The Water Lilies, Doctor Wilkelfield Finkelfukal, and Rediscovery

Often on my way to work I see my neighbor, Maximilian Odon Von Woods, swathed in bandages, walking his well-bred German Shepherd dog called Racine. Some days the dog is nimbly disguised with a beard, wears sunglasses, or sings in an American-born Greek soprano voice - ranging from high soprano to mezzo - with an occasional woof thrown in for good measure. Today, I believe it sounds like Gilda from "Rigoletto," or feline distemper, which must be worrying, especially for the dog.

'They're trying to kill me!' cried Maximilian.

'Who?' I said feinting surprise.

'The damn surgeons, doctors, nurses, water lilies ... They say I'm taking too long too die .... Do I look like someone who wishes too die?!'

'No ... ?'

'They've a bloody nerve ... Take it from me, if you are ill do not go to a doctor, do not tell a soul .... There's a plot to rid the world of the likes of you and me. They want to bump us off.'

He laughed hysterically, then continued in a loud voice so the neighbours could hear. 'Doesn't anyone care?! The white coats make a living out of killing us! Sly little devils!'

I blushed, and didn't know what to say. His eccentric eyebrows appeared to exchange places, and speak in unison, 'There's no cure for loneliness or old age.'

'SLY LITTLE DEVILS!' His voice shook me. 'Thank God, I've still got my dog. And he's blind, poor soul. Listen to that voice.'  The dog and I looked at each other with sadness, our eyes half-blinded by the morning light.

The dog indeed sang with haunting passion and depth of feeling. He looked tired and old; barely able to crawl by his master's side. Racine was still an amazing singer with a large vocal range; effortlessly moving from the lowest note to the highest. Such stunning talent seems a miracle. Then so does a dog that sings.

Several readers have inquired about the illustrious Doctor Wilkelfield Finkelfukal. Little is known about him. He used to be called John Dodd and shortened his name to Wilkelfield Finkelfukal in 1856 when he was 32. He spoke several languages simultaneously. This is probably why no-one understood a word he said.

He wrote a one page book titled "The Wisdom of Wilkelfield Finkelfukal". Unfortunately, it was written in white ink and no-one could read it. Two copies were sold to a blind woman before it was recalled by the publisher. After this disaster his volcanic imagination deserted him and he became a tree in 1866. On 12 March 1875 he shot himself in the trunk. He tired of death and moved to Manhattan in 2004 where he runs a GP surgery when he's not walking.
 
Reflections:  To live in nature, not with nature, is what I crave. To drift on the river and escape the dangers of conformity, respectability, silence.

To reenter my vagabond life, jettison hypocrisy and remove the knife that pierces my soul. Time to improvise, vire from the shooting script, rediscover myself.

Doctor Wilkelfield Finkelfukal, An Old Chair, and The Stinging Wind

A GP surgery. Doctor Wilkelfield Finkelfukal is sitting behind his desk.

Doctor: (sighing) Take a seat.

Long pause.

Doctor: Do you know one thousand individuals dictate the thoughts, opinions, customs, trends, fads of our entire world of seven billion people? What we eat, wear, read, watch, talk about, do, think?

R: Well ... No ...

Doctor: I thought so. You're an idiot!

Long pause.

Doctor: You live in a sunken world. You remind me of an old chair with a bulging leg. Dark with age and a smell of the old.

Pause.

Doctor: Do you know I was beat and bullied as a boy? Of course not! Or that I left home at twelve and returned home for a light lunch at two o'clock. Of course not! Furthermore, my head's too big for my body, my body's too big for my trousers and my wife speaks like a squealing fiddle! The stink of boredom is everywhere. I'm dead and so are you! A trivial matter, you'll agree?

R: I'm sorry ...

Doctor: To hell with your damned, "I'm sorry". What are you here to whine about?

 R: (uncomfortable) Well ... I lack self-confidence and … despise bullying. The strange thing is ... sometimes I feel like screaming and laughing at the same time. Sometimes, I hold two thoughts at the same time. For instance, my life has purpose ... yet it is without meaning. Sometimes, I feel sad ... yet happy ... Sometimes, the scales drop from my eyes ... yet I am blind to everything I hear and see ... Sometimes, when I'm in a room full of people I feel I'm sitting in an echo chamber listening to myself ... Sometimes ...

Doctor:  Sometimes! Sometimes! Sometimes! Me! Me! Me! Get a grip of yourself! Can't you talk without bleating?! You live in a dream world like most people on this planet. (shouts) Wake up!

Long pause.

Doctor: There is no point in telling you lies. I'm a hypocrite and a wretched inexperienced doctor. What impelled me to live in this muti-coloured hell escapes me? Don't be fooled by certificates, diplomas, and expertise. A day comes when all men and women are proved wrong. (Thoughtful) Even a genius like Einstein will get his comeuppance one day. I believe he never took his hands out of his trouser pockets even in bed. What a strange man?! (Pause) Remember genius cannot be measured. Excess of wealth or natural ability do not promise happiness, success, or freedom from diarrhea.

R: (timidly) Indeed …

Doctor: I'm sorry to say there's no medication for your condition.

R: Really?

Doctor: You appear to me to be someone who is holding on … Old and weary before your time. A mixture of anger, tenderness, shattered visions. In short you're carrying a perpetual burden. A million shapes and sizes of shadow.

R: I see … Well.

Doctor: I wanted to be a farmer's wife but my parents were livid! Instead, I'm a false, faceless dummy who has to listen to dreadful, boring people whining and sobbing all day about large dark clouds and an absence of clear blue sky!

R: (timidly) Really …

Doctor: You're not the only one with a neurotic fear of growing old. We're bombarded daily with images of smooth faces like Macy's Thanksgiving Day balloons, pert breasts, lineless mouths, full lips. (Pause) Here's my prognosis. You've taken stock of your life and realised how little you've achieved. Your leading a factitious life and you're not going anywhere. Welcome to the club, old chum!

R: Oh …

Doctor: (writing) Have you heard of euthanasia?

R: No … I don't think so?

Dr: Excellent. Take this confidential letter to a doctor friend of mine. His name and address is on the envelope. He''ll show … tell you all you need to know about the subject. (Pause) Oh, and good luck with the rest of your short life.

R: (puzzled) You said short … ?!

Dr: (smiling) Sounded like it. I said, 'Good luck with the rest of your “outdoor sport” life'. You most learn to be less anxious. Goodbye.

R. walks out into the sun and faints.

THE END

Reflections: In our own life our performance leaves much to be desired. In the heat of the crime we may be found wanting, old, indifferent. Most - if not all of us - are acquainted with the clenched fist, ill-temper, malice, bullying. Ah yes, the stinging wind that falls at random, broken furniture, broken hearts, broken dreams.

Bully for you if you have never been bullied by siblings, at school, by enemies masquerading as friends, parents, teachers, work colleagues and bosses (who are known, and tolerated, by inept management). Maltreatment is everywhere, yet so few own up. Some are too busy writing rules and regulations to damage people further. Soon they will be swallowed by darkness if light still dwells within their soulless bodies.

Pride has its downfall, as do insensitivity and inertia - the playthings of embalmed deluded gods whose minds escape them in search of a gas oven.

A Gutsy Gal, A Goatee Beard, and A Dog Named Venezuela

Somewhere during the night I may have morphed into a gutsy gal. Sometimes, I feel young, old; like a father, like a mother; reflective, oblivious; wear split skirts, chaps; and climb on the back of the lady next door who sadly does not share my fondness for adventure and outdoor exercise. I've been arrested twice; once for overworking her, and once for forcing her to eat pecan pie. I remember promising her unlimited freedom and a proper deworming schedule. Thankfully, my tame wooing made her blush, and the moon quickly waned. Her belief I would never get anywhere proved sound judgment. In a certain light she reminds me of Sam Gamgee at home in the shire obsessed with his height.

Her husband, Hugh - a blank, toxic man, in possession of a body built solely to store air - is besotted by daffodils, lupins, hollyhocks, and his collection of corridor lights. A bald-headed man, he wears a goatee beard to hide the fact he has one leg.

Once he asked me a strange question, “If somebody asked you to look out of your window – at night – would you do it?!” I realized I was in the presence of a madman. A madman with a shotgun. “Can't you HEAR ...?! Would you look at cars, people, houses, the horizon?! … Damn you … Would you...?!” My mouth and throat were dry. He took hold of my arm with his leg and cried, “ I've burned boats in my time! Thousands of them! And leave my Daisy alone!” As he walked off he shouted, “It's getting dark and I've still to climb the church tower! The lighting isn't right for sniping, I tell you. Damn it!”

Of course, Daisy was once rich and possessor of a fine coloratura soprano voice – unfortunately, it belonged to her sister. This fact was discovered one night when she fell asleep singing an aria from The Magic Flute – as were most of the audience. As she slept with her prodigious mouth open it was found to house a sizable family of illegal immigrants disguised as cows. It was to prove her downfall. Now her breath smells of milk.

My friend, Rada, who is from Bosnia and Herzegovina, has a French bulldog named Venezuela originally from Belgium. The dog barks in five languages: Serbian, Croatian, French, Dutch, and German. I believe Venezuela is presently reading Hungarian with a doctorate in mind. My intuition tells me the dog is slightly disturbed regarding its family history and has no means of communicating its anguish to human beings.

Some days I watch the dog board the bus to visit the Museum of Modern Art to view works by the Belgian artist, René Magritte. A particular favourite, "The Menaced Assassin" tends to remind Venezuela of home in Brussels. He pins posters of the work on trees in our district, usually as dusk is falling. Then he sits gazing at the picture weary of his aging, burdensome exile. He never complains but I can tell he despises his fate.

Once I witnessed Venezuela  drunk, wearing a t-shirt and blue velvet jeans. He had shaved his head and was ranting about his tax affairs. Rada - a gravedigger, who reeks of decay - is unworthy of such an elegant, lucid, and gentle animal.

Reflections: Some people say they write, play a musical instrument, paint, act in the theater. However, it's not the fact they do these things, it's how they write, play, paint, act, that matters. Is it inspired by the soul, the heart, or is it practical, sober, devoid of spirit?

There is a danger one may overvalue writers, musicians, painters, actors, and undervalue oneself.

Sleepwalking in Belfast - Chapter 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?