skip to main |
skip to sidebar
And now, as the slate-grey roofs outside my window begin to darken with rain, I can sit here and reminisce about the weekend. On Friday evening we went to the party in the woods. The hostess who had distributed the exclusive invitations (to a select list of guests) had intended to hold the party at her house. Unfortunately, this plan was hijacked and so instead, she decided to take us all along to the home of one of her hapless neighbours. Before he could protest that he only wanted to watch the footie in peace, more and more of our hostess’s guests arrived and the poor unfortunate man had been totally invaded. Sarah even brought her dogs along for good measure.
We made an intemperate evening of it, I can tell you. We were lucky enough to be graced with the presence of a celebrity (albeit probably only ‘B’ list, but even so he is sufficiently famous for me not to be able to mention his name here – and you won’t see his photograph amongst the Facebook collection either; I have been selective). Long after the football had been forgotten (Manchester United lost, tant pis) we were still partying. The dogs were dancing on the stairs, some of the girls had undergone several costume changes, and the silence of the woods was swollen with the music of the night. I don’t even remember going home.
On Saturday, I was feeling febrile and delicate but was nevertheless relieved to be invited for one ‘quick drink’ in that most hospitable and laid-back of hostelries, Edin’s. Sarah’s two assistants – Jeremy & Raoul – were working there undercover (using assumed names, of course) and Edin was displaying his familiar charms as mein host – the best in town. Well, imagine my chagrin when I realized (too late) that the ‘one quick drink’ had unfurled into a staggering 7-hour drinkathon and that we had been joined by more and more people all crammed around our tiny table. Music from the Café de Paris played affably in the background and the languid chatter ranged from topics such as literature and art, to the efficacy of sado-masochism. I lurched home at an inappropriate hour only to find that my old friend the Stray Cat had arrived. The sleep I had been hoping for was abandoned, as you might expect.
And today, a very sad time has at last arrived. I decided that my three loyal companions – Mr Fishy, Little Fishy and Topcat - finally needed to be re-homed. They have been living a forlorn existence in their tank at my other house for too long, and so I felt that the time had come to set them free. So, transported in two enormous plastic bags of tank water, they were journeyed out to my sister’s house in the country and took up residence alongside the Koi Carp in her enormous pond. What a shock for us all. And tonight I realized that I didn’t even take a last photograph of them and so the only one I can show you is when they were much smaller, in the tank they lived in before the tank they have just left (see above). I suspect that Mr Fishy is right now lurking miserably at the bottom of the pond, sulking, and harbouring murderous thoughts. I feel so guilty.
Some time ago, on this page, I think I mentioned E M Forster’s short story ‘The Machine Stops’ . It’s a good story, and horribly prophetic. It’s about a society where individuals live alone inside their sealed pods and where their every need is met by the ‘Machine’. The only communication they have with others is via electronic means and there is no personal contact whatsoever. These individuals have never seen the natural light of day. Then one day, the machine stops. One of the most disturbing elements of this change for these pallid, machine-dependent creatures was not only that their physical requirements were no longer being met, but that the continual electronic 'hum' from the machine that had controlled their lives from birth, also ceased. The ensuing silence was loud enough to drive them almost mad.
Such a scenario was experienced by ourselves only yesterday. Facebook began to misbehave and on a few occasions, crashed completely. What were we to do? Almost immediately, panic set in amongst the population; people began clawing at the walls and tearing out their hair. How would any of us survive? In E M Forster’s story, a few determined individuals decided not to accept their impending death and instead, made their way into the air-conditioning ducts and forced their way into the open air where there, on the hillside, they met up with other creatures who were remarkably like themselves. A forbidding encounter indeed. We should try it ourselves, perhaps.
Tonight I am attending an exclusive soirée in the woods. It promises to be a impressive affair – Sarah’s two assistants, Jeremy & Raoul, will be serving canapés and champagne wearing only tutus and straw hats. After that, they will change into gold spandex leotards before performing the cabaret which will feature, I am told, a stunning display of Chinese acrobatics. We will also finally meet Sarah’s husband. For yes, none of us knew before this week that Sarah was married, at the age of seventeen, to a dashing and handsome Russian prince. Apparently, on the honeymoon night, and before the marriage was consummated, Prince Igor Nikolayevich Piffenhov became so traumatised by Sarah’s beauty that he was rendered immediately, and dangerously, insane. For both his own protection, and for the protection of society at large, Sarah has been obliged to keep him chained to the wall in an attic room of Davenport Towers ever since (well, that’s her explanation for it anyway). We are promised a glimpse of him tonight. Can't wait.
I’m currently listening to an item on Radio 4’s Woman’s Hour in which a group of people are sitting around soberly discussing the difference between the clitoris and the vagina. Hmm, morning coffee anyone?
For the most part, I had a charming evening last night. I went to a ‘Hatch’ event at Nottingham’s Hotel Deux where the theme for the evening was ‘Wish You Were Here’. There was an astonishing array of artistic performances, all being billed as: ‘another evening of the most exciting, intriguing and curious performance-y work in town, with sixteen artists responding to notions of absence, longing and nostalgia for the Great British Holiday’. It was a human menagerie of weird and wonderful characters, and (I’m sorry to tell those of you who missed it) it was for one night only. A live artist became a beach on the patio; a cardboard ice cream van became a Punch and Judy Show; a one-woman-band played a piano with a fork attached to her head. The Hello Friends Theatre gave a ‘dress-up, dress-down’ performance in which everyone we are, or ever were, or ever could be was laid bare before us (quite literally - for on two occasions a least, the delightfully fawn-like Ollie Smith (see picture above) removed ALL of his clothes and sat naked before us, miming to Louis Armstrong). Glenn Simpson (a member of the Nottingham Writers' Studio) performed a marvellous Beckett-esque soliloquy as a man whose only friend is a suitcase (see picture below right). The entire event was eclectic, witty, creative, quirky and huge, huge fun – a
ll thanks to Michael Pinchbeck (another Studio member) whose brainchild this was. Goodness knows what Maria’s Italian friend Elizabetta made of it. With her limited knowledge of the English language, it must have been like stepping into a Brechtian nightmare for her, but she didn’t seem to complain.
So, a rather good evening really –marred only by the revelation from a friend of mine that a certain rather unpleasant person I know has been going about the town spreading calumny and lies about me. Ha! He wants to think himself lucky that I don’t write to his perfectly sweet girlfriend in North America and tell her what REALLY happened on St Patrick’s Night this year. He would undoubtedly try to deny it but I have witnesses, and he should remember that. Some people have a damned cheek, really.
And now, before I really begin to let off steam, I shall meditate for an hour or so. All is calm.
Tootle pip!
An interesting weekend, I think. Okay, so it’s not quite over, but my head hurts in such a way that I think it should be. On Friday, Sarah brought her two assistants, Jeremy & Raoul, along for a drink in Edin’s. Nice boys, except for the fact that Jeremy can’t keep his hands to himself (he’s a sex addict who thinks that girls’ bottoms only exist for pinching); and Raoul (somewhat more restrained) is obviously gay and insists to everyone that he is not Spanish (“I am Catalan”, he says). To their discomfort, Sarah makes them work wearing very few clothes (they're both devastatingly handsome), although neither of them seems to protest too much.
On Sunday we all went along to the ‘Audiophile Bank Holiday Blow Out’ at Via Fosse. Our friend Cat was crafting a gig in her DJ Guise as ‘House Kitten’ and we were entertained with some blasting kind of music, yay! There was the most amazing mix of Winehouse's ‘Back To Black’ that I’ve ever heard, let me say. Jeremy & Raoul were there of course (Sarah had dressed them, as a Bank Holiday treat, in leather basques and matching diamond-studded posing pouches) and they both decided to take a swim in the canal. Too bad that Raoul snagged himself on a submerged bicycle frame and has probably caught Viles Disease as a consequence (rats habitually piss into the canal outside Via Fosse). No worries; Raoul is dispensable.
Add to this, a young man who can do magic (yes he can) but who needs to trim his fat belly before he can find true love, and there you have a weekend of madness and chaos. Sarah had donated a piano to Edin’s and it’s in situ, draped in crimson and ready to be played. Yes, one hell of a weekend, but probably my last such a blow-out, because I’m really getting too old for this.
The only down-side to the weekend was a somewhat wooden David Bekham, a cheesy London Bus, a Lollipop-Lady dancing like a loony, and a group of people carrying umbrellas and throwing newspapers into London’s litter-filled streets before trying to cram themselves onto the already overcrowded bus. Come on – we can do better than that, surely?
I am told, by the woman who clears my Chakras for me each morning, that I have nothing to fear in life because I am protected by my own ‘divine light’. Hmm, can you see it shining? No? Then come closer, for she tells me that my divine light is there, and that it will do all this for me, and more:
· Protect my finances; protect my personal security
· Comfortably align my appetites and desires
· Activate my thoughts and beliefs connected with my power and control
· Release any fears I have about giving, and receiving, love
· Release any fears I have about lovingly speaking my truth
· Allow my higher self to see the truth; to see the future
· Allow my higher self to invest me with truth, wisdom and guidance
Sounds good, eh? I am greatly encouraged – no longer need I worry about having no money nor a roof over my head; I can release my desires and cravings and not worry about it; I will have perfect control over everything I do; I will fall in love with someone who loves me; I will only ever tell the truth - not only about myself - but about everything; I will feel at ease in the oneness of the cosmos (my place there is secure); and finally, I will have the wisdom and instincts to make only the right decisions.
This sounds like a winning recipe for happiness and success. I must attack the issues of the day at once, armed with the knowledge that nothing can go wrong. And that’s the key – the attack. It would be no good just sitting here writing blogs and expecting life's great truths to come my way. No, I have to go out to find them; I have to challenge the day.
Right: My Chakras are cleared, the Third Eye is open; the throttle is on. Ready for take off. So look out world, here I come!
Now, this probably won’t win me many friends, but I have to speak out – finally – on the subject of Ian McEwan. I was an early fan of his from years ago. The Cement Garden, The Comfort of Strangers, The Child In Time and then – much later, but possibly his best achievement – Enduring Love, were all excellent. I first began to get an uneasy sensation of watching the Emperor walk naked with Amsterdam, but this was soon assuaged by the appearance of Atonement (a far more worthy winner of The Booker in my opinion, but of course, the feminists would never have allowed it). Then came Saturday which holds the dubious honour – along with such books as Hesse’s Das Glasperlenspiel – of being amongst those I couldn’t finish. It won so many awards that I thought I must be missing the point; that I was alone in my incomprehension. But no, I stand by my view that it is one of the most pointless and irritating novels I have ever (half) read. Life is too short to persevere with this kind of thing.
And now, I’ve just finished On Chesil Beach which, although not his latest novel, signals to me that McEwan has well and truly lost the plot. It is reminiscent of Virginia Woolf’s Mrs Dalloway (but then, so was Saturday) but far from being the innovative ‘stream of consciousness’ kind of work that Woolf achieved, it is (in my opinion) writing for writing’s sake. I waded through the agony upon pointless agony-of-the-moment for the first one hundred & sixty one pages – without ever caring whether the protagonists eventually achieved a coital bonding or not – and was then rushed through a (totally unconvincing) five-page expositive unravelling of someone’s wasted life. I had a distinct feeling that McEwan had simply become bored with his own book. It reminded me of my past efforts at decorating. I would start with great enthusiasm, taking enormous care with the preparation and first stages, only to end in a flurry of slap-dash, ‘that will do’ attention to detail. Yes, On Chesil Beach was just like that, I think.
The plaudits that it received when it was first published only go to support my view that the industry is too self-interested – or possibly too polite - to notice when the Emperor has dared to step out without his clothes. Am I bitter and twisted? Of course not!
It’s been a bit of a bonkers weekend again. The usual mayhem of excess (of course, what else?) but some good bits too. Whilst still managing to fit in a spot of late-night (and ill-advised) drinking; a lengthy and indulgent dinner out with friends; and even a token session of sex & debauchery, I also made a worthwhile foray into sorting out my life. I decided to begin by throwing away everything I own but don't need, so I went over to my other house to make a start. We began in the office on the second floor (we had a loft conversion done some years ago) and so, amidst clouds of paper dust and dead beetles, we filled endless sacks with worthless papers, abandoned bric-a-brac, crumbling books, redundant phone chargers, old computer keyboards, unreadable floppy discs from long-gone computers, hats, shoes (!), dried-up pens, broken pencils and a myriad of other assorted paraphernalia that had gathered itself within our previously over-cluttered lives. The paper-shredder was on overtime. We felt good, and after several hours of this we decided to reward ourselves with a glass of chilled wine. Whilst recognizing that we have only tackled the very tip of the iceberg, we nevertheless felt that we’re on the road to minimalism. Yay!
‘Tip of the iceberg’ is a cliché, of course. But it’s an apt metaphor to use (and any would-be purists who might argue that it’s not even a metaphor, or that it’s a simile instead, are wrong). It’s apt because it accurately describes the state of our efforts in comparison with the magnitude of the task. However, I noticed a cliché being used in a television programme yesterday that I thought was inappropriate and somewhat ill-used. I heard someone say that some new underwater exploration was being undertaken using “space-age technology”. Now, what does that mean? What categorizes the “space-age”? If you remember that exploration into space began in the 1950s, does it therefore mean that the technology being used today is almost fifty years old? In that case, the technology used by these deep-sea divers might be the equivalent of Bakelite telephones, eye-level grills, Tupperware containers, mono-speaker record-players, the Ford Prefect, non-stick frying pans and the invention of the Hula Hoop! Doesn’t sound very “space-age” does it? Yet all this technology was in use at the same time as the space age began. So, television voice-over writers, be careful how you use the language. Why not leave it that the divers of today are using the “latest” technology? Isn’t that enough?
Anyway, before my soap-box collapses underneath me (and before you start, I am being ironic), I’d better get on with some work.
Happy Monday, everyone!
If looked at one way, my life could be described as being in disintegration. I have no love or marriage, no work, no money, I soon won’t have a car, and it’s likely that I’ll soon be evicted from my apartment. Add to this that I’ve recently become addicted to a certain caffeine-filled fizzy soft drink that reputedly rots your teeth and the lining of your stomach, plus I have stopped going to the gym and I have more or less stopped eating and sleeping, and things could be said to be looking pretty grim for both my body and soul.
However, looking at my life in a different way, things don’t seem too bad. All of the above-listed problems are within my own control, and that’s what makes the difference. There’s an adage which I think you will all have heard – the one that says: “If you can do something about the things which are causing you stress, then do it. If you can’t do anything to alter them, then let go of the stress.” This is an immeasurably sensible maxim by which to live, and one which certainly cheers me.
So, I am enormously lucky in that I have experience and skills that I can apply to every aspect of my life, and it’s all within my power to turn things around. The realization of this is incredibly motivating and fills me with a new optimism. I think I wrote here a long time ago about how I was enthralled as a youngster by Peggy Lee’s recording of ‘Pass Me By’. The lyrics go something like this:
I got me ten fine toes to wiggle in the sand,Lots of idle fingers snap to my command,A loverly pair of heels that kick to beat the band,Contemplating nature can be fascinating.Add to these, a nose that I can thumb, and a mouth by gum, have I!I’ll tell the whole darned world, if you don't happen to like it,Deal me out, thank you kindly, pass me by.
So you see, life is rich and the opportunities are there - it’s just down to me to grab them. And if, along the way, other people don’t like what I'm doing, I'll tell them to pass me by. It’s as simple as that. We can all make choices about our lives and that’s the whole point – to quote a one-time president of the USA: We choose to go to the moon!
But today, I choose to show you a picture of a beautiful bunch of lilies I was recently presented with. Aren’t they outrageous?
Blimey, life isn’t half complicated at the moment. I’m so ridiculously busy that I wouldn’t have time to do any paid work, even if I had any. It would be far, far too lacklustre of me to list the things I have to get done here, but it seems that the list is never-ending. And it’s funny, but this catalogue of chores covers all kind of topics - from the artistic, to things of a business nature, to the more mundane, and then to the really humdrum domestic-type stuff such as cleaning windows and toilets etc. All I know is that there are far too many items on that damned list, especially for one single person to do.
Anyway, today I was at least able to tick off one important item (and I’m ignoring the fact that two others were added). I finished the synopses for the series of plays that I am hoping to write for the Unleashed project: ‘Finding Beauty’. Sarah, the driving force behind the project, seemed satisfied with what I have written so far. The synopses detail the five separate plays, four of which are individual (i.e. stand-alone) and yet are also inter-connected (where one scene from the previous play appears in the next play, but from a different perspective – think Stoppard’s ‘Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead’ but probably not quite so clever, although perhaps strangely appropriate because two of the recurring characters are twins who get each other confused, as did R&G), and the fifth play is the dénouement that brings the whole thing together. As I’ve said, the project is called ‘Finding Beauty’ and the inspiration behind it is Unleashed, so the final play is entitled ‘Beauty Unleashed’ and involves more than its fair share of chains, whips, gimp suits, smoke and mirrors. It ought to be fun. Now all we need is the funding to get them written! Hmm, easier said than done but if Sarah can’t do it, then nobody can.
Anyway, with that mini-project out of the way, it is now perhaps time to turn to the completion of another of my pet ventures – namely, my forthcoming play entitled ‘The Great Tullamore Balloon Disaster of 1785’.
Tally ho, my beauties!
Since I last wrote here, things have changed somewhat (surprise, surprise). I went to my Buddhism class last Wednesday evening which gave me such an uplift that I thought things were going to change for the better. However, not so. I was given a shocking piece of news on Friday evening, when someone told me that I am too old to be hanging around with the people I do. This made me think. I don’t actively choose to hang around with young people; it’s just that the lifestyle I lead means that I come into contact with more young people than I do with old people. I simply don’t know anyone of my age.
This led to me to question why this is. And the answer has to be that it is because I am rootless and adrift. Most people of my age are settled and established; probably winding down towards retirement, even with grandchildren. They have their routines and their time-honoured circle of old friends with whom they share interests and pursuits, and they have stability. Whereas I – who has been pitch-poled into the vortex of my chaotic life – am drifting, rudderless. Ipso facto, the people I generally associate with are in a similar state in their lives and ipso facto those sort of people understandably tend to be the young.
Even so, the news I received on Friday evening pulled me up sharply. Not only did it bring into question the dignity (or lack thereof) of someone my age running around with a bunch of kids, but it questioned the very meaning of my daily life. It’s as if I have no back-story; as if there never were that 'pillar of the community' I spoke about the other day – the one who raised a family, built a home, and kept down a good steady job for years. It’s as if I have arrived fresh from school and have it all to do again. Do I have the energy for that? Moreover, do I have the inclination?
So on Friday evening I went home to lick my wounds and reflect. Despite having a ticket to attend the biggest party ever at The Malt Cross on Saturday evening, I decided to stay away from the fleshpots of the young for a while and to undertake some reconnaissance of my situation. Instead, Saturday evening was therefore fairly low-key – we sat in Edin’s speaking Spanish and French (or trying to) and Edin sat with us. He brought with him a huge water melon which he expertly dissected and which we all devoured with relish. Once again, it was (as someone else described it) the United Colours of Benetton – sitting round the table there was an Italian, a Greek, a Bosnian, a Spaniard, a Frenchwoman, two Columbians, an Australian, and me.
Next question: When I’m not hanging around exclusively with young people, why am I hanging around with foreigners? Hmm, interesting. Do you remember me telling you about the blindfold game we played on the beach that time? Perhaps my problem is that I don’t bleat, moo, whinney or oink-oink loudly enough and so I’ll never find people who are the same as me. Perhaps I wouldn’t want to. I've never been one to hunt with the pack, me.
I received the most incredible belated birthday present from my daughters yesterday. It was so big that it had to be transported back to the UK in the hold of an aircraft, with its own baggage tag too! Now it’s sitting here in my apartment, urging me to enjoy it, but I hardly dare even take the wrapper off for fear of destroying its amazing symmetry and perfection.
I’ve been resisting the acquisition of new possessions for a while. Really, I need to divest myself of material goods rather than accrue more. In this respect I am planning to sell my car, which is a great brute of a thing designed to knead my ego and which tells me that I can gain respect by driving it. What a load of hogwash – few people that I know could give a flying fuck regarding what car I drive, and even fewer would think any less of me if I didn’t drive it. The little boy in me thinks that trappings of this sort are essential to any sense of well-being, whereas the rationalist in me says: “Embrace The Wank” (which is actually the title of a poem written by an absolutely fabulous performance poet I once met who goes by the name of Luke Wright – details of whom can be found here).
So, goodbye car – hello minimalism. I’ve worked out that the cash I will realize from the sale of the car will buy roughly 891 bottles of good whisky. All of life is impermanence, and whereas it is true that a car is impermanent (i.e. it will devalue, rot, and eventually fall apart), whisky is a lot more impermanent in as much as it comes out of the bottle, enters the body, and then disappears into the sewer. If the object of life is to achieve impermanence, then whisky (rather than the car) is obviously the way to go. In my lifetime (long and tortured) I’ve probably already drunk 891 bottles of whisky anyway. If I hadn’t done that, then I wouldn’t now need to sell my car in order to survive. Well, as conundrums go, this one is a right bamboozler. My head is gyrating just to think about it.
In my next posting, I aim to tell you about the brief spell I had as a “pillar of society” (very Ibsen-esque). It’s true, I once did. I might also contrive to find an excuse to use the word fetid which – in my opinion – is a much underused adjective.
Until then...
I’ve had a dreadful night – I slept only fitfully amidst a scrambled bed of torment and a flood of savage & brutal half-dreams. This was due partly to the oppressively boiling night heat and partly, I’m sure, to my current state of mind. I am in a torment of suffering right now – my life is like a stagnant pool of despair; I feel as if I am being suffocated by my own indecision and lethargy. I am losing any sense of direction.
Strangely, I have been dreaming of the word equilibrium. I’m not sure what – if anything – this signifies, but my guess is that my subconscious self is screaming for such a state to be reached. Presumably I am yearning for this merry-go-round of hopelessness & elation to be over; I am allowing myself to be pitched-poled into some strange stormy seas where the peaks and troughs threaten to engulf me. Frankly, I am exhausted. Equilibrium sounds exactly what I need right now.
My blog is being visited by a mystery caller. Although I have a core of regular readers, most of whom I recognize, I also get dozens of hits from random people across the globe who seem to wash up at my site from a variety of bizarre and haphazard sources. However, during the past few days I have noticed a new visitor who keeps dipping his or her head into my madcap world of news, events, rants, fears & lies. Whoever it is, access is being gained from an institution with the enchanting and picturesque name of ‘Marquette University’ situated in the city of Milwaukee in the state of Wisconsin (and yes, my Icelandic friend, Milwaukee is a city – I checked). This new visitor is more than welcome, of course, but I am bewildered that someone whom presumably I have never met should wish to peek quite so often into the secrets of my crazy mind. I hope that whoever it is doesn't go mad too.
Well, I am starting a new day feeling sluggish and hopeless. A spot of meditation is called for, I think, and then I can stride out into the day with re-strengthened armour and a new determination & valiance (I’m not sure that’s a real word, but it seems right to me).
It was suggested to me yesterday that my pitiful life could be made more exciting by being kidnapped by a Viking warrior. Notwithstanding that Viking warriors are difficult to find in sleepy old Hockley, I have to say that I am not daunted by such a prospect – I promised some time ago to tell you about the time my step-father sold me to white slavers to pay off his gambling debts (and one day I will), so let me assure you that I can handle anything. Oh yes.
We had a great time at Nottingham’s Riverside Festival yesterday. This three-day event, funded by Nottingham City Council, is meant to be a music festival really (i.e. artistic) although over the years it has been somewhat hijacked by a rather riff-raff element which comes to enjoy the tacky funfair which is also a feature. However, amongst the whistles and shrieks of the blaring rides, and the nauseous wafts of burgers and hotdogs, there are three performance stages where an eclectic choice of really good music can be heard.
We sat by the river, joined by more and more of our friends, and so saw only the acts playing on the Monument Stage. There was ‘Harare’, which is one of the few groups to be playing Zimbabwean dance music in Europe, formed by musicians from the heart of Zimbabwean urban music. They were followed by ‘Achanak’, a fabulous platinum-selling Bhangra band who have gained a fearsome reputation as the best live act in the Asian music market. I absolutely love Bhangra. The evening was rounded off by ‘Grupo Fantasma’, an exciting 11-piece Latin funk orchestra from Texas, whose music is influenced by genres including mambo and meringue (whatever that is) and whose fantastic rhythms had everyone dancing into the night. Dozens of boats and river cruisers gather along the stretch of water between the suspension bridge and the magnificently ornate Trent Bridge, most of which fly flags and bunting, and the atmosphere is like that of a mardi gras. Add to this a spectacular firework display over the river (once darkness had fallen) and it made for a great night out. Hurrah!
Today, I think I’ll have lunch with my mother and my brother before going to visit my dear old dad in hospital. He’s been making marvellous progress and the medical people are delighted with him, so it won’t be long before he can go home. Hurrah again!
I once had a strange encounter with a mad woman and her even madder dog, and it changed my life. It was about the time that I’d split up from my third wife, and I’d taken up exercise as a way of helping me get back onto the market, as it were. I was out running in the park when suddenly this huge canine came charging out of the trees, rushed towards me, and bit me on the arse, pulling down my running shorts in the process. It was a great big curly-haired black thing which held more than a passing resemblance to Louis XIV. After I’d stopped running, it pranced around me, barking furiously. There was no-one else about so I had no option but to grab it and lead it back to my car (I used a shoelace from my trainers as a lead). According to its name-tag, it was called Oscar.
I phoned the number on the tag and a rather shaky, but dignified female voice replied. I told her that I had her dog and that he’d bitten me. She accused me of kidnapping him and asked me if I’d harmed him at all. She eventually gave me her address and I put him in the car and drove him there. Despite my best efforts, he refused to sit in the back and for the whole journey sat on the front assenger seat like a person, trying to lick me. I don’t like that sort of thing – I know where dogs poke their tongues.
The house was in darkness, but finally the door was opened by this tiny little woman with white hair and watery eyes. She looked at me as if she was expecting me to ask her to buy some dishcloths or something. I pointed to Oscar. She opened the door wider and stepped back. ‘Bring him in,’ she said. I didn’t really want to go in, but I followed her into the hall. There was a smell to the house which, although not unpleasant, reminded me of something I didn’t like – it was an oily, lavender-like smell. I removed my shoelace from his collar and turned to leave, but she slammed the front door closed. ‘You must stay for a drink,’ she said. I was about to decline the offer when I realized that she might be offended if I did, and I was brought up never to give offence to old people, so reluctantly I accepted.
We sat in a sitting room that had a glass cabinet containing a collection of what looked like shrunken heads. I noticed that the carpet was brightly-patterned and looked expensive, and I suddenly felt out of place in my mud-spattered trainers and shorts. Without asking, she poured me a glass of whisky from a crystal decanter set upon a silver tray. Oscar pushed opened the door and came into the room to sit beside me. ‘Why do you suppose he bit you, as you so claim? Did you kick him?’ she asked. I was about to answer, when my eyes strayed towards the glass cabinet. ‘Gruesome, aren’t they?’ she said, referring to the shrunken heads. I asked her if they were genuine. She grimaced and said, ‘I doubt it. Cheap tat for the tourists, I shouldn’t wonder. My husband spent some time in Borneo and he was rather a sucker for all things tacky. Especially other women.’ She glared at me, as if she suspected me of being the same, and I had an idea that because of her husband, she probably hated all men.
I downed my whisky and stood up to leave. ‘You should be more careful with Oscar,’ I said. ‘He might get run over if you let him roam.’ She stood up herself and gave me another glare. ‘I don’t know how he gets out,’ she said. ‘But he’s done it before. The dog warden brought him back last time, and the time before that it was some horrid woman with a great gash of a mouth who said I should be horsewhipped for letting him roam. Mad bitch.’ She then suggested that I leave by the back door and led me through to the kitchen. I saw at once how Oscar had escaped – the back door was wide open. ‘Who has left that open?’ she said, picking up a purse from the worktop and scanning inside. Who indeed, I wondered?
She sat down on a kitchen chair and despite her diminutive stature, Oscar immediately leapt onto her bony knees. The woman peered over the top of his curls, eyeing me with scepticism for a moment. ‘Why don’t you keep your back door locked?’ I said. ‘It’s not safe for either of you leaving it open.’
‘Oh, bugger off,’ she snapped. ‘I’m fed up with people telling me what to do. You try living on your own, it’s no fun.’ I was surprised at this – I’d only been trying to help after all. I apologized and she just waved her hand from behind Oscar’s massive ears. ‘Did you know that Lady Ottoline Morrell once forced Bertrand Russell to see a dentist?’ she said. ‘He was my father, you know.’ She continued to glare at me. ‘The dentist, I mean. Not Bertrand Russell.’
The next day, at my own expense, I went back and fixed one of those door closure thingies onto her back door. At least it would help to prevent Oscar from escaping again, I thought. After that, I’d pop round once or twice a week to check that she was okay and to do odd jobs about the place. She told me that she was ninety-six. And when, six months later, she moved into a nursing home, she gave me the collection of shrunken heads, and Oscar. I still have him to this day, and he always comes with me to visit her in the home. We love Oscar. The shrunken heads however, are still in a box in the loft. Perhaps I should sell them on eBay? Hmm.
And now, as the slate-grey roofs outside my window begin to darken with rain, I can sit here and reminisce about the weekend. On Friday evening we went to the party in the woods. The hostess who had distributed the exclusive invitations (to a select list of guests) had intended to hold the party at her house. Unfortunately, this plan was hijacked and so instead, she decided to take us all along to the home of one of her hapless neighbours. Before he could protest that he only wanted to watch the footie in peace, more and more of our hostess’s guests arrived and the poor unfortunate man had been totally invaded. Sarah even brought her dogs along for good measure.
