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've 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 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; no mean achievement. He seemed to live outside of life. Everything he thought, and said, was convertible into cash. He possessed no imagination: a meaningful prerequisite for a manager perhaps, but 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 limited 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, unhappiness, selfishness, and that you need to use the bathroom.

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? Too self-obsessed, prejudiced and ignorant. They're already dead and 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, the ground beneath one's feet is not solid for ever, if indeed it ever was/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.

A Foggy Mind, Bathing in Yogurt, and Finally to Bed

This morning I'm gazing out of the living room window of my home. There is a muddy pool of rain water on the grass. However, I may be looking in through the window at a pool of water on the green carpet in my living room? My foggy mind is laid to rest when a thin little man drives up in a car to ask directions. The little man says he is lost. He explains he turned into my driveway to seek help. I tell him to immediately leave my house! That I have no driveway! And that I find his manners despicable! He leaves my living room through the ceiling without his car, and - in his haste - without his legs. Of course, I will find the owner and post the legs to him.

I hate to watch individuals suffer unless they are relatives or friends. Anyway, I will no longer have to stand in a bus queue and make idle chatter with people - who similar to me - neither wish to smile, or speak about grey winter mornings, timetables, how their children smell like sweet vanilla, and how their dog once desired to starve itself to death due to a bad Internet connection. I now have a car. Though it does tend to make the living room look smaller.

Sometimes, the lyrics of a song can send me into a deep depression. One evening I was having a warm bath and I heard Bill Withers singing, "Lovely Day". I think it was the line, "Just one look at you and I know it's gonna be ... a lovely day". I immediately adorned my chastity belt equipped with a GPS tracking system, locked all the doors and windows, loaded my handguns and rifle, ripped out the phone line, and sat in the kitchen sink where I had a clear view of my record collection, the blazing sun (could it have been something the moon said?), and contemplated my weakness for bathing in yogurt, jumping on sandcastles wearing one shoe (believe me, there are not many of them about), and my desire for women, and love.

Suddenly, I realized I was torturing myself and enjoying it. I no longer felt trapped. The fog I was living under suddenly lifted, and I found myself sitting - half-naked - on stage with the New York Philharmonic during a performance of Tchaikovsky's Second Symphony nicknamed “Little Russia”. Somehow it all seemed appropriate. A stunned tuba player blew a lady's left ear off before he fainted.

Reflections: It is beguiling how language works on thoughts and emotions. A sequence of words - spoken, or written - can make your heart droop. The words begin to haunt you, follow you to your place of work, and back home. Finally, to your bed, where everything worth having ends.