Doggles, My Sister, and The Wall

Our house is deserted and silent, and the dining room is radiant with sunlight. Our two dogs are resting; one is sitting on a soft armchair, while the other is lying on its back. Tanya, a labrador, is speaking openly to Sandy, a red setter, about how much she misses her husband, Cashman, a bearded collie, who due to deteriorating eyesight, ran of with a brown paper bag. Cashman refused to wear contact lenses, and felt glasses made him look old. I heard Tanya talking about their wedding day, exchanging wedding woofs, and being grateful she had been sterilised. They then seemed to touch on pet food, and felt they should be eating low-carb, and organic foods. I listened intensively. They started writing a list of things they felt they were entitled to, for example, teeth-whitener, breath-freshener, "Doggles" to protect their eyes from the sun when they go for a walk, or a ride in the car, sunscreen, and then - unbelievably, her growl rising -Tanya expressed a desire to undergo cosmetic surgery on her nose, liposuction , and a tummy tuck! I think the madness of human beings is spreading to animals? God knows what that damn cat, Sagan, is up to?

My teeth are chattering in the next room. They appear to be arguing over where to go on holiday this summer. As I'm typing I'm listening to "Trois Gymnopedies" by Erik Satie, which suits the strong sunlight, mild wind, and my calm disposition. Such moments tend not to last long. A house, when full of dogs, cats, children, spouses, relatives, etc., can trial one's patience.

I'm looking at pictures of my early teenage years. My sister, Victoria, worked as a dental receptionist, and had an unhealthy affection for chocolates and trendy clothes. She had exquisite white teeth which is probably why she got the job in the first place. Victoria’s favourite past time was giggling with her friend, Nicola. Every time they were together they giggled; non-stop. It was really annoying; especially when I was in their company, and not giggling. They never talked. Just pointed, made signs and giggled. I never understood girls. My dad said, ‘You never will, son. It’s one of life’s great mysteries. I still don’t . . . never shall.’ He mentioned hormones, or something. My sister once wet herself, she was laughing so much; completely bent over on the pavement as cars zoomed by. I was so embarrassed I screamed at her. She just stood with her legs twisted together holding on to Nicola. It didn’t appear to help. She was dippy like that; still is.

My dad used to shout at my sister, but she give as good as she got. I never liked violent altercations, crying, frightening sounds, shouting, or arguing. Some families seem to have a higher strike rate for some reason. Vicky once told me she was leaving home - I think she was six, or seven. She had everything packed in a handkerchief. I told her I'd miss her. Especially, her laughing, wetting her pants, and breaking things round the house - mostly objects thrown at my parents. Suddenly, I remember the wide fields and hills of my youth. It has grown cold. As I walk the snow crunches under my feet. My breath is steaming, and the winter is setting in.

Reflections: We are like stones in a well-built wall. We depend on the stones coming before us, on which we rest. We are all part of the one. Our Purpose? To create security, calm, stimulation, love and tenderness for all the stones that were placed there before us, and for all the stones that will come after us. There is no requirement for cement; love and compassion are the seal.

I admire people who change and develop, and as they learn, they teach the world without repeating themselves, or expecting reward.

The Postman, Cosmetic Surgery, and Caffeine

(Recent picture of my wife)

Today I received an anonymous letter containing a blank piece of paper. It's the first letter I've received that I haven't found boring. I read it twice, and stuck it on the fridge.

I’m not full of energy in the morning. I can hear my next door neighbour outside talking to the postman. Their conversation is about the weather. What would people talk about if there was no weather? Beats me. I remember being asked by my geography teacher about the names of clouds, and I was completely flummoxed. ‘Do you think it will rain?’ ‘Not sure, but it might.’ ‘Have you heard the weather forecast?’ ‘No, but they never get it right. Too many variables.’ No wonder the post is always late.

I've been having some odd nightmares recently. One is about the film, ‘The Wizard of Oz.’ Those bleeding witches and winged monkeys flying round my room, and that bloody tornado! The other nightmare is about my wife starting to resemble an aardvark. Her hair was cut short recently, and for the first time I could see she has very long ears. Also, her tongue has become long and sticky, so "French kissing" is a definite no-no.

Wait a minute - hold on to your cookies! My wife is turning into an aardvark! That would explain why she is spending long periods in our back garden during the night; digging burrows, and eating ants and termites. The family hasn't enjoyed a warm meal in four days. What will the neighbours think? My wife and I are supposed to be flying to France next week; how will we explain her passport photograph, and her dietary requirements?

I discussed the position with a neighbour who is a "Scalpel Slave." She's had so many nose jobs, her nose now sits on her face where her left ear used to reside. When I asked her if she thought my wife might benefit from cosmetic surgery, she suggested my wife and I should go together, and get the same package. I left her ranting in the street about tummy tucks, eyelash transplant surgery, etc. She shouted after me, in a frenzy, " What else do you think I should get done?" Is the world going crazy?

Reflections: Sometimes I feel like a little, red brick in a large, black building - dependent on what is beneath me, under me, over me, beside me, behind me - then I just opt for a large bucket of KFC chicken, grab me a few dozen "booster drinks", and spin like hell on my car swivel seat for two days to burn up some calories. I expect to be awake for at least a week, anyway, without sleeping. I want to be supercharged, superalert, supercool, superman, and .... I want to grow my hair back.

Researchers (?) say if I drink about "eighty cups of coffee" a day it may work. They wouldn't lie to us, would they? I'm on my sixtieth cup of coffee today, and I can't locate any hair on my head. And the worst part? I can't close my eyes, and I'm scaring the kids half to death.

My First Memory, Meeting with the Boss, and Custard

It is summer _____We have moved to _____ It has a farmyard smell. Why? Because it is a farm. I don't need a chamber pot. I wet my bed, not the bed. My female playmate lives next door. I'm six, she is eight - I adore her white skin, cheerful smile, and mass of red hair. We develop a system of communication after we are sent to bed. One knock on the adjoining wall: Yes; Two: No; Three: Maybe; Four: Tomorrow; Five: Are you tired? Six: Have you wet your bed? Seven: Are you happy? Eight: Do you love me? Nine: Are you awake? Ten: Are you still reading Proust? Her two sisters', while strikingly more beautiful, are dimly aware of the soul. She once said, " To be clever with words is a hazard". Suddenly, I kissed her for the first, and only, time. In sudden silences I still see her, feel her soft skin; then - for some reason - I miss my childhood.

Meeting with my boss, Mr Yworry? at 10.00a.m. (The only boss I worked with who had a surname with a question mark?) Sometimes words can never do justice to the blackness of a meeting, a rendezvous, a lunch engagement, a secret liaison with a lover, etc. My boss was undoubtedly well-liked, but not always as a leader, a manager, an administrator, a visionary. Everyone knew he wore a toupee - he wore it on his left shoulder.

Very few people have the opportunity of choosing the people they work with. Who wants to work with the hypocritical, the lazy, and obsequious? In fact, what may be viewed to the outsider as "unity", may be - to the insider - a concoction of misery, exhausting conflicts, irritability, opportunism, indifference, sucking-up, and bullying. A sense of inadequacy haunts us all - Are we not human beings?

“How long have you been here?”

“About one minute, sir”

“Not in my office!” [Fighting to regain composure] “With the organisation?”

“Thirty three years."

"Are you happy here?"

"Is that a serious question?"

"Why do you feel that?"

"Well, I just don't feel I have a purposeful role in the organisation. Indeed, has anyone?"

"Perhaps another position would suit you and the organisation. What do you feel you did best at school?"

"I was particularly adept at humming along with hymns in assembly."

"I mean academically!"

"I liked dissecting frogs."

"In biology?"

"No. I never did biology. Dissecting frogs was just a hobby. My pen pal, at that time, Jean - Paul, used to send me frogs in the post. He was happy to pay the extra postage. They always came without legs. I stopped writing to him when he started sending squirrels."

"That doesn't help me generate any ideas about your future. I’ll have to give it more thought”.

Silence fell on the room. For a minute I thought my boss looked like a pair of nail clippers; useless, and neglected. I intervened through sheer boredom.

"When I was sixteen, I saw the inside of a mortuary. You remind me of the caretaker. He had blueish-gray lips, gray hair, a round chin, and collected hair. He liked talking about death, and the dead."

My boss fell to his knees, and began to weep - thirty years' too late. The last words I heard him speak were, " Cement has no future ..."

Reflections: Once I sat in Custard for two days. It made me finally realise I’m not Apple Strudel. Mr Apple Strudel lives in France, under the pseudonym Mr Apple Sauce. Then everything seemed to move very quickly, including the Custard. Suddenly, the Custard told me it was pregnant! I immediately succumbed to severe attacks of dizziness, black-outs, and eating popcorn. I called a doctor, but he refused to believe a bowl of custard could be pregnant. The minister, was worst, " I can't marry you and a bowl of custard!"

I feel as if my whole world is collapsing into a yellow void (to be continued).

Marriage, Soot, and "Russian-Made" Gumshoes

I'm married, at present, to my fifth wife, Lena - she is a beautiful and lively person; sometimes extremely emotional, sometimes chaotic, sometimes tall, sometimes small (I'm not a scientist, nor aware of the cause of this condition). Buying Lena clothes, however, can present extreme difficulties, as I'm not sure what size she will be at a particular hour of the day. She has a talent for imitating people. At breakfast this morning she let her jaw drop, rolled her eyes across the table, and mumbled incoherently in a dull, dark voice. Silence fell over the table, over a chair, and left the room to go to the toilet. I laughed and smiled at Lena. " Well, who were you impersonating? I must admit I'm at a loss." "You," said Lena, lowering her eyes.

Silence returned to the room, and I asked if he had washed his hands. He replied yes. I was immediately suspicious as he doesn't have hands. Any fool could see that! Anyway, where was I? Yes. Love anything that lives and you will eventually get hurt, whether it's a relative, a friend, a lover, a pet. I looked at Lena, then Silence, then Lena. " Do you still love me?" Lena replied, "Yes", her voice controlled, and unexciting. "Do you still share my passions for soil, fertilizer, pruning, being drunk at 9:30 in the morning, and pressing my body against rocky walls ..." She smiled sarcastically, and said yes. I felt like pulling my hair, but my wig was upstairs in our bedroom.

Anyway, I am suspicious that a son from a previous marriage named, "Seagull" - a result of my admiration for the works of Anton Chekhov - is also in love with Lena! Why do I think this, I hear you say? Frankly, Seagull shares our marital bed: he sleeps with Lena and I. There I've said it! And worse, he decides when the lighting should be turned of, and its usually when I'm in the throes of a good book. Outrageous behaviour, you'll agree. Then the bed seems to move like a "horse and carriage" eloping at great haste. I can't take the darkness and deceit much longer. I'd be at my wit's end, if I had any. No man should be expected to live like this? I swiftly found my pistol and put it against my temple, but the bullet was a blank filled with soot!

Am I condemned to face ageing, loneliness, anxiety - by myself - dressed in a pink, cotton nightshirt, red nightcap, and Russian-made gumshoes, and covered in soot?

Reflections: I'm currently working on a humorous piece for submission to a magazine. I expect the usual pro-forma rejection letter to arrive. That doesn't alter the fact that I enjoy writing, being creative, watching the tide coming in. I'm sitting in the library. It is late afternoon; late spring. I sit and think for a while. The light from the overhead fluorescent bulbs can be intensive. I’m finding it hard to concentrate. The library is perched where traffic, pedestrians, pigeons, dogs merge, and congregate. Sometimes the echoed, scrambled shouting of high school pupils pierces the air.

The traffic on the "Street" at the entrance to the library never stops between the hours of 8.00 am and 6.00 pm. It moans, screeches and aggravates. Occasionally, stray plastic bags – mostly white – roll along the street, filled with air and levitate.

Sometimes I feel out of fashion, but I go on. Driven by the twilight room of the soul.

Sleeping Noises, Unwanted Sounds, and Past Love

I believe New York is the most extraordinary place on earth. The aroma of fried food and coffee hang in the air as I enter the diner. A waiter shows me to a vinyl booth, “I'll have a Number 4—ham omelette—with coffee—please.” “Coming right up,” the waiter chuckles, exposing his red gums. He disappears to place the order. I close my eyes, and massage the ridge of my nose. I eat my breakfast leisurely, while humming a melody; a new melody I bank away with the others inside my head. Suddenly, a loud noise breaks out; it sounds "inhuman". I'm not longer eating, or in New York.

I wake from my dream, sit up, and look across at my wife in our bed. She is not only snoring, but snorting, twitching, and grunting in her sleep. Utter despair floods my body. The intensity of the noises emanating from her body reach that of a pneumatic drill - 90 decibels, and rising.

Her false teeth in a glass beside the bed are starting to speak in a foreign language. I think it's Bengali; something about "Satyajit Ray" and his films. A momentary thought (for one hour, at least) of depopulating the planet by a unit of one. Surely, I'd have a good alibi if I captured her distressing sleeping habits on my cellphone camera? Then an idea! I pushed her over on her side, and sewed a large rock into the back of her pyjamas. Now when she lies on her back she suddenly wakes, sits up, and shouts, "I can't see in this snow! Where are my goggles?" and goes back to sleep on her side. As a result, I get to return to New York, and finish my breakfast.

I detest "unwanted sounds" especially those that are variable, or intermittent. For example: my wife's voice; pre-recorded public announcements ("Do not give your luggage to unknown persons" (Are they nuts?), "Do not buy a house within forty yards of a traffic light, unless you have machine washable earmuffs"(the noise can be unbearable - I prefer gray earmuffs. They go with my skin colour); revving engines; car horns; loud bursts of random music from cars.

Also, locals smashing our windows, and protesting about 'nutters' in the area. It tends to interfere with my concentration, and increases my stress levels. I immediately check my collection of weaponry to ensure they are fully operational: four flamethrowers, three samurai swords, two pet Chihuahua's, and a partridge in a pear tree. Is it just me? - or is this starting to sound like a "Christmas song"?

Reflections: I met an old girlfriend today. We went to a bar for lunch. For some reason she still looked marvellous. Though grey-haired, she remained a fiercely beautiful woman. After some small talk about "six little things" - five of her little toes, and one of mine - she turned to me and said:

"Do you remember that afternoon by the river? What images and sensations does it provoke?"

"A fear of rats."

"No. You're teasing me. It's the passage of time, emotional currents, fish, men in nylon thigh waders, fishing rods ..."

"You have a great memory, and if I may say so, a great imagination?"

"Do you notice anything about me?"

"You still look great".

"No, silly. I'm wearing the same skirt!"

"But you were seven, and I was eight! You ... you must be approaching sixty!"

"How do I look, and be truthful?"

I lied as best I could. It seemed to satisfy her desire for assurance regarding her appearance. I didn't let her know I was wearing the same underwear - a bit tight; like my finances.

"A Month in the Country", Cosmetic Surgery, and "Misconception of the Direction of Time" Syndrome

Up early. Checked mail. Received a pen pal letter from some guy called "Ballpoint". Found it hard to read until I opened the envelope. He said he would like to visit me. As he only lives two doors up from me, I'll probably see him when I'm out walking.

Last Thursday I went to see a performance of Ivan Turgenev's play, "A Month in the Country". I had to leave three days after the start of the production as I was hallucinating due to lack of food and drink. Also, my wife rang to enquire if I'd seen her mustache trimmer, hair gel , brass knuckles, and police baton. She had an appointment with a plastic surgeon later in the
afternoon. The disconcerting part is that she wants to undergo "penis enlargement". Eventually, she wants us to be known - simply - as "Mr & Mr Doppelgänger" - who gets first billing is anyone's guess? My wife previously paid to have a mole, and a water rat, removed from her face. I blame it on my wife's fixation with "simply messing about in boats", and her constant re-reading of "The Wind in the Willows" while dressed as a weasel.

My memory has escaped me on a number of occasions. Once, by impersonating a 6 inch stiletto heel shoe, and once by posing as "Orecchiette"pasta, while working part-time as a hearing aid for a lap dancer. Anyway, today I met someone who claimed to be a long lost schoolfriend. We went and had lunch together. It appeared we hadn't seen each other since we were five-years-old. He gave me back an eraser he had stolen from me. It had been playing on his conscience all these years. We reminisced. He apologised for leaving early, and left me to pay the bill. It appears his conscience only applies to "rubber products".

Reflections: I 'm starting to believe my life is going backwards. It's as if everything is happening in reverse. In fact, it struck me that by seeing my life backwards I had a greater chance of making some sense of myself. I went to see my doctor:

"Hello Doktor Faustus."

"Don't forget to take the tablets as I told you."

"But, I'm only here?"

"You're obviously suffering from "misconception of the direction of time."syndrome. The belief that time only travels in one direction. Why, yesterday I saw a stockbroker walking down Street Wall."

"Surely you mean Wall Street? "

"No. He was walking backwards".

"I think my life is going in reverse?"

"Hello, and what can I do for you?"

I drove my car in reverse into town, parked at a restaurant, and paid for a meal I had still to order.

Top-Earning Dead Celebrities, Sniffing Books, and Dead-End Jobs

After breakfast, I sat down at my desk with my notebook. I use it every day, filling page after page with my erratic, jostling hand - I really must use a pen, or pencil - my knuckles are sore, and my hand interrupts my concentration with snide remarks, for example," Wow, hand me the spoon, please", "Turn the page over, please" or "Are we going out today?"

The thirteen icons on the eighth annual "Top-Earning Dead Celebrities list" collectively earned $194 million in the last 12 months. What do they know that most of us don't? In fact, I'm not included on the "Who will make the most from the great beyond?" list - my family and I are devastated. Is that a rational reaction? I don't fear death, but my subconscious does - the passage of each day brings me another day closer to not achieving all the the things I want to do.

It began with a letter addressed to the man of the house, so my wife was the first to read it. The letter stated a car would pick me up at eight o'clock tonight. No reason, no signature. Mysterious, yet I waited with "eager anticipation", and I was grateful for its company. My wife was spending the evening in the loft rearranging her collection of "airline sickness bags". A black car, with tinted windows, arrived and I got into the back seat. The driver told me to put the black hood, on the seat, over my head, and after that he didn't speak. Finally, after about twenty minutes I heard the car travel over gravel, and the car stopped. He opened the car door and lead me up a path. Once we were inside a building, he removed my hood. I was standing in the reception of a large, stately house.

A portly, red-faced man stopped talking to a couple, walked over, smiled at me and said, 'Hi there. Glad you could come. I'm Gordon. I know all about you. Welcome to "The Book Sniffing Club". We've been expecting you'. He took me to a large, round table were six people were sitting, and he introduced me. The table contained a pile of books in various stages of decay. 'As you see,' Gordon continued, 'you are in the company of fellow book sniffers'. Decaying books are wondrous. The chemicals ... the volatile acids. The emissions combine to make the musty smell!' His face became redder as he spoke. He immediately lifted a book from the table, raced to a chair, sat down, and buried his nose in the book.

A lady, called Casey, smiled at me and said, 'It's open seating. Here, sit beside me.' She described how her habit had developed through different stages; sniffing newspapers, pamphlets, then progressing to the slicks: "Elle", "Cosmopolitan", "Marie Claire", then "Horse & Hound". I paused, and though how ludicrous the situation was. Some of the group were using straws to delve deep into the spines of books, and took long, deep sniffs, then sat back in exhilaration. Casey said fresh books were alright for beginners, but nothing beat an old, crusty book. I asked if they had ever been raided by the police. No - in fact - one of the group was a high ranking police officer.

Casey give me a straw, smiled, and pointed to the books, ' Stop glancing, and start sniffing.' I placed my straw deep into the spine of an old book. I believe it was a first edition, first issue copy of "Grimms Fairy Tales". The last thing I remember is inhaling, felling drowsy, and losing consciousness (to be continued).

Reflections: I advise my children to expand their exposure to different experiences, ideas, perspectives, cultures, people, and be sceptical of most things they read and hear, whether it's the mass media, other people, advertising and offers, etc., Also, to find a job that is genuinely fulfilling, and engenders real passion and enthusiasm.

I wasted valuable years' working for an organisation that left me unhappy and unfulfilled. I realised over time that some of the jobs - especially the last one (Boy, that was a dud - thanks Selina) - were sapping my energy and time. I knew it was not the way I wanted to spend the rest of my life. I was spending more time at work than doing the things I really wanted to do. As we are all individuals there is no single direction, position, action for each person to take. Don't put off making changes in your life, and living to regret not making them.

Horseback Riding, Baggy Eyes, and The Myth of Romantic Love

I thought I was born "lucky", until I discovered my real name was working as a saleswoman in a large department store in New York. I must look the lady up sometime to ask for it back.

Today I went horseback riding. As usual I listened to the music of "Cole Porter" on my "boombox" - I know it's conceived in some quarters as antiquated, however, I still believe nothing beats a boombox at full volume in public places with the loudspeakers stuck to your ear. My horse, whose name is "Rock Band Groupie" doesn't share my opinion. As my horse, and I, joyfully sauntered over hill and dale - I'd never met hill & dale before, but I think we ruined their picnic - Rock Band Groupie and I (and anyone within 10 kilometres) listened to , "What is this thing called Love?" and "I've got you under my skin". Anyway, everything was just dandy.

However, trouble flared when the track changed to, "I get a kick out of you". My horse threw me, put on his top hat, and started to play the piano. I wouldn't normally raise an eyebrow - not when it's sound asleep - but Rock Band Groupie hasn't the best singing voice, and he was performing in one of my favourite restaurants. Afterward, I had to carry him home; he was tired and drunk. His version of the "Horse With No Name" had some people in tears. Is it any wonder I've baggy eyes, and I don't even know who owns them?

Reflections: I suppose we could blame childhood fairy tales - the Prince and the Princess live happy ever after - and illusions fostered in culture(s) concerning the "myth of romantic love". Sadly, some people do not meet or satisfy each other's needs, and they fall out of love. The honeymoon period ends. The myth perpetuated that there is only one woman on this earth meant for one man - and it is written in the stars - would be laughable, if it wasn't so tragic.

The past happened as it happened, and there is nothing we can do about it. I believe the Persian poet "Omar Khayyam" was right when he said, "The moving finger writes; and, having writ, moves on: nor all your piety nor wit shall lure it back to cancel half a line, nor all your tears wash out a word of it."

Crop Circles, The Easel, and Spelling

I woke this morning - which is always a good thing - to a strange phenomenon. No, not my wife? The covering of my bed was emblazoned with crop circles. I know such formations usually appear in wheat, barley, rye, and so on - whatever "so on" is? However, they were intricate in their design. How an alien spaceship landed in my bedroom without wakening me has left me unsettled. When my wife came into the bedroom she give an "unearthly" scream; she had never seen me without my pyjamas before. She then started laughing - an emotion she hasn't the face for - and conjectured it may have been the work of pranksters who had come into our home during the night.

I don't believe in "paranormal activity", except when my wife and I attempt sex. How will I sleep tonight? Probably with my eyes closed. I sprinkled some wheat on top of our bed in case the aliens return. I'm frightened they may revert to violence, or sexual experiments, if their desire to create crop circles is infringed. There should be a support group for people like me, don't you think?

The synopsis of my new novel is based on a wealthy, cheating, lying, stealing, charmer, who paints: still life; before life; after life; and beautiful sunsets. Is he based on a character in real life? An old boss of mine? I'm sorry to say, yes - but, not as obese. In the story, he falls in love with his easel. Unfortunately, they break up following an argument as to whether Picasso ended his life bald, or without hair.

Reflections: It's gratifying to acknowledge that some of the greatest writers' who graced this earth could not spell everything. I'm thinking of Mark Twain; Jane Austen; William Shakespeare; etc., who couldn't spell words such as : mobile phone; iPod; television, Twitter; existential angst, crop circles; trash TV; atom bomb; coke heads, etc. Somehow, I don't think they missed out on anything of value?

Minature Trains, The Lost Bed, and Friends

My next door neighbour, Carl, who I would describe as a roly-poly Einsteinian type of figure, has an extreme fondness for miniature trains. Indeed, every time I see him he is wearing a stationmaster's uniform. His wife, Prudence, seems wise and compassionate - she left him six years ago to live with a cross-eyed elephant hunter, whom I believe, up until now, has captured a terrier, a squirrel, and a worm masquerading as a tiger. Anyway, the annoying fact about the miniature train is that it comes down our chimney breast every hour - on the hour - and the sound of the train, and its damned whistle, are unbearable. Furthermore, having at least ten people standing in our living room (whom my wife and I have never met before), asking when the next train is due, is impacting on what little is left of our sanity.

A heist today had all the hallmarks of the "Pickled Shark" Gang. The theft of Tracey Emin's bed from "The Saatchi Gallery" was obviously carried out by people beyond redemption. In short; deranged. This morning, a cleaner - while taking her tea break - fell on the floor. She normally used the bed to sit on and relax. To her horror, however, the bed had been replaced by an unmade chair. The police were immediately on the scene, and after three hours of thorough investigation, concluded the bed had indeed been stolen, and by madmen, or madwomen in drag. The UK's borders were completely sealed with duct tape, and all vehicles, trains, and ships searched in a bid to apprehend the lunatics; sorry thieves. The police eventually pulled in a hamster for questioning. According to police reports, it pleaded guilty to the crime, stating it was presently unemployed, and needed somewhere to sleep. A sad case, indeed.

Some people seem to possess qualities of character, and a personality which others' - no matter how long they live -will never possess. Even when you feel bad-tempered, depressed, angry, the value of an authentic friend is invaluable. However, if you're looking for a friend without faults, you'll end up with none. Sometimes its hard to tell the wheat from the chaff? Just don't wait too long to find out which category some of your friend's are in - they'll use, and abuse you, and move on to the next sucker.

Reflections: Memories do not take us into the past. They bring the past into the present - our memories change as we change.

Driving home from work today I jumped a red traffic light. The sex was great, but the crowd I attracted cramped my style.

Falling In Love, Short Stories, and The Chocolate Teapot

Police Mugshot of Mustache

My new short story runs the gamut from light comedy to stark tragedy. It's about a lady's eyebrows that, "fall in love", with a gentleman's mustache. Then tragedy strikes. The eyebrows announce their engagement to a nose hair. This drives the moustache "nuts" and it starts drinking heavily. In a drunken stupor the mustache sends everything it can - an ambulance; a fire engine; a police car; a hearse; a rickshaw; a refrigerator on wheels; and a dancing hedgehog - to the eyebrows apartment.

The plot acknowledges that the lady's eyebrows have a need for excitement, hence the sirens, emergency vehicles, dancing animals, and men in uniform running in all directions, including sideways. The moustache then kidnaps the eyebrows. They drive off into the sunset in a car blazoned with the sign, " Hair Today, Hair Tomorrow, and for the Foreseeable Future". In their haste to get away, the car narrowly misses an elderly lady performing handstands on the sidewalk. Although police issue a "Mugshot" of the mustache, the "couple" are never seen again.

Some believe the "short story" is dead - or at least - unfashionable. Yet, the brevity of a short story may still include everything that matters, if the writer has a way with closely, observed details. Indeed, some novels - defined as "classics" - may have been improved by inexorable editing, and published as novellas, or short stories. James Joyce's Ulysess, is full of the particularities of a single day in Dublin (an epic journey through life and death), yet it would take some reader's, with the aid of the "Ulysses Annotated: Revised and Expanded Edition" paperback, a lifetime to finish - a long time to go without food, and sleep; I'm sure you will agree. Sometimes the intense pleasure of reading comes from rereadings. It is one of life's pleasures to return to a novel I have read, and discover something new, something I may have missed on first, or second reading (The Title?), and it still remains, at the core, completely memorable.

My close friends call me ‘The Chocolate Teapot’. It’s a term of endearment endowed by a collective of partly formed brains. I have a wide circle of friends, a vast square of enemies, and I don’t like triangular cut toast. It reminds me of yachts, and for some reason I immediately become over anxious about the weather.

Reflections: I made a conscious effort to get out of bed today and go to work, but decided it will not become a habit.

I went into a restaurant this afternoon and ordered a double-breasted jacket potato with side salad. The waitress said it was at the dry cleaners and asked me to call back in four hours.

Memory, Sailing, and Pilchards

I enjoy walking, eating out, browsing in shops, indoor and outdoor markets - preferably in a country other than my own. Why? There's less chance of bumping into someone you can't place either in name, or relevance. Lapses of memory can happen to anyone, anytime, anywhere. Some people worry unnecessarily that it may be the onset of a disease. However, memory difficulties are not always an indicator of senile dementia.

Today, I met a lady in the street whom I couldn't place. As she talked about the recession; the wet, dreary weather; and children; she reminded me of Mickey Mouse. I believe it was the prominent big, black ears, and the squeaky voice. Try as I might my memory failed to recall her significance. I suppose it's like forgetting to post a letter, finding your glasses, your car keys, a wallet, a handbag, or putting your clothes on before you go out? However, I felt quite calm, and relaxed. It was only while I was getting my hair trimmed, I remembered - it was my wife. Strange how the brain works; the cognitive tricks it plays?

Today, for a change, I went sailing, and took our two dogs, our cat, and some food to eat on our journey. The animals were very noisy, and a bit unsettled. Frankly, I found their behaviour a bit annoying. About thirty minutes into our voyage I realised I had forgotten the boat, and my sandwiches got wet. No wonder the animals had been restless. It's strange how your brain deserts you when you need it most?

Though I'm shivering, I've just completed a "draft" film script titled, "When Things Go Right, Something Must be Wrong". The draft script has no dialogue, sound, or action, which should save time and money on production, rehearsals, and filming. The difficultly is selling the project to some nut who wants to break into film, is unhappy, and thinks "mise-en-scène" involves sex with a baguette, or worse, pilchards.

Reflections: I have two married sisters; Eve and Ruth. I hardly ever see them. When they call I pretend my ears are full of wax. I think they believe I’m progressively going deaf. They bore me stiff. And the worst part? They appear unperturbed by the fact they’re "living their lives strictly like our parents!" It's not a crime, but it should carry a madatory jail sentence.

Bungee Jumping, Character Names, and Van Gogh's Ear

All evidence concludes that the brain and the body are intimately involved with each other. Today, as I was eating my ninth large watermelon (It is believed the fruit has a "viagra-like effect"), I witnessed two neighbours - Hans Faraway, and Constance Compass - in what can only be described as an electromagnetic clinch. His brain, and her body, danced in a "trance-like state" (not unlike Florida). Faraway's brain was wearing the large head of a donkey, with very long ears. Constance's body - which was facing north - attempted a bungee jump without the requisite elastic cord. She was last seen waving hysterically from a hot-air-balloon, and using unfamiliar sign language.

Inspiration arrives at the strangest moments. I was reading, and analysing, Seamus Heaney's poem titled, "Bogland", and was immediately inspired to compose a poem of my own titled, "Bogland" - a short poem of seven, four-line stanzas. Not dissimilar, I agree. In fact, the first stanza commences: "We have no prairies, To slice a big sun at evening ..." I believe it's only fair to dedicate the poem to S. H.

I'm currently considering names for a short story; working title: The Laughing Hypochondriac. A character's name should proclaim his, or her, nature. I'm toying with Shirley Nott, as the male lead, and Friedrich Sniffer, as the wife, who gets drunk and reveals she is a cannibal. Friedrich is then recruited by the army with a mission to reduce troop numbers - her only weapon; a bottle of HP (Brown) Sauce. Objective: to reduce the army's basic pay, benefits, redundancy, and severance pay budgets'. I've written the end of the story first to see how long the story will be. I estimate about 60 metres, if the weather holds out.

Van Gogh's right ear has been in the news recently, and it's not talking. It's still keeping quiet about events in 1888. It's believed that Max Clifford of MCA (his Public Relations Company), has taken "the ear" on as a client. Can we expect a "front page exclusive" with a Sunday newspaper, or a TV interview with the ear? It was originally believed the Dutch painter cut off his ear with a razor after a row with Gauguin. Van Gogh walked, hopped, or ran, to a nearby brothel, and presented the severed ear to a prostitute called Rachel. She said she would only accept money for her services, and told him to stick his ear. Where? According to observer's, she didn't elaborate. Some believe Van Gogh's right ear ran off to Milan and became a successful opera singer, and that the current ear is an impostor. The French police have announced that investigations are ongoing regarding the whereabouts of Paul Cézanne's hair; Claude Monet's beard; and Edgar Degas' nose, which hasn't been seen in Paris since 1917.

Harsh times, indeed, for connoisseurs' of the art world.

Reflections: I used to live in a "run down" area. The majority of elderly residents left because they preferred to live somewhere they could walk.

Audrey Tautou, The Psychic Sisters, and "Heroic Uncle Teddy"

Well, Audrey Tautou, certainly charmed me as the ingenue in Amelie. I am pleased to learn Audrey plays the heroine in Anne Fontaine’s film "Coco avant Chanel" (2009), and is the "new" face of "Chanel No 5". I believe the poster for her new film has been banned in France as the poster features the French actress holding a cigarette, and has been deemed "unhealthy and inappropriate". More publicity for the film ... It is difficult for me to imagine "Amelie" played by another actress. Indeed, Audrey's gamine face is now world famous. She has a child-woman persona, and a performance style that embraces naturalness and ingenuity. She has also been graced with high cheekbones; big, dark eyes; beautiful, smooth skin; plump lips & a sexy smile; and a symmetrically, attractive beauty. I will continue to travel periodically to Paris in the forlorn hope of meeting her in a café, boutique, gallerie, or just passing by on the sidewalk - or perhaps, beneath a fog of neon ...

I went to see one of the "Psychic Sisters" at Selfridges - $70 for a thirty minute reading (anything by Tolstoy, or Proust, was an extra $30). The lady told me I was wearing a blue shirt, my own hair, my wife's underwear on my head, and glasses - uncanny. When I enquired if she had foreseen the current recession, and the downturn in the world markets, it transpired Claire had been on a caravan holiday in Dorset, and left her Tarot Cards, crystals, and glasses at home. Claire's rare gifts all seemed to commence with the prefix Claire: Clairvoyant; Clairempathy; Clairesentient; Claireforsight; etc. I left her shuffling Tarot cards in her purple booth, myself $70 poorer. She prophesied I'd meet someone in October. However, she wasn't sure of the year, place, sex of the person, or if I should bring an umbrella in case it rains. How these people know such things is mind-boggling?

Well, I didn't make the Time 100 list of the most influential people on the planet in 2009. Arnold Schwarzenegger's piece on "heroic, Uncle Teddy " Kennedy is satire, only Arnold doesn't know it. Mary Jo Kopechne's surviving relatives' must live in a state of constant despair. A diver reported that Mary Jo Kopechne had positioned herself near the back seat wheel well where an air pocket had formed, and had apparently suffocated, rather than drowned. It's a pity, and a tragedy, that "heroic, Uncle Teddy" didn't stay at the scene of the accident, and perhaps try to rescue Mary Jo ...

Reflections: We are all competitors for attention, jobs, promotion, status, power, etc. The people most admired tend to be successful; the winners. Those individuals least admired tend to be those whom 'life' has treated less well, for example, the mentally and psychically ill, the unemployed, the poor, the homeless, asylum seekers, etc.

Injustice , oppression, and evil are created by human beings and, on certain occasions, deliberately sustained for political, and economic ends. Injustice poisons us all. How the perpetrators of injustice, oppression, and evil sleep sound in their beds when the dark comes down is one of life's mysteries?

Steven Berkoff, Sleep Paralysis, and Greatness

Did the "man in black" deliver the goods during his one-man show, so to speak? Indeed, and much more. He used his gifts of mime, impersonation, sheer stage presence, to deliver - yes, deliver - a truly, polished, physical, and mesmerising performance. His analysis of villains, in general, and several of Shakespeare's villains, in particular, was a mixture of comic stand-up, and thespian histrionics. His performance was insightful, thought provoking, and witty. Indeed, contemporary politicians, political ideologies, and other devious characters who pound our god-forsaken earth daily striving to obtain, and sustain power - at all costs - did not escape his mighty tongue. Think Clinton, Bush, Blair, Mugabe, theatre critics, actors, bosses, work colleagues, pseudo-friends, etc - the list is endless, but you get the drift? A true talent, and dare I say, genius.

I have been a great admirer of Berkoff's works for years. An authentic, cerebral maverick. I met him after the show in the lounge of a local hotel. I congratulated Steven on a great performance, and was grateful to exchange pleasantries. I took him out to my car, and opened the car boot to introduce him to my wife. The fact that she was tied up, and her mouth duct taped alarmed him somewhat, but when his eyes lit on her face, I think I saw a flicker of understanding cross his features. A riveting night, indeed. I must remember to take my wife out of the car boot.

Like Lady Macbeth I used to sleepwalk - mostly at work, during the day. Contrary to myth, there is no evidence to suggest it may prove fatal to wake a sleepwalker unless they are in the process of driving a vehicle, or flying a plane. Unfortunately, I now experience sleep paralysis. This is quite frightening, and happens as people are entering or leaving sleep - usually by a rear exit. I find sleeping while standing on my head helps. Although my beard tends to cover my face, cutting off the oxygen supply, causing temporary suffocation, and extreme itching of the forehead.

Today, I went to the local Police Station and told the Duty Officer I felt someone was watching everything I did. He took the mirror out of my hand, and told me to get lost. Is this what we pay our taxes for?

Reflections: Popularity is not, and never has been, the same as "greatness". Which reminds me: I was considered by my parents, siblings, extended family circle, and an extended "train strike" in 1981, to be academically challenged. My mother always turned into a hamster when my exam results arrived. With popping eyes, puffed cheeks, and a blood-drenched hatchet held aloft, she would often scream, in melodramatic fashion, “You possess no genes of mine!” Well thank God for that. At times she could be unintentionally funny.

Uncle Bernard, Facial Expressions, and Musicals

My Uncle Bernard has never married. Why? Well, I believe he considered it when he was eighty-two-years-old (he's now ninety). However, the lady he admired - and, to an extent, had deep affection for - deliberated over her decision for four years. This also give Bernard time to reflect, and when she replied 'Yes', he said 'No'. He still remains active. Sometimes he takes a bus into town, and a taxi home: the downside is, he steals the vehicles, and picks up passengers on route, for no charge. I usually have to post bail, and collect him from the police station. He sometimes laments, " Why is my hair snowy-white; I don't even like Christmas?" And when I'm driving, "A fine boat you've got here. Goes at a good pace. In this mist, it's hard to tell where the shore, starts or ends. How can you see?"

Scientific experts believe that human beings have about 7.000 facial expressions at their disposal. My wife, wears the same face all the time - her mother's. The resemblance to "Colonel Rosa Klebb"- the fictional character from the James Bond film, "From Russia with Love" - is uncanny. Anyway, my wife keeps her "cocktail party" face (along with other faces), locked in her dressing table. Sometimes you can hear the faces talk for hours: mostly about make-up, beauty tips, parenting, and holidays. Thankfully, there's gin , and the darkness.

A good play well acted is rare; so is meat if it's not cooked.To observe actors changing gear during great dialogue is one of life's pleasures. Most films are relatively simple: the lights go out, the curtain opens, and if you wish, you can go to sleep - no interaction required. A good play is often more complicated, and requires your attention at all times. However, most of our theatres seem to be ensnared by "Musicals": 'Chicago'; 'Hair ; 'Shrek the Musical'; 'Son of Sam the Musical' ; etc. Great if you like that type of show. But there should be a place for real theatre that makes one think of life, language, being a human being, death, and suicide. Time for another gin, but its so dark in here. I can't find the bottle, or the glass.

Tonight, my wife and I, are attending Steven Berkoff's one-man show; an exploration of evil, and the personalities of Shakespeare's most villainous characters: Iago, the Macbeths, Shylock, Richard III, Oberon, and Hamlet. The only words I've repeated all day - which greatly confused my dentist - have been: "Now is the winter of our discontent made glorious summer by this sun of York ... "

Reflections: All debates, or arguments, over metaphysical questions come to nothing. The similarity with my bank balance is unnerving.