Notes from a Cast-Iron Bathtub at Christmas

The landscape has disappeared behind a curtain of silent, glistening snow. The wind is fierce, chilly, full of mischief. It's approaching dawn. I'm sitting in a small moderately groomed living room. The Christmas tree partially fills the space with a gentle greyish-blue light, a timeless stillness.

The streetlamp outside glows soft like a distant fire. The cars are all white and the trees are dressed in snow. The pale winter sky protects the silence. A silence that permeates the snowy icy depths. The scene is compelling and delicate. I think of my mother and father's grave covered in snow, the sparse trees nearby eloquent in grief. My parents lie in cold, unimaginable silence.

The weather forecast confirms that the snow is causing mayhem. This is how it must be. I shake my head. One should not dread snow for it gives warmth and deadens the monotony of pale skies. Such days are not lost for they are tenderly captured by one's measureless, evolving memory, to be evoked perhaps on a warm afternoon, or evening, when peace and quiet abound. 

I decide to take a bath. The fact that I bathe in my neighbour's cast-iron bath tub with his girlfriend ensconced in its interior causes me little concern. Her warm green eyes, soft hands, and calm smile beckon me to join her. I do so with profound pleasure. A hot scented bath with a young woman hardly accrues to bitter disappointment so close to dawn. I make an absurd effort to shroud the flight of years which have ravaged my body. 

Nicole - her long, silky blonde hair spread over her shoulders - tells me she is about to take flight with another man. Indeed, it is her intention never to be in this part of the world again. We drink champagne and celebrate her good fortune.

'I always leave a man in December,' she ventures. 'I must be alone each January. I adore the fresh air and sunlight. It's vital I recharge my batteries before embarking on each new love affair.'

'Of course,' I reply. Nicole's exceptional beauty justifies my response.

'Anyway, I dislike being in love. The thought that a man would believe I could love him day in, day out, forever, is frankly horrifying.' She understood her power over men, or women for that matter. And yet I knew nothing about her.

'I see a look in your eyes I've witnessed a thousand times.'

'Really?' I say, murmuring and trying to smile.

'There are few moments of true passion and exhilaration in one's life. In fact, most of one's time is illusory and wasted.' Nicole leans towards me. 'How old are you?'

'After sharing this bath ... Talking to you, I'm not sure? After thirty I stopped counting. To do otherwise ...  well, it seemed pointless and troublesome.'

Her wide green eyes stare at me. They sparkle with desire. 'Everything must come to an end.' Her lips part in a sweet, delightful smile. 'Maybe we should just embrace this moment. I'm a woman, which I see you've noticed, and life is always too short.'

Nicole enfolds my hands softly, pulls me towards her, and kisses me. My body gives itself up to pleasure and rises from the dead.

*    

Reflection:  Even though Christmas Day is tomorrow some people are looking forward with an ill-conceived eagerness to warm spring mornings, roads without snow, trains and planes running on time and going to work in heated offices and shops.

This delusive yearning to embrace a brash fast world is visible in their cold eyes, bored faces and weary demeanours. They fail to notice the immediate radiant beauty around them that will soon fade. It appears that human folly remains fashionable and contagious and dominates, to a terrifying degree, the eternal mind of human life. Quite disheartening, really.

The Origin of My First Name & Ronald Coleman

I am sitting in a chair thinking of my name, how it came about, and why well-manicured fingertips usually belong to people who wear velvet knee breeches while taking a bath. I'm studying a photograph of my mother laughing, her joyous mood apparent. She is sitting in an armchair in the back garden; I am resting on her lap. She is shading her eyes from the sun with her right hand and looking straight into the camera.

My mother is cheerful and so am I. The armchair? Impossible to tell. I remember asking my mother the origin of my first name. She told me I was named after the English actor, Ronald Coleman. Naturally, he was indecently handsome (my mother preferred him with a moustache), well-mannered, impeccably groomed and statuesque. He took care to preserve his looks, of course, and it worked its charm on my mother. He often played an autumnal and amused romantic.

My distress was compounded by my mother's insistence that he possessed a beautiful speaking voice. By contrast my own voice had yet to take shape. What chance did I stand against Ronald Coleman, who could switch on surface charm at will? I lay in bed at night tormented by a man I had never met, nor ever would. My life had been thrown into despair by images of a charming, intelligent and 'indecently handsome' movie star. I can say, without fear of contradiction, that nature has not been generous to me either in terms of my build, my face, or my speech. 

As one gets older, however, one understands the ambiguity and the need to distrust images. The faces of film stars and beautiful people still haunt me, but in the darkness I pay little attention to their features. They are destined, like me - and those I love – to the same destiny. This thought does not bring me solace, only anguish. 

Nevertheless, my mother and I spent precious afternoons watching b/w reruns of the film Random Harvest which was released in 1942. A part Ronald Colman played opposite Greer Garson. I had never seen such a beautiful woman on film or television. Everything seemed simple, yet fantastical. One day, I would miraculously encounter Greer Garson, propose marriage (she would implausibly accept), and Ronald Coleman would be invited to "our" wedding - much to my mother's delight, of course! 

 *    

A recent study, conducted by Doctor Wilkelfield Finkelfukal, on how your name has a profound effect on how serious you may be taken by others is not to be published in the foreseeable future. In a statement, the publishers, Donski, Donner, and Kebab, said the Doctor's name was unpronounceable (even by the Doctor, himself), had no appeal, was too long, and - combined with his bumper-pad hips - made promoting the book analogous to flying to the moon in a garbage can. If the Doctor, however, is willing to adopt a reasonable pseudonym there remains a chance the book will still hit the shelves: mostly by those foolish enough to buy the book.

*    

Reflection: Some people underestimate the importance of living for the moment. Most things of value tend to be of a transient nature: laughter, joy, love, happiness, family, friends, good health and memorable encounters.

How to Dine with a Noisy Eater and Survive

I met an ex-girlfriend yesterday afternoon. At first I thought it was a stranger who had approached me, then I discovered it was Arabella. We eat in a sleazy bar where the women drank beer and the men danced. The longer I gazed at Arabella's face the less I understood what I was looking at.

Life doesn't prepare you for instant confusion, how to think rationally under duress, or how to dine with a 'noisy eater' without wishing to push their face in whatever they are eating. Arabella looked weary, her face damaged by alcohol. She kept flipping through missed calls and messages on her mobile. This tore me up. And to think she was once the prettiest girl in the village.

Appalled by her appearance and behaviour, and devoured by my incessant need to naively judge others simply out of boredom and conceit, my mind went into overdrive. Recalling our short romance reminded me how irrelevant it was.

After some small talk she turned to me, her hazel eyes ready to shed tears, and said, 'Do you remember the afternoon by the river? What images and sensations does it provoke?'

'A fear of rats.'

'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.' Her self-inflated snobbery and constant preening made me wonder how we had coexisted in a past now entirely dissolved.

'Do you notice anything about me?'

'You still radiate mindless malice when you're not the subject of praise.'

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

'But you were nine, I was ten! You must be approaching sixty!' (I knew Arabella was fifty-two now.)  

'How do I look, and be truthful?'

I lied as best I could. It seemed to satisfy her desire for assurance regarding her appearance. For a moment I saw the smile of a young girl when she was nine, who enjoyed picnics, butterflies, cats, playing the piano, inventing funny nicknames, and mimicking teachers. I didn't disclose to Arabella that I was wearing charity shop clothes and shoes, which, in their simplicity, remained tight, just like my finances.

After we said goodbye I waited a moment or two. I watched Arabella walking slowly towards the town square, her head slightly drooped. However hard I tried, all I could think about was her face covered with wrinkles of anxiety, regret and weariness.  

*

Reflections:  Scientific experts believe that human beings have about 7,000 facial expressions at their disposal. My wife wears an incessant expression and her resemblance to Colonel Rosa Klebb, a fictional character from the James Bond film From Russia with Love, is uncanny, let alone disheartening.

I try to forget that 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 irritable bowel syndrome. Thankfully I have my Sooty glove puppet and the darkness.

The TruthTeller and The Idiot (Hard to tell which is which)

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

Doctor: (sighing) Take a seat.

Long pause.

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

I: Well ... No.

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

Pause.

Doctor: Do you know I was beat and bullied as a boy. Of course not! Furthermore, my head's too big for my body, my body's too big for my trousers, and my wife sounds like a squealing fiddle! The stink of boredom is everywhere. I'm dead and so are you! A trivial matter, you'll agree.

I: I'm sorry ...

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

I: (uncomfortable) Well ... Sometimes, I hold two thoughts at the same time. For instance, my life has purpose, yet it is without meaning. Sometimes, when I'm in a room full of people I feel I'm in an echo chamber listening to myself. Sometimes ...

Doctor: Sometimes! Sometimes! Sometimes! Me! Me! Me! Get a grip on yourself! Can't you talk without bleating?! You live in a dream world like most idiots. (Shouts) Wake up! DO YOU UNDERSTAND?! WACH AUF!

Long pause.

Doctor: There's no point in telling you lies. I'm a hypocrite and a wretched doctor. What impelled me to live in this multi-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 professed '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) A few inescapable truths - I see I'm overwhelming you - something like genius cannot be measured. What's more, excess of wealth, or natural ability, do not ensure happiness, success, or freedom from diarrhea.

I: (timidly) Indeed ...

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

I: Really?

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

I: I see ... Well ...

Doctor: Isn't it good to fit into society. However that may be, I once aspired to be a farmer's wife: my parents were livid, of course. Instead, I'm a faceless false dummy who has to listen to dreadful boring people whining and sobbing all day about large dark clouds and the absence of clear blue sky. (Thoughtful) One can only guess, of course ...

I: (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 'Thanksgiving Day' balloons, pert breasts, lineless mouths and full lips. (Pause) Here's my prognosis. You've taken stock of your life and realised how little you've achieved. You are leading a factitious life and not going anywhere. Welcome to the club, old chum!

I: Oh …

Doctor: (writing) Have you heard of euthanasia?

I: No … I don't think so?

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

I:  You said short?! ...

Doctor: It did sound like it. I said, 'Good luck with the rest of your sport life'. You must learn to be less anxious. Goodbye.

The Idiot walks out into the sun and faints.

*

Reflections:  My wife is besotted with her in-car digital radio which she listens to in bed at night. My thoughts become hindered as I gaze at her lying in bed, bobbing her head, and wielding her feet aloft in time with the racket from her radio. When she exists in this 'self-induced' exile I am forced to confront my own neglected thoughts: a dreadful and precarious position for a dull, exaggerated creature such as myself.

When language runs dry the mind is derailed. I walk around the old town square several times without seeing a living soul. They could be hiding perhaps, or pretending to be woodpeckers. I sit on a stone sculpture, brood, and doze off.  Not good for the piles, not good at all.

In Search of a Different Existence

I always ignored my late maternal uncle's irreverent greetings as I had no wish to quarrel. Gregory was a widower with years of richness, unhappiness and loss buried deep inside him. I silently sat in a low-backed, wooden chair taking care to sidestep his intense gaze. As he lost himself in his layered memories I often permitted my mind to wander in search of a different existence. Nothing too extravagant, something more than memorable, something entirely unforgettable.

I imagine a perfect accomplished man in the company of a perfect accomplished woman. This calms me. It gives me time to forget what most preoccupies me. The woman and I are both high in spirit and wander in a place where the sweet flowers grow. Uncertainty, anxiety, painful surprises and evil cannot creep up on us and destroy our exquisite nature. We candidly grapple with existential questions: 'Why does a species such as ours not possess a well-shaped head similar to that of a camel?' - 'Why does bindweed proudly choke my plants?' and perhaps the most vexing question of all, 'Why do we sag with a heavy load as we traverse this earth until we die?'

The woman and I are not fools. We speak of the complexity and stupidity of many things including the question of human love, of fate, of creation, of renewal, of desire. Our walk from the garden leads us to the edge of a splendid lake. The world seems captured in the slight silent water and in our pools of thought. Such moments of contentment last only a few minutes, but are worth hanging onto while they last for they bring a bolt of happiness.

'You're an odd one. Why can't you make a clean sweep of things? Two children by two different woman and still not married! Your behavior is reprehensible.' Gregory's vitriolic voice jolts me from thought; I sigh, acquiesce and turn my eyes towards his gaunt face. 'I'm senile, worn out and have savage dreams,' Gregory exclaims. 'There's nothing left for me to discover in this world. Nothing.' I like Gregory: his intense thinking, his distaste for human ignorance, his mood that can toss like leaves in spring, his contempt for pity, his acceptance of growing old.

Gregory remained active until his demise; sometimes taking a bus into town and a taxi home. The downside being that he stole the vehicles and picked up passengers on route for no charge. I usually had to post bail and collect Gregory from a police station. He lamented, at times: 'Why is my hair snowy-white?! I don't even like Christmas!' And while I was driving, 'A fine boat you have here. Goes at a good pace. In this mist it's hard to tell where the shore starts or ends. How can you see?'

*

Reflection: I was the only boy to drop out of college because I was pregnant. The psychoanalyst said I was obviously starved for attention and fabricated the pregnancy to skip class. When I give birth she jumped from the Carrick-a-Rede Rope Bridge. An observer believes her last words were: 'I'll never eat kangaroo meat again'.

The Book Sniffers Club

It began with a letter addressed to the man of the house so my wife read it first. The letter instructed that a car would pick me up at eight o'clock that evening. No reason, no signature. Mysterious, even dangerous, yet I waited with eager anticipation. I watched a black car with tinted windows arrive and stop outside my house. The driver, roughly my age, stepped out of the car. He was well dressed and told me to sit in the back seat. He then asked me politely to place a black hood over my head. After that the driver didn't speak. I shrunk deep into the seat and stayed silent.

We drove for about an hour until I heard the tyres hit gravel and the car stopped. The driver held on to my arm as we walked silently along a gravel path. I heard a door bell ring. A door opened, and a male voice politely invited us inside. When the door shut I was told to remove the hood. I was standing in the reception of a large stately house. A portly, red-faced man flashed a smile and greeted me warmly. 'Splendid! Glad you could come. I'm Maxwell. Welcome to The Book Sniffing Club. We've been expecting you.' He led me to a large, round table where six people were sitting, and introduced me. The table contained a pile of books in various stages of decay.

'As you can see dear fellow,' Maxwell continued, 'you are in the prestigious company of fellow book sniffers. Decaying books are wondrous. The chemicals ... the volatile acids and emissions combine to make a vivid 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 deep inside the book jacket.

A woman flashed a smile and indicated a place at the table for me. I was struck by her beauty and husky voice. Her name was Rachel. 'It's open seating. Here, sit beside me.' I liked her. 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 thought how ludicrous, yet profoundly beguiling, the whole 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. Rachel said fresh books were all right for beginners, but nothing could beat an old crusty book. I asked if they had ever been raided by the police. She crossed her legs, then she laughed. 'No fear! Most members have influential positions, or connections, within the police and judiciary.'

Rachel handed me a straw, smiled, and pointed to the books, 'Now get sniffing!' I placed my straw deep into the spine of an old book. I believe it was a first edition, a first issue copy of Grimms Fairy Tales. The last thing I remember is inhaling, feeling drowsy, melting in a blue haze and losing consciousness.

*  

Reflections: It's funny how time changes your views and perspectives. I used to go to bed and pray for world peace: now I pray for a piece of the world. The step from humanitarianism to capitalism is, in reality, quite short.

The Tranquil Clock

An apartment. The white moonlight falls on each object in the living room in turn. The carpet, the table, the sofa, a bookcase, the pictures and paintings on the wall, a two-handed mahogany wall clock. All the inanimate objects appear to come alive, guests of the unusual white light. A meeting place for reality and illusion. A room invested with life. The minute hand (MH) and the hour hand (HH) of the clock strike up a conversation.

MH: I can't find my shoes.

HH: You're a hand on a clock. Hands don't wear shoes. You need feet to wear shoes.

MH: I can wear shoes if I wish.

HH: If that's the case, what do you intend to do with the shoes?

MH: Go for a walk.

HH: Where to? Am I invited?

MH: Only if you have a pair of shoes. (Pause) I feel a bowel movement coming on. (Pause) No. It's passed. I was thinking of going to see the town hall clock. I believe the clock was made by Dotards & Sons of Liverpool and the bell and chimes by Naysayer & Co of Scarborough. It is said the chimes are beautiful to the ear and pleasing to the soul.

HH: Amazing. How do you know all this?

MH: I heard the mistress of the house conversing. A fine looking woman. She had friends over for lunch. (Pause) You must have been daydreaming? A calamitous thing for a clock hand. They were elegantly dressed and sat around eating cake and drinking tea. During their conversations they talked about the beauty and splendor of the town hall clock.

HH: Indeed.

MH: I listened in polite silence, of course.

HH: Of course. What with?

MH: My ears.

HH: You don't have ears.

MH: How do you know? You can't see.

HH: Irrefutable.

MH: That's a big word for something that can't speak.

HH: And for something that can't hear.

MH: Exactly.

HH: A fine pair we are.

MH: Indeed.

Pause

MH: Do you think it will ever end?

HH: What?

MH: Our friendship? Our existence?

Pause

MH: That's funny. You shook your head.

HH: What's funny?

MH: You don't have a head. Neither have I.

HH: You're reading too many spiritual books.

MH: I can't read and neither can you.

HH: True.

Pause

MH: Do you think we have an ultimate goal beyond our prevailing use?

HH: We are on a road with no sign posts. My soul tells me that you and I have a timeless, ultimate meaning. That is all.

MH: You are indeed wise, even if I don't fully understand your explanation.

HH: You're not alone. We could not exist without doubt.

MH: I'm pleased you are my friend.

HH: It is reciprocated for all eternity.

 *

Reflections:  Some individuals seem to possess qualities of character and a personality which others - no matter how long they may live - will never possess. Even when one feels irascible, bewildered, indignant, 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 may use and abuse you, and move on to the next soft touch.

Groundhog Day at the HR Department

The inner sanctum of the HR Department. The midday sun beats through the windows and lights on two individuals.

'Peter, you're great.'

'And so are you, Selina.'

'Not as great as you, Peter.'

'You're still great, Selina.'

'Do you think so? You're not just saying I'm great because I always say you're great?'

'I mean it. You're great.'

'That's great. Here's Mary. Mary, you look great.'

'Well, thank you. You both look great.'

'Not as great as you, Mary.'

'Do you think so? You're not just saying I look great because I always say you both look great?'

'No. You look, and are, great, Mary.'

'That's great. Here's Maureen. Maureen, you look great.'

'Do you think so? You're not all agreeing I look great because I always say you three always look great?'

'No. You look, and are, great.'

'Never complain if someone says you look, and are, great.'

'Maureen, that's why you're so great.'

'And never confide in those who are greater than you are. That way one can't be improved or corrected. Heaven forbid, if one's greatness was to be judged and found wanting.'

'Maureen, you are indeed great. Isn't it wonderful that matters like the prolonged economic downturn, restructuring, organisational changes, job insecurity and cuts, planned redundancies, bullying, belittling people, making unreasonable and repeated demands on staff, creating undue stress and fear, never impact on our "divine" department?'

'Indeed, Selina. That's precisely why Peter is so great. He has a double face. He is supremely vain. He never speaks without boasting. He recognizes inferiority. He considers himself more intelligent than anyone else. He never hesitates to perform the 'dirty work.' When Board Members, managers, staff, union representatives, ask awkward questions Peter never gives a straight answer. That's why Peter is so great.'

'Oh, Peter, you're excruciatingly great. Shall we all go to the works canteen for lunch?'

'I confess to feeling ill at ease eating close to staff whose jobs are on the line. Let's go somewhere decadently extravagant. After all, we have the money and job security even if 'major reforms' are implemented in the near future. How many people can say that in this day and age?'

'Oh, Peter, you really are so, so, great.'

* 

Reflection: One springy afternoon, while contemplating how I might illuminate and shape my adult life, I began to count the number of hairs on my head. I lost count at 82,469 when one hair fell on the floor. I had to start from scratch. It's a widely held belief in scientific circles that if a person is in possession of a full head of hair they should have approximately 100,000 hairs. My mind began to race:

1. If I pull one hair a day from my head I should be completely bald in about 270 years. Who will continue the process after I am cremated?
2. I have another 99,999 single hairs to pull out. What if I don't suit being partially, or totally, bald?
3. Could I sell my hair on eBay? Is there a market for single hairs, or must I have a heap?
4. What constitutes a heap?

A Month in the Country

During my daily stroll on a desert island I was accosted by either a woman sporting a beard; a man wielding a beard; or a hedgehog on stilts. In truth, the incident happened so swiftly I cannot be sure. I recalled how David slayed Goliath with a simple slingshot. I took off my right sandal and threw it in the air, which to my amazement distracted my assailant. Suddenly the man's shape and features softened. I removed one of my blue cotton toe socks, filled it with five 'twenty dollar' bills, and beat him about the head. Unfortunately, the effort proved fruitless.

Despairing of hitting my assailant's head continuously with my sock (I felt the advent of a dazzling migraine), I enquired if he had change of a twenty. He announced, with the aid of a late 19th-century speaking trumpet, that he had a few nickels and quarters he could lend me. I thanked him and we exchanged currency. I filled my sock with stark bright coins. However, just as I was about to strike my assailant I was hit on the head by a flying sandal and lost consciousness.

When I came round he had disappeared along with my blue cotton toe socks. However, he left a note that read, in its entirety, the abridged works of Shakespeare, and which also solemnly declared: 'I'm heading back to Toytown where donkey's ears remain a symbol of individuality and freedom.'

*

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

This coming from a 'right leg' that walks away during conversations! Writes clandestine letters! Bleeds for no apparent reason! Runs errands for neighbours without my permission or knowledge! Quite frankly, it is tantamount to blatant attention-seeking! Even writing about my plight I find it hard to breathe. 

To make matters worst my right leg is good-looking, intelligent, looks at least twenty years younger than the rest of my body, and is extraordinarily striking in a black leather jacket and heavy boots.

*

Reflections: One night I attended a performance of Ivan Turgenev's play A Month in the Country with my girlfriend Alisa. We had to leave three days after the start of the production as we both experienced dizzy spells and hallucinations due to lack of food and drink.

Reaching the End Without Trying

This morning I was lying in bed (awake, though snoring) when someone hammered on my front door. It was a neighbour, Ivar Kalmar, who I find difficult to listen, or talk to, without losing hair from my body. I could tell he was in distress. His bleached-blonde hair was standing upright, and the tattoos on his heavy muscled arms were walking on all fours like a shaven-headed chimp with nappy rash.

I also knew his house had four toilets. He explained that in deciding which toilet to use he had become gravely confused and bewildered. I could see by the stain on his elegant blue pajamas he had suffered a 'little' accident. I invited Ivar into my home; to sit in the cat’s litter tray. My cat felt threatened, of course, and is not the most generous creature on earth. In fact, it is a peerless disaster as far as alcohol and gambling are concerned.

I poured fresh water in the cat’s feeding dish. The cat and I watched Ivar lick the dish bone dry. It seemed to have a calming effect on him. To disarm the silence I tried to engage Ivar in conversation. I commented on the marvelous array of automobiles outside his home, his family’s fine clothes, the numerous extensions made to his property, his profession as a high-ranking, marketing consultant.

Suddenly, Ivar pounced, grabbed my neck with his hands, and started to rant: 'I haven’t slept for five days. I’m exhausted from working in a god-forsaken company I hate. A job I hate. And worrying about unpaid bills for things neither my family, nor myself, required in the first place.'

'But you look so happy?! ... Your wife?! ... Your children?! ...'

'DON’T MENTION MY WIFE. First it was dual master bedrooms, then separate houses in the same city, then separate states, then separate countries, then separate continents. She took everything, including my cherished toupee made out of parrot feathers.'

'Really! I ... I never knew. I mean about your situation.' I fumbled behind me for an onion slicer, a large pot with a lid, or a large lid with a pot. The guy was nuts. Panic and anxiety bounced around in my brain: not much room, I know, but it’s the only one I can access. I grabbed a banana skin, and regretted eating the banana earlier. 'You should live like me. No television, smartphone, cyberspace, magazines, shopping. Marketing and advertising is brash, the bane of people’s lives!' I paused for a second. What was I saying?! The guy was in advertising, for heaven’s sake! I didn't tell him my cat had only last week bought expensive cat clothes, food, and sex toys on eBay, with my credit card. I was cleaned out.

'Perhaps you should go and live in the mountains, the jungle, or the state of Ohio! Away from civilization!'

He clamored to his feet. 'I believe you’re right. The mountains, the jungle, Ohio. I need to start packing.' He moved towards the door. I slightly relaxed my grip on the banana skin. With his eyes moving in different directions he turned to me and said, 'Sitting in your cat's litter tray has helped me reassess my perspective on life. How can I ever repay you?'

As I pushed him out and engaged the twenty locks and bolts on my front door, I whimpered, 'Send me the fangs of the first venomous snake that bites you.' I believe Ivar exclaimed, 'You’ll get them, buddy! I swear, if it kills me, you’ll get them!' I had a feeling he was right. That's when I decided to move house.

*

Reflections: People today don’t seem to trust each other the way they used to. Out of fear, I guess. Somehow picking up hitchhikers kinda makes sense to me again. First, I need 'fresh wheels' - fast.

Broken Clocks and Blind Squirrels

I'm composing a ten-minute-play which is overrunning by two milliseconds. I now consider it a blunder to have 12 male characters, 5 female characters, extras, chorus (m/f), and a prehistoric jaw bone that tragically dies of a frozen stomach while eating a sizeable ice-cream cone. The title How to Avoid Running Away with the Minister's Wife or Mother is playing havoc with the plot, theme, and motif. Not to discount my mental and physical distress.

Genre: will it be tragicom, satire, romance (try to forget the prehistoric jaw bone overdosing on ice cream), musical drama, pastoral, or a folk drama? I’m on the verge of collapse. Moreover, I have observed the drama lacks clarity concerning a central question: what compels the jaw bone to climb naked up a tree? a jaw bone that comes from an affluent and devout family? Am I exaggerating my plight? No, but I haven't eaten for days, I sleep on the ground at night, and can't stop shaking the hands of beggars, broken clocks and blind squirrels. What would Molière do?

It is late afternoon. I am surrounded by illness and death. O.K., I’m in a hospital, but is this how patients are treated in the 21st century? How did I get here? I performed the 'Heimlich manoeuvre' on a man called Maurice Flapper who swallowed his false teeth while dancing the Charleston. During the unfortunate incident Mr. Flapper's dentures flew out and bit me on the nose. 

I might have been the victim of an unprovoked mastication attack if Mrs. Flapper had not been on hand to wrestle the dentures off, and secure the teeth in a container. As I left the scene I could hear the false teeth trying to escape: gnarling, snapping, and sounding uncannily like a debauched black crested gibbon. A policeman later informed me that the dentures had been taken away and destroyed. Apparently, I require a single stitch on my nose and, considering the trauma, will not be able to eat fish, or french kiss, without written clearance from a reputable doctor.

*

Reflections: Today, I'm not waiting for Godot; I'm waiting for an escalope of energy to pervade my existence. My marriage is badly frayed, my trousers and finances in shreds, I've mouths to feed - some with herpes simplex lesions - and my family has grown tired of eating soup each day made from my wife's left elbow. To be honest, my wife isn't particularly happy either, especially during the simmering stage.

At such moments I dig into my memory. If there is no sign of life I try to recall a time when all I had to worry about was the ability to forget. 

In Search of Lost Time

Each year in early spring family members congregated at my parents' house and resolutely nodded at each other without talking. We sat in a billowing silence for several hours and listened to the noise of passing traffic. As the nearest road was 10 kilometers away this ritual affirmed that affinity and honesty do not mix. Eventually someone gravely undernourished would rise from a chair and faint. A sign that food should be served.

We sat down to a restrained meal - usually throttled fish legs - and chatted about all sorts of things: work, illness, death, repetition, work, illness, death, repetition. Occasionally I gazed at the hollow assemble and thought, 'So many people sitting amid the paradoxes of identities and consciousness.' I include myself, of course. On numerous occasions I remember asking, with latent hope of dialogue, 'Where are we?' Did anyone answer? No one answered.

For a while I couldn't fathom my father. He possessed an inability to think rationally under stress. He was a man who said what he thought, formally and orderly. And he could doze in front of the living room fire at any time of day. He had a habit of keeping his cardinal smile for fire light. His favourite hobby was shuffling socks. Sometimes he would suddenly leap from his chair, hold five socks aloft, and cry, 'A straight flush!'

He used a carpet beater to punish his begats for minor misdemeanors even though our home was devoid of carpet. Impulsive behaviour, even disheartening, but plausible for one whose conditions in early life were occasionally difficult to navigate without collecting hurtful wounds. The floors were cloaked in linoleum which held a diversity of smells: buttermilk, cat urine, dirt from footprints, and the sweaty armpits of a hoary man from Bavaria whom no one in our family had met.

My father, with his vanity on clear display, would insist on reading from his favourite book In Search of Lost Time. After a hundred pages - give or take a leaf - someone would usually chant, hyperventilate, or rush from the room wailing: 'It's not easy being a candle', or something of that nature. A frighting experience for the faint of heart, or, indeed, anyone with a clicking hip joint. Of course, my father would promptly stand up and in an uncomplicated and straightforward manner violently throw Proust to the floor. He would storm out of the room through the nearest window; his voice quivering in his wake, 'No man deserves honest ignominy heaped upon him! Plot is not the point!'

To calm things down someone - usually myself - would simulate a sudden rise in temperature, fall to the floor, pant heavily, and whimper in a colourless voice: 'Malaria.' This act advised all present, in a simple, productive tone, that farewells were in order.

*

Reflections: A growing craze worldwide is knitting and crocheting. My addiction started when I read a copy of Stitch 'n Stitch Again in the dentist waiting room. Then, suddenly, I was knitting until the early hours, then night after night, when I was out with friends, or going to the bathroom. It didn't occur to me that my actions were, in anyway, pathological. I was using terms such as, 'I'm in the Zone,' and 'Pass me some thread, man.'

My life was out of control. I sought help through Knitters Anonymous (KA) - a worldwide fellowship of men who share a desire to stop knitting - and it seems to be working. The only downside is that I used knitting as a calming distraction. However, I'm now making customised underwear for young single and married women and it seems to help me relax.

A Rendezvous with My Literary Agent

Today I had lunch with my literary agent. 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 my agent tends to be remote and vague. She has a tendency to walk on all fours when a conversation becomes exciting. 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 shrewd and short comments in the air and catching them in her mouth. 'Your short novel has no plot, hurried syntax, and the title, It's Hard to Debate Anything at Length While You're Unconscious, is unengaging, let alone disconcerting'. I asked if she believed I would ever have a book published? She thought seriously and replied, 'Published is a big word.' She smiled. 'The only avenue left is to translate some of your work into English, even though you believe it already is.'

Her words overwhelmed me. I'm aware I write badly. In fact, in my first novella, Even Vegetables get Homesick, I used the adverb 'badly' eighty-six times in one chapter. This naturally raises questions which frankly are unanswerable.

'Maybe I'm wrong,' she said slowly and hesitantly, 'but I believe you should go on. Even though your stories are, shall we say, without meaning and littered by characters with the souls of sick sea creatures. 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 work.'

I thanked my agent for her honesty, intelligence and company, though I felt trapped and wished to escape. I remained smiling as she left. Then my mind 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, that can engage with its audience, remember its lines, and can collaborate with butter without reverting to ominous panic. 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 doing her best to upset me. She is playing tom-tom drums with her prosthetic hip replacement implant, and yodeling Prairie Lullaby while chewing tobacco: juice running down her face.

I stop writing, grab an apple, and sit on the floor in a corner of the room. I watch my wife from this short distance. Holding the apple, I reflect a day will come when I can stand such discomfort no longer. What should I say? Suddenly my face becomes pale, lifeless. My eyes too tired to shed tears. After thinking about this for a moment, I lean my head against the wall in an effort to embrace sleep.

An Intimate Encounter with Décolletage

It needs to be said that I am compelled to greet some days with a gaunt face and heavy-lidded eyes. Sometimes my sense of the past, which lies buried in uncertainty and incompletion, pokes out and demands attention. It confirms what I discern: I crave a fresh start. No foot dragging for a day or two, at least. If the silence is unbearably painful I shall manage the chaos with unconscious humour. I've subtlety managed it before, though not for long.  

My wife tells me that I - sorry, we - live in a decrepit one bedroom semi-detached house. The only excitement entering our existence is by the back door: a brief violent storm, a mouth opening to scream, or a neighbour recalling their time as an FBI agent when they were disguised as fish to catch draft dodgers disguised as wood thrush.

Our living room wears a weary tragic expression. I look at my wife who is sitting slightly hunched. Her face is contorted and tight with anger. She was beautiful once - a pale complexion, fine full lips and long brown hair. Not now. Her beauty is well spent.

She glares at me. 'I've sent you a text. Read it.' Her voice is unnaturally loud. My strength deserts me as I read the message: I DONT DO STAGNATION! To avoid engaging with my wife I remain silent; my mind a dispassionate organ. I do not mind silence, unless it sighs with impatience, vies for attention, or makes hypocritical remarks. Then it bores the hell out of me.

I leave my wife grumbling to herself and climb up the chimney breast. No forwarding address or contact number is necessary. If she needs me she can ring the police. I calmly climb up the chimney breast. Midway I gaze in bewilderment. A woman wearing a short skirt and stockings is staring at me suspiciously in the semidarkness. We gaze back and forth at each other. 

I speak first. 'What ... your name?' My heartbeat is sharp and nervous. 

'I don't expect you to know my name, even though we've been neighbours for seven years. Isn't that disheartening and disorienting?' After a short pause she says, 'My name is Angie. I came in here to breathe fresh air and to get away from the quietness of my home. My husband lacks the imagination to understand my human body and mind. He keeps himself busy all day without doing anything that might evoke spontaneity, acuity or craziness. He is morally hygienic except where sweet girls and women are concerned. The charming creature wants us both to live out our days like skeletons. Can you believe it?'  

I don't say a word while she talks. All this confiding of family circumstances makes me uncomfortable. She takes makeup out of  her bag and dabs powder round her eyes.

Her wide, dark eyes smile with secret amusement. 'You don't look like a chimney sweep. I can tell you've been crowned with the mysteries of grip and pleasure.'

Angie's flirtatiousness makes me vulnerable. I'm mesmerized by the swell of her décolletage. 'My husband and I are not young lovers any more. I'm sure you hear our awful fights. Our marriage is floundering, quite badly. I never know where his mouth has been the night before, and vice versa.' 

She leans over and kisses me with grace and style. I vibrate with life, time slows down. I remain free of real and imagined comparisons. Without hesitation we slowly make love. It's difficult to explain the genesis and nature of our meeting, passion and parting. I have no idea what she was really thinking or wanting. Could it have been a successful exercise of power on her behalf? Was she a slave to the dreadful torment of destroyed love, jealousy, or fruitless envy? 

When I climb down from the chimney breast and enter my living room the potent scent of bonding, impetuosity and happiness disappears. The sense of isolation I feel grows into gradual despair.   

*

Reflections:  One source of pleasure for me is looking after my granddaughter, Lily, while my daughter, Emma, goes to work. Sometimes I lie beside Lily (ten months old, now) willing her to sleep, and watch as her eyes open and shut, and finally close. Her fingers fall free from gripping my thumb.

Before I silently leave Lily to sleep and dream, I gaze at the graceful little face; her beautiful, soft skin and delicate frame. I realise how fleeting life can be. I softly squeeze her tiny hand like a terrified child. Occasionally, I feel tearful, but am not ashamed. For what is prettier, more significant, more unforgettable, than a rosy-cheeked baby in the throes of slumber.

The Big Bang . . . Almost

I'm looking at the sky in clinical fashion. It appears extremely high. I am a small figure and often confused. An article in a science magazine arouses within me a potpourri of wonderment, menacing anxiety, and a sense of extreme lightness. The article states that the entire universe was smooth just after its birth billions of years ago. An extraordinary assertion. Billions of galaxies and billions of stars. Suddenly I feel profoundly inept. Nothing new, I assure you. But how do "they" - the highly cerebral elite - "know"? 

Apparently through light emitted 370,000 light years ago after the Big Bang. I don't recall hearing the explosion but I recollect hearing a neighbour's dog barking. I'm sure the Noise Abatement Society was inundated with calls from individuals suffering from physical and mental distress. How my neighbour's dog fared is anyone's guess.

I can't decipher if there is a human being or an animal in my home when all the lights are blazing. I usually rely on a well-known technique I've perfected without using measurements of cosmic microwave background radiation. I simply open the front door and shout, 'WHICH ONE OF YOU A******S HAS ALL THE LIGHTS ON WHILE TAKING A BATH!'

Armed with CS spray and a stun gun I soar the stairs and head for the bathroom. Before doling out punishment I commonly say, in a relaxed tone, 'Don't take this personally.' Then I'm lost in the heat of the moment. The victim usually falls into a short coma and wears a large hat for a week.

*

My first day in permanent employment. A man waiting for an elevator on the fourth floor of a beat-up building advises me that he has been standing on the same spot for two years.

'They take on anyone here,' he said. 'My boss told me years ago that I didn't seem capable of thinking so he does my thinking for me. What do you think about that?! Eh? You're not paid to think, you're paid to do! I don't know about you but after a while lifeless bodies bore me to hell.' He give me a strange look as he stepped into the empty elevator shaft. His final words? 'Always check the elevator is in the shaftttttttttt!!!' I never got to thank him but damn sound advice.

*   

Reflection: Yesterday I went out for a walk to stretch my legs. I returned home two feet taller.

Christoper Columbus, The Slave Trade and Dinosaurs

In 1492 Christoper Columbus landed in the Caribbean mistaking it for India. As proof of his discovery he returned with a chicken masala meal for one, a singing snake and a ventriloquist named Americo. The Europeans became obsessed with discovering civilisations, places and practices in existence for thousands of years. They became fond of sailing and the 'World Cruise' was born.

Although agriculture had been practiced in central and southern America for thousands of years, the Europeans showed the indigenous peoples how to make more food than they could eat. Morever, how to make a profit. The Europeans soon discovered that guns and swords were unnecessary to control the population. Smallpox, measles and the flu were faster and didn't involve night raids. Silver from the mines was a driving motive of Spanish colonization. It helped that the Spanish Conquistadors had an unpronounceable name and looked like Cubans.

The slave trade proved a valuable lesson to the Portuguese, British, French, Spanish, and Dutch. While exploiting the silver mines, and agricultural plantations, the Europeans discovered an important working practice. It was more cost effective to work people to death and replace them than to improve their working conditions. This 'principle' is advocated 'to this day' in some management and leadership books, organisations, companies, human resource departments and military dictatorships around the globe. And, despairingly, in some families and schools.

*

I know - I think I know - about dinosaurs despite never having met one (not while sober, anyway). I suppose it's just information passed from generation to generation. In the West we tend to accrue a vast amount of knowledge about abstract words, for example: truth, justice, freedom, reality, and to worry about things we shall never know, no matter how hard we look, or by seeking the advice and knowledge of others.

People from different cultures think about things differently, and perhaps that is the way the world has existed and shall continue to do so. Who has the right to say the worldview of an individual, or a culture, is wrong if it does not intrude in the lives of others causing physical, mental or spiritual harm?

Perhaps we should just enjoy life as it happens and try to shelve all worry, concern and beliefs we have no control over, which may, paradoxically, control our lives to the detriment of our well-being. The solution sounds simple, but remains difficult to put into action. A human fallibility, but strong and destructive, nevertheless.

*

Reflections: The office environment in the 21st century is a time bomb: full of testosterone and estrogen, and rats if it's an old building. The rise of working singles working round the clock, and those working near a clock, has turned some offices into 'Singles Bars' with bouncers on the door, and the water consumed during 'Happy Hour' is charged to your credit card.

And let's not forget those who are in a relationship and suffer 'transient global amnesia' for five minutes while having sex with their secretary. This can be particularly disquieting when it happens during a board meeting, especially for fellow board members. Where I once worked a monthly lottery was held to guess who the CEO's next conquest might be. One list included females, males and a coffee vending machine on the 2nd floor.

Tell Me The Truth About Love

I remember we had passed each other during the interval. After that moment I never grew tired of looking at her. We shared a love of the theatre, classical music, literature and poetry, and an enduring interest in writers and writing. Following the performance of Mahler’s Fifth we met at the embankment, and talked and laughed as the lights of the city danced breathlessly on the river.

When she smiled with her lips slightly parted I thought that any woman would be envious of her. She wore a black dress and her mass of wavy black hair tied up. Her beauty was indescribable. She exuded a social and cultural confidence to which I felt I could never aspire. We said nothing about our past, or present, relationships.

I adore Mahler,’ smiled Kirsten. ‘I feel I’ve been on an epic journey ... His obsession with death is evident, even to me. Then the triumph, the wonderful pinnacle of the final movement.’ Her gaze transferred to the boats dancing in rhythm on the water. ‘He was obviously passionately in love. What about you? Have you been in love?’ She scrutinised my face with amused tolerance and satisfaction. 'Answer me,' she said, delicately touching my hand.

The night was warm, and a soft, impatient wind blew across the greyish blue river. 'I prefer to say hello than goodbye. Hello radiates an air of anticipation, the beginning of something either funny or tragic.' Already I felt a deep affection for Kirsten, bordering on attraction.

'You still haven’t answered my question.’ She playfully poked my ribcage.

I looked at her, and smiled. ‘Tell me the truth about love ...’

‘When it comes will it come without warning, just as I'm picking my nose?’ Kirsten recited, her voice breathy and passionate.

‘Would you care to go for a walk, something to eat?' I said. 'French? Covent Garden?'

As we walked across the Millennium Bridge our hands accidentally touched. Kirsten smiled and kissed me on the mouth. I felt my heart rise. Then she turned away to look at the light in the stars. I noticed a suggestion of sadness in her eyes. Kirsten laughed softly and breathed in the night air. 'What an engaging night. Let's make it a memorable one.' Her voice was clear and winsome.

She leaned towards me and grabbed my hand. Her smile, like the destined light of day, became a laugh. Kirsten half closed her eyes and slightly tilted her head to let the tender trembling wind caress her eyelids. Her softened eyes still revealed a hint of sadness.

  

‘Why New York?’ asked Kirsten.

‘That’s what it’s called.’

‘Very funny. Are you travelling with anyone else?’ asked the prettiest woman in the restaurant.

‘Hopefully the pilot.’

‘How long will you be gone? I’m already missing your acerbic wit.’

‘Hard to say. I’ve been east. I believe it's time to go west. In fact, that reminds me. I'm booked in for a bikini wax tomorrow morning.’ We continued to eat and converse, attracting disgruntled glances from fellow diners'.

Once outside the restaurant we became insensitive to the surroundings. We kissed like two lovers in sensuous harmony and balance; as if we existed outside of time, outside of monotonous existence, outside of ordinary life.

As Kirsten sat in the taxi, she held out her hand. I briefly kissed the fingers of her right hand. Her engaging face was calm. 'Goodbye, and thank you,' she said. As the taxi drove off I still felt warm and sensual. As if I was part of some secret, beautiful and distant world.

*

Reflections: Beauty and love are inexpressible and ephemeral. Your heart may rise as you recall a romantic encounter, a kiss, a chance meeting, a pleasure in your life; but it is just a memory. One should not live with illusions of happiness, love, or, beauty, as one gets older. For there are only moments of anticipation, passion, and desire, that fill one's life. Only surprising and beautiful moments.

The Unwavering Sound of Invisible Things

Warm feet and socks, sweaty brow, half-opened soft mouth, dummy hanging on for dear life. Pale light glistens on slabbers, above and below. The trembling dummy falls. Pali! Pali! Not yet, poor dear. Have faith: a lie long known to be true. Where's nanny? God knows you love her for the right reasons. Your daddy's a strange one. Let him cast the first stone.

Forget time and listen for sound, faint or loud. A bin is moving rubbish, speckling and confident like orange tea in a swimming pool. Does no one hear it? Not the sleeper, the cow's milktaker. A small sharp cry, a change in position. Not yet awake, nor any intention of doing so. Lying still upon the knee.

First cause, second cause, third cause . . . Pali! Pali! Not yet. Have faith. The tide is out. Will it come back? She scratches her head though still asleep, muffled and huddled. Silence no longer hidden by a pillow, a blanket, a healthy appetite for a doze. Flaxen hair, rosy cheeks, pumping heart, still rhythms. Still in life, still in death. A soft sigh, wipe of the eye, change in position. Fourth cause, fifth cause, sixth cause . . . Pali! Pali! Forget time, listen to the unwavering sound of invisible things.

Warm milk and bobo aids sleep upon the knee. Change of position, the sleeper oblivious, possibly dreaming. The young body centre stage. The old body stretched out, mouth open, transformed. Upon the knee, the cow's milktaker. Warm feet and socks, sweaty brow, half-opened soft mouth, dummy hanging on for dear life. Where's nanny? A jailer bound to a prisoner. Has it crossed her mind?

Feet swing from a warm bed. Flushed face, mouth dripping, eyes blank. Restless steps on stairs, faint then still. Wide-eyed. A funereal cry. Face bereft of a groan, a giggle. Fluster flanks the unwavering sound of invisible things. The cow's milktaker murmurs strange, sleepy sounds. The old body is stretched out, mouth open, cut off from the world. Where's nanny? Forget time, lie still upon the knee. The chill night will come soon enough.

*

Reflection:  Similar to love and friendship, health is fragile and complex. One can protect, but not influence the outcome.

The Sex Appeal of Victorian Furniture

This afternoon I dropped off to sleep on the living room floor while absorbed in writing an enlightening entry in my diary. I'm damned if I can remember what it was. I believe it may have constituted throwing photographs of my wife on the fire. An activity, I confess, which makes me smile with great pleasure and satisfaction. My wife (unknown to me) was pacing to and fro, closely watching, her soul in torment, flinging her arms in the air, madly chanting, 'People with lively minds! Little tin gods, each and every one!'

I woke up in the presence of something that wasn't there when I fell asleep. I couldn't touch my left leg below the knee. In fact, I couldn't see it. I'm heavily encased in a partition wall constructed while I slept. Suddenly my life has become absurdly difficult. I need to use the bathroom and the culprit of this inextricable deed (my soon to be ex-wife) has vanished from the house like a comet on some passionate adventure with a femme fatale. The only things my wife and I had in common were sharing the same mistress and a predilection for sitting in farmhouse kitchens sniffing the feral scent of stray cats.

In the semidarkness of the living room I hear imagined sounds and see imagined sights. Try as I may to hold my water, I can not any longer. The only consolation is that my 'little' indiscretion is not exposed to public gaze. Anyway, I've been shocked into taking stock of my life and making a fresh start. First, I require to get out from under this wall, find a change of clothing and get a cab to the heady life of town. I've no desire to become immortal, nor empty of desire or sin. Not yet, anyway.

*

My cousin, Charles Wanda Medull, has a natural distrust of the past, houses and possessions. He always seems to have something concealed: usually his wallet. All his life he has longed for risk, destitution and to understand the sex appeal of Victorian furniture. 

Charles is entangled in a tormenting love affair with a chicken leg. I advised Charles that he can never love a chicken leg absolutely. Nor can he leave his world for the chicken leg's world, especially in the midst of the current "horse meat scandal" in Europe. His disastrous inability to heed my warning played right into the hands of the authorities. 

Last month, Charles (who lives inside a pantomime horse) was arrested for impersonating a chicken. His honeyed protestations made him appear a sadder, sillier and smaller figure. An image not dissimilar to that of a hen.

C.W. writes to me from his prison cell but makes no mention of his love affair with the chicken leg. His letters, however, are layered with wit, elegance, intelligence, just a little bitterness, and a smidgen of horseradish cream sauce.

*

Reflections: It is well we cannot foresee the future. This distance and alienation keeps our hearts and minds an impotent distance from formidable defeat and despair. As we take delight in beautiful experiences, and passionate adventures, life with its motive force can deal blows of all shapes and sizes.

My seven-year-old granddaughter, Aimee, has been hospitalised with a viral infection. It is heartbreaking to see Aimee in such distress. She is slowly regaining her spirit and cult for funny, 'brilliant' things. Her humour remains infectious. For that I am thankful.

Aimee will change in value as time passes like all interesting people do.

The Illusionary World of the Career Politician

'He knows nothing; and he thinks he knows everything. That points clearly to a political career.'
― George Bernard Shaw

Imagine that a group of friends or lovers or, heaven forbid, relatives arrive at your home unannounced. Do you welcome them with a lie, or tell the truth? "Frankly, I'm tired and exhausted, and each and every one of you love and hate yourselves, and each other, with equal veracity. You dishonour and threaten the rest of society with your insincerity, cynicism, virtuous morality and false judgements."

Mind you, I could be talking about career politicians. They do tend to speak unnaturally, and make fools of themselves with their endless meaningless speeches and rabbit-hole opinions, which I find imperceptible and avoid at all cost. Their eternal scrambling for status, one-upmanship and hierarchy comes at the cost of gaining an enlarged sallow or salmon coloured face. Furthermore, they grow capacious emotional armpits which can, if permitted, shower each living creature within a hundred metres with dark tepid perspiration: "water" and "excreta" to you and me.

When not being driven to God-knows-where (in a vehicle with tinted windows which gives the "deluded occupant" time to practice the art of the sudden teardrop) I have, on occasion, seen the odd career politician dreamily flying past on a bicycle. When it happens, however, as one is seated at the bedside of an ailing relative one tends to feel distressed, even shocked, at the state of democratic socialism. It means cracks are starting to show. And growing bigger by the day, I might add. 

I condemn and absolve no one. You see - well, I hope you see - most career politicians (when not engaged in fiddling their expenses, strolling on Clapham Common looking for badgers in the middle of the night, wearing gimp masks to house parties, junketeering at public expense, head-butting fellow CPs, conducting 'drunken brawls' over interns) are transfixed by human torment: usually their own. Don't be surprised if the following attributes remind you of some people who "spend their time" in government departments or the legal professions ... in short, within the dazzling diversity of delicate society.

Do you believe no person exists in this world as talented as you? Have you an insatiable desire for praise and recognition? Have you an irresistible urge to judge others? Can you notice a person's one weakness and forget their many strengths? Do you enjoy rushing your opponents: putting them under pressure to affect their judgement? Are you devoted to endless meetings? Television and radio interviews? Press conferences and photo ops? Have you perpetrated or sanctioned: intimidation, bribery, burglary, oppressive surveillance, kidnapping, interrogation, torture, severe hunger or starvation, death threats, assassinations, killing or murder? Does your blinkered ideological cocktail contain a litany of nonsensical beliefs. Are you unable to resist the temptation to flatter? to gossip? to pontificate? to browbeat? to upstage others? to lie under oath? Are you ...? Is your life a fraud?

An intriguing, but manageable list, you will agree. Whether the election laws are democratic or undemocratic you may have the attributes required of a career politician. A day may come, however, when you are unable to stand the "meat grinder"no longer: the lies; the jibes; the false accusations; the feigned smiles and handshakes; the doctored speeches.

Unfortunately, a day may come when you may open yourself to "substantiated" accusations. The abrupt leap from academic achievements, political and diplomatic successes, to a hoarse shout from behind prison bars may seem austere, but apt.

Some career politicians believe they are above the law. They're wrong. This comforting illusion which they create, and in which they exist, can vanish as swift as it has begun.

(2013)