers in a little village in France. It writes occasionally, but still forgets to include two 'C's.

My marriage to Beta disintegrated and we began to despise each other. She always appeared drunk at half-past nine each morning - one hour after me - which I found irritating and deplorable. I became tired of sweat and perfume so we give our dog to a neighbour. It now works as a Security Consultant at a large Parisian department store. It has nothing more in the world to hope for.

Sometimes I think of Beta ... the half-light, how her heart never deceived me, our time spent together hugging, kissing, playing with each other, and talking about the angle a bowler hat should be worn. Of course, we were both temperamental ... and our failure to communicate struck us both dumb. We once met unexpectedly in a shop window display. We both had toneless voices and frightened each other. As we said goodbye I fell down a hole in the sidewalk. It made us smile, laugh, cheer. For a moment we both felt liberated. As I suppose the people watching on the street, the sidelines, also did.

Reflections: While in New York in March 2008 my wife, Sylvia, and I attended a production of "The Seagull" by Anton Chekhov at the Classic Stage Company. I've always enjoyed this mysterious and mystical play. It shows one can be separated by centuries, continents, and language from an author, playwright, etc., and still find their works compelling. This play still resonates with a contemporary audience and touches upon eternal and important questions about life.

We were lucky to get tickets and to be seated in a side front row. The play and cast were outstanding. The actors included Dianne Wiest, Alan Cumming, and Kelli Garner who was especially remarkable as Nina. We had the good fortune to speak with Dianne, Alan, and Kelli after the performance. I was astounded when Kelli said she had been playing to me during the performance. I felt honoured and felt an irresistible urge to tell everybody within shouting distance and beyond. As Kelli - a gifted young actor, and a strikingly beautiful girl - walked away into the dark, rainy night my wife touched my arm and brought me back to reality.

The Recession, Subtitles, and A Book Launch

Presently, I've more debts than clothes, more toes than my left foot can accommodate, a home that slopes precariously towards the sea, and a dog that believes it's the reincarnation of Cyrano de Bergerac. It wears a large prosthetic nose over its left eye and looks remarkably like Nicole Kidman as Virginia Woolf in the film "The Hours". Instead of barking the dog shouts at me through a 30W megaphone: "Lug your guts away, salami, or stay and I'll remove you slice by slice!"

Am I the only person who covers his head during the day and stares wide-eyed into the darkness? I've just made a swift decision. It took me three days and five nights looking through a bored hole into my neighbour's house. We must move to a smaller house with a cheaper rent or preferably no rent at all. Christmas will soon be upon us and we are not prepared, financially or emotionally, for its arrival. At least my wife and I will not have to worry about where to hide presents this year. I'd run away but I can't find my red goose feather parasol collection.

Just between ourselves, in a bid to live on less during the current recession, my family and I have moved to a deserted farm which has no electricity. The house is surrounded by mud, rabbits, carrots, and thickets; similar to the interior. To save cash, my wife no longer dyes her mustache and we use candles to see in the dark. The candles are kept in a sealed box. You might find this foolish, however, the sealed box is in a hardware shop in the village waiting to be purchased. In this way, we save as much cash as possible. We also spend more time outdoors where its warmer, and sleep huddled together in a tall iron stove located in the kitchen. Thank goodness we've no coal to burn ...

To add to my despair my wife is speaking with a dubbed voice! It sounds like German or Spanish? Neither of which I am familiar. Quite honestly, I find her action deplorable. She could have the decency to provide "subtitles", or "inter titles" commonly seen in silent films. The result? I am confused about my feelings towards her. In fact, I don't recognise the woman I married two weeks ago. The photographs of our wedding are of little value; all night shots taken with a camera with no flash.

I think she's already cheating. Yesterday she quickly ducked into the oven to take a phone call. The chicken we were cooking for lunch took the opportunity to jump out and used a spare key to vacate the house. I alerted the cops. They said it successfully crossed the border in a stolen car and was last seen at a Burger King drive thru.

Last week I travelled to London to attend the launch of my book: "Fifty Ways to Approach an Incandescent Light Bulb While Disguised as a Cabbage". The event was catastrophic. Why? After I read from the book, talked about light bulbs and cabbage, and hosted a Question and Answer session, the idiot responsible for the launch of the book used too much explosive. The book shot into the sky and is currently orbiting the bald head of a man in Alaska called Mr Ima Tuna.

Reflections: How quickly the faces of some people you have known well can change from one of beauty to one of ugliness; of sensitivity to one of hate; from real to caricature; of truth to a refuge for lies, ignorance, conceit. An intuitive momentary glance, however, will confirm the slow decay of existence, the rapid passage of time, and how the past remains with us. Perhaps a level of ignorance about truth, love, courage, life, is conducive to our well-being?

The fatigue of life withers our judgement, opinion, sensitivity, and our relationships with friends, work colleagues, partners, family. We are all prone, occasionally, to acts of weakness, poor judgement, selfishness, indifference, cynicism, insincerity. Some individuals, however, play the part to perfection; daily, by the hour, by the minute, by the second. They have forgotten what life tastes like.

A Pizza called Dizzy, A Popinjay, and "Can You Ever Get Too Much of Anything?"

One morning last week I woke feeling dizzy. As Dizzy is our live-in nanny - our last child left home fifteen years ago?! - I have been charged with sexual harassment. Isn't that something! I tried to plead "sexsomnia," but the judge, Mr Justice Useless, was arrested during the hearing for "sleepwalking"! I should have pleaded "parasomnia," only the police officers fell asleep while taking my statement! To make matters worse, my counsel, Mr Lola Heyday, snored while addressing the bench during my plead. The cost? Well, the facts! On the morning of the alleged incident I had woke from a deep sleep - recorded in my statement as eight feet in depth - believing Dizzy to be a "two and a half metre" high veggie pizza called "Barefoot Sally". I was mortified this was not brought to the court's attention! I was glad, however, to be exonerated of the alleged charge. The jury unanimously agreed that Dizzy looked like a pizza and eat her for lunch.

An ex-manager of mine was a popinjay and wore a poppadom on his head which he only removed when attending the theatre. His love for comfort included sitting on a hard-boiled egg strategically placed on his office chair each morning. He never worked more than one hour in one day as a rule, unless he felt like a pencil. Sometimes his face would go deathly pale; proof the egg was working its magic on his posterior. His brain vacillated frequently - no easy task - causing him to fold his arms behind his back, raise his right leg in a Nazi salute, and anxiously admit, "If my wife sees me with a paint brush, my goose is cooked!" For the rest of the day he would walk on his hands.

He had a mania for talking about painting. He made day feel like night. I remember one day he looked at me with his moist mouth - his eyes were elsewhere - "I've some canvasses I'd like to show you which I will be exhibiting soon in my outside toilet." I fell silent. Sometimes he looked like Goya on a good day, and had the aroma of a rotten Corot. For six months he studied under the eye of Charlie Orchard - the rest of Charlie's body was never discovered - a well-known harmonica player, who had studied under a hospital bed in Paris.

Stunned by my silent interludes he used to talk about his reputation in artistic and social circles, and his collection of park gates. All his misery came from wanting to be himself year in, year out. He seemed to live outside of life. Everything he thought and said was convertible into cash. He possessed no imagination which I found disappointing. A prerequisite for a manager perhaps, but not an artist.

Reflections: For some people there is never enough of anything: enough money, enough time, enough gossip, enough praise, enough clothes, enough trains, enough bowel movements. No-one - to my knowledge - has fought fate and won. Your true soul is written upon your face - if not in public, at least, in private - and cannot disguise envy, greed, hatred, suffering, unhappiness, frailty, corruption, selfishness.

Spring and regeneration do not exist forever, for anyone. It's not the journey that counts. It's your intentions and actions that define your true self. Others can accurately describe your life if you can't. Camouflage helps most people cope with their life as best they can. The rest? are so self-obsessed, prejudiced, and ignorant, they're already dead, and probably don't know it.

A Face Flannel, My Life as a Pastry, and the Tom-Tom Drum

Today I had lunch with my literary agent, Elizabeth Sitwell. On arrival she had misery painted all over her face. The maitre d' was kind enough to provide a face flannel to wash it off. Though a slender, spirited creature, Elizabeth tends to be remote and vague. She has no concept of the value of money, and has a tendency to walk on all fours when a conversation becomes exciting.

Her most irritating habit, however, is to shout, "Drive like hell!", while walking in the street. For her, I play the fool. To her, I am a fool. C'est la vie.

"Well, what can I say?" She looked perplexed, and started tossing sharp, short comments in the air and catching them in her mouth. "Your short novel has no plot, hurried syntax, and the title, My Life as a Pastry ... is ... well ... unengaging, nervermind worrying". I asked if she believed I would ever be published? She thought seriously and replied, "Published is a big word". She smiled. " The only avenue left is to translate some of your works into English, even though, to you, they already are".

I must confess I felt condemned, abandoned. Her words overwhelmed me. Was I a fraud? I knew it, but did others? I am aware I write badly. In fact, in my first short novel Even Vegetables get Homesick I used "badly" eighty-six times in one chapter.

"Maybe I'm wrong," she said, slowly and hesitantly, "but I believe you should go on. Continue writing, but try to enrich your vocabulary. And if I may say so, long inner dialogues, repetition, lack of a theme, will not attract readers' to your works ..." I thanked Elizabeth for her honesty, intelligence, and company. I felt like a cat with a slippery mouse. I remained smiling as she left. Then my brain suddenly went offline.

Good news at last! My new play A Little Bit of Bread and No Cheese is to be staged off-off-off-off- Broadway. It will be staged in a baguette basket on the back of a scooter in Versailles, France. I must find bread that has charisma, can engage with its audience, remember its lines, and can collaborate with butter. Slowly, I begin to feel joy again. The quality of the bread will make, or break, the project. My search begins!

Reflections: Tonight my wife is trying her best to upset me. She is standing beside me playing her tom-tom drum with her prosthetic hip repacement implant. To make matters worse my wife has big pianist's hands. The noise is unbearable, and she keeps mercilessly chanting, "Patience! You'll get your tea in half an hour! PATIENCE!" If I was on a boat I would consider jumping into the sea. I stop writing, grap an apple, and sit down in the corner of the room. As I eat the apple, and watch my wife, I reflect a day will come when I can stand it no longer. I fall asleep.

An Alien Limb, Imaginary Friends, and Formidable Passion

Today a neurologist confirmed I have "alien limb syndrome" - the sensation my "left leg" is acting of its own accord. That would account for my left leg saying, "Good Night, Good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good night till it be morrow," when I retire to bed each night. Also, why it wakens me during my blessed sleep to deliver a Shakespearean soliloquy; usually one of Macbeth’s troubled musings, which I now find tiresome. Then it has the audacity to say to me in a mocking tone, "How poor are they that have not patience."

To make matters worse - following a long speech - my left leg then wishes to put forward "Topics for Debate!" For example: "Was Hamlet ever less than sane?" This coming from a leg that walks away during conversations! leans against trees! bleeds for no apparent reason; a blatant attention-seeker! runs errands for neighbours without my permission or knowledge! Even writing about my plight I find it hard to breathe. Medications do not help. I will have to suffer the unremitting misery until it runs off and joins the circus or becomes a "stand-in" for Tom Hanks.

As a child I had two imaginary friends called Happiness and Pleasure. Today - to my surprise - they arrived at my door. Happiness still had a kindly smile, was clever, quick-witted, had soft blue eyes, and spoke in a gentle tenor voice. Pleasure still looked beautiful, expressive dark-blue eyes, was more mysterious than Happiness, was in a seductive party mood, and still possessed a heart of ravaging immaturity. I had no words for them. I was silent and listened.

"Where have you been hiding? Are you afraid we will tarnish your reputation? You have been leading a quiet life. We see you occasionally meet friends, go to concerts, watch films, and write ... Of course, we have been delighted by your successes, and saddened by your .... well ... failures."

I sank into a chair after pouring my "old" friends tea, and handing out plates of sandwiches and cakes.

I spoke softly, " I usually stay in. Well, that's not exactly true. Nothing is. I'm still watchful, impatient ... Indeed, some times I become spring-like. I have bouts of creativity that lead to excitement. As you see, I do not wear black, but every colour known to humankind. Have you met my new friend, Loneliness?

"Indeed, s/he looks cold," said Happiness. " Full of poison, bereft of dreams .... Is s/he a valuable companion?

"Loneliness is certainly not beautiful. Though s/he does occasionally laugh, is faithful, and can be terribly jealous of Happiness and Pleasure. Loneliness reminds me that everything becomes dull sooner or later. Also, that from the very beginning our hearts carry the seeds of our destruction."

We parted on good terms. They disappeared without a sound. I can't deny that my life with Happiness and Pleasure was not of benefit to me - a voyage of discovery - but one can have too much applause, and forget that our audience changes, sometimes daily. Futhermore, that the ground beneath one's feet is not solid for ever, if indeed it ever is?

Reflections: There is much to be said for clarity of thought. In fact, it may breed clarity of passion. The last thing one should do is waste time in pursuit of something - or someone - that does not arouse a deep passion.

Sometimes we may be capable of only one "great" passion in life. Love for an individual, love for composing music, love for writing poetry, prose. My advice, for what it is worth? Discover your passion(s) early. Pursuit it/them with all strength and resolve. Stay away from people who crave your downfall - their secrets, not their insincerity, will betray them - and reach your potential before the earth extinguishes all trace of your existence.