My writing storage blog.

Extracts from my personal diary (part 4)

2009-06-07T07:02:00.000-07:00

Bastard and bitch, aged 31.

God I’m a bitch. Having beefed up, porked out and generally grown into my looks over the past few years, having become the person I always dreamed of becoming, and having now plenty of opportunities to meet, court and make love to women, I seem bent on acting with all the bad grace of a bitch, and I feel so spiritually dead and hollow, the quiet, studious, hard-training me of old being replaced by a tougher, meaner yet all the same spiritually rottener version of myself.

If that wasn’t bad enough I met my cousins the other day and even only in their mid-thirties, they have aged so drastically, look fatter, balder and have lost that spark that once so characterised them. I’m really so sorry for this. Yet I can’t help thinking that I wished this on them, the old me, inferior, casting an envious eye on the great looks bestowed upon them, wanted and hoped, in the belief that it would never happen, those good looks to fade. I feel so hollow and empty, so depressed to see them like this, I now somehow more superior, more the alpha-male. Ripe fruit eventually turns rotten. I am now ripe. In future I will be rotten. It’s so depressing.

The other day in town, seeing a pretty, young girl, I happened to see how she exposed her stomach in the way that fashionable celebrities do. Although by no means fat, she didn’t quite posses the toned, athletic waste of a superstar, that one would see in a magazine or on TV. Anyway I looked at her, in my bitch like way, and shying under my pressurising eye she then pulled her t shirt down as though she were ashamed.

I was really disgusted with myself for this, this sub-conscious bitch behaviour of mine, for I can have no complaints with women these days, absolutely none at all, and especially not with young girls, about whom I can genuinely say, speaking with my hand on my heart, I like; and especially because in that little piece of behaviour exhibited by that girl – the desire to look good, the shyness under my scrutinising eye, the belief she had made a fool of herself – I see myself exactly as I was, when I was just a wannabe.

Yes, having spent so many years as a wannabe, is I think the main reason for my cattiness now, my bitchiness.

I am a narcissistic, temperamental, raging, crazy son of a bitch. Seeing, out in town the other day, two bespectacled men, one about thirty, the other fifty – arm in arm with exquisite, elegant, fashionable women, almost sent me mad. God I was loathe to see it! It really, really drove me mad to see those geeks with girls, I hated it!

One incident today left me feeling utterly hollow and empty.

Standing at the metro station with a woman of mine – a red haired, thirty-seven year old woman, who wears a leather jacket and is looking for a second youth – standing there together, the both of us out of humour to be honest, sick of one another actually, sick of ourselves, we happened to see across the way, a young man in a suit and glasses. He started singing.

At first we were absolutely astounded by how badly he sang – he was utterly terrible. Two charver youths, boy and girl standing next to us, also heard this and expressed their contempt, unmodified by any adult behaviour or civilised good manners, criticising the awful singing, and mocking the man as an X-factor wannabe, X-factor being the wannabe-celebrity show in which members of the public are invited onto TV to (by and large) sing badly and make fools of themselves.

Like I say we were all surprised to here this young man – who outwardly in his suit and glasses looked like a respectable, normal citizen – sing so stupidly and horribly. But within seconds we realised that in fact it was a cry for help. As the song continued it became evident that the young man was having one of those moments, moments I knew often in my youth, when you feel so mad and sick of the world, so irritated by the coldness of all around you, that you finally breakdown, start screaming wildly and hysterically, as if you just can’t cope with life anymore, as if you can’t bottle up your feelings any longer, and you have to let other people know you are unhappy.

The song turning into a mad-man scream, we heard him say something like ‘I want a girlfriend’ followed by ‘I’m going to kill myself.’ By this time, a gang of youths on his side of the platform, cottoning on to what he was saying, approached him: he ran off around the corner, and a minute or so later, the youths cried out ‘he’s cut his wrists!’

I had watched the charver boy and girl on our side of the tracks, as they had contemptuously looked on and watched this poor guy. And, after their initial contemptuous remarks, I had expected them to give the guy some more stick; and I had been poised to give them a good haranguing.

However, I now watched on as he and his charver girl, genuinely moved by what had happened, and in their uninhibited teenage way, went to show their concern for the man. I watched them cross the tracks, illegally as charvers do, the youth followed by his girl, and in their extrospective way, oblivious to all else, I saw how like a pair of primates they were. But as well as being intrigued by the event, they were genuinely sympathetic with the guy, and I was touched by how good they truly were in their hearts, and how they genuinely felt empathy toward the guy, as if they knew exactly how he felt. I was touched by how all the youths, all the charvers, came to help this guy when he needed it.

I was more so impressed by their humanity, as when the next train came, my woman and I boarded, selfishly concerned with our own lives, having expressed no sympathy with the guy, or even caring to see if he lived or died – though I’m sure it was an (intentionally) failed suicide attempt.

Another young woman who had stood on the platform waiting alongside us for twelve minutes or so, did however have conscious enough to forget about the incoming train and go around to see what had become of the young man. She needn’t have done this, she needn’t have cared: but she did.

In the behaviour of these people, in the way they cared for the young man and seemed to truly be aware of his feelings, as if they understood perfectly why someone in our society might suddenly have a wobbler, might scream and cry for help like that as if to say ‘I just can‘t take it anymore’, I find a reassuring humanity in people that is missing in myself.

For my woman and I boarded the train only thinking of ourselves. I wondered whether myself and Gina were in fact the trigger to the poor guy’s cry for help; to see me cockily standing there, somehow a nerd like him, but possessing something else, more mature, more experienced, with my sassy women Gina – who by the way, during the whole incident expressed not an inch of sympathy, but just bore a look of contempt – I wonder whether seeing me, so like him in one way, yet with a woman as I was, so unlike him, I wonder whether that was the final shock, the final turn of the screw for him.

I feel so utterly worthless. I knew of all that guy experienced, I understood him perfectly; I was like that in the past. But only in the past. Now I am something more, that part of my life is over, and I confess to looking down on him somewhat, to holding him in contempt, for being what I once was. I really hate myself today and rightly so. I have become something I don’t like, hanging around and courting favour with women like Gina who I don’t really care for. We spent a miserable evening together, she is such a hard-faced miserable specimen. What have I turned into?

Extracts from my personal diary (part 3)

2009-06-07T07:00:00.000-07:00

Eye of the beholder, aged 26.

There’s a girl in our department, a research student like me, who has an extreme skin condition. When I first saw her I was shocked: she looks as though she has been burnt in a fire, the skin on her hands and face looking red, raw and blistered. Her hair as well seems dry and moisture less. To look at her face and skin is almost to experience the pain and agony that she must, on a daily basis, when say washing or drying herself, experience. On top of all this she is shorter than average.

Like I say, I was taken aback when I first saw her. But I was also equally impressed upon by her personality. She is eternally radiant, chirpy and talkative. Her voice is sweet and girlish; she disarms people’s shock by her friendly personality; she is forever genial, never depressed; she is positive, she jokes a lot, she listens well – you can always rely on her to smile, she is never down, doomed or absorbed.

When I first arrived here I saw from a distance how she made friends with all and sundry, all except me. For some reason, I’m not quite sure why, she disdained me, ignored me. I got the impression I was being blamed for man’s universal and time worn insensitivity to women. Not being especially well suited to the role of hero or gentleman, I decided to ignore the silly girl, and treat her with the same hate and indifference I do any girl who dares to insult me. Then one day, some nine months later, she happened to walk into a room, where I sat studying alone.

‘Hello’ she said chirpily ‘how are you?’

I responded kindly, openly. I’m not sure why her attitude suddenly changed like that. To be honest I think she wasn’t expecting to find me in there, and when she did, before she had time to realise who I was, she’d already discharged her typical pleasantries. Anyway from that day on there was no turning back; and slowly over time our friendship has developed. We always stop to chat with each other when we meet. I also grew to see that her relationships with our piers, whom from day one she appeared to be on such good terms with, weren’t, when prodded, so strong. In many ways her relationship with me was, from the start, more intimate. In that perhaps she read me for a more sensitive person and decided to play a silent, psychological game with me.

Anyway as it now stands, I think our relationship perhaps more meaningful than others. With me of course, open, listening person that I am, she is free to be more herself. I have often thought that beneath her genial exterior must lie a more serious, passionate, angry woman, a woman beset by deep depression, consummate loneliness; and I wonder if, under the empty, vacuous silence that is my presence and personality, she won’t be encouraged to diffuse her truer feelings to me.

Of course I worry for myself as well. I am a cruel man at heart, manipulative, a bully. I am better off with woman who can stand up to me. On the other hand I like being a hero, I have a huge ego, I like having my vanity tickled. Will this girl’s life be barren, empty, sterile, unhappy? Is there any need for that? Isn’t there a hero out there ready to step up to the plate? We only live once. I can’t help recall how in my youth I dated a very glamorous woman, several years my senior, for only a few weeks. We slept together once. We didn’t really have anything in common. I think she felt sorry for me to some extent. I think her motivations were somewhat based on guilt: she regretted being such a bitch toward men in her youth. Yet how that experience changed me! After that I felt like a man, no longer inferior, no longer second best to anyone. I buried a part of myself after that little affair, a part of me I did not like. I was liberated. Even though, analysed coldly, it was a brief, cold affair with a woman who was trying to be kind.

Stupid thoughts. This week I found myself in an awkward situation.

At the close of the day on Monday B came to my office, told me she was going to XYZ, and asked if I was walking that way. I was. I could see she was mildly excited by the prospect of walking home with me. Just seeing how her attitude changed, how this was a big deal to her, how she was no longer herself, no longer the calm, dignified person she usually is, so simple, straightforward and likeable – seeing all this I already felt electrically angered, I felt so put upon. Outside the department, I have never been with B. Here on this walk we would be exposed, to the prying eyes of the entire world. The thought of it angered me, I felt so pressurised. But I couldn’t get out of it.

As we walked out of the building, I was curt and short in my conversation with her, and B in response started talking nervously, ten to the dozen, absolutely inanely. I couldn’t stand the farce of the situation, the unnaturalness. I was so ill at ease. I was angered, resentful. And as we headed out along the road we were set upon by a million eyes.

Because of the rush hour traffic, we found ourselves walking past an endless line of sluggishly moving cars; and everyone, everyone seemed to look at us; to watch B and I, she a strange sight for those who have not set eyes on her before. I felt the attention on me and hated every bit of it. I felt I became more tense, more uptight, and I felt all the people in the cars saw this too. Everyone seemed to ogle us. I don’t know what B thought. I should be flattered, I really should be so flattered, if she feels so comforted, so assured in my presence; but God how I wished I was a perfect ten, an out and out handsome stud like my cousins. For then, I could have strolled at ease; then I could have allowed all those stares of passers by to simply bounce off my carefree, indifferent, hunk-like person; then I would have been able to extend the shroud of protection to B.

***********************************

I’m on a dismal and deflating low tonight and all of my own making: in my presentation to the department today, I embarrassed, humiliated and frightened both myself and the entire audience by inserting in my talk a series of jokes so unfunny, misjudged, misplaced, bizarre and poorly executed, that from the halfway point to the end the audience sat cringing, terrified and wanting to escape, whilst I fell into myself and gave off an introverted, suicidal come psychopathic hatred of them.

At the end three or four students and colleagues, commiserating with my embarrassment, stayed behind to ask questions and simply to make sure that I was alright.

One of these was Stefan. He is a perhaps thirty year old student with glasses and a beard, who’s studying for a Master’s degree here, though his chief characteristic is that he has a degenerative disease, (MS I believe); he is wheelchair bound and makes his way about the campus via an electric motor. During the entire talk, as is his wont, his arms flailed uncontrollably – he has fits where he is unable to control his body – and this was accompanied by moaning and groaning and foaming at the mouth, all of which he is also unable to curb. Added to all of this he really cannot speak clearly, a simple conversation with him a trying task, as he demonically tries to express himself.

When he asked me his question at the end, I was in no mood to answer him, my shame and confusion confounded by the fact that a handful of the audience had remained to sensitively enquire after my health, and narcissistic, horrible person that I am, I felt a fraud and a charlatan, I felt I didn’t deserve their sympathy. Normally eternally gracious, especially with one such as Stefan, here, feeling utterly worthless, I didn’t even have the motivation to answer his question, my supervisor kindly stepping in and giving him an explanation.

But later tonight, reflecting on my hollowness, I thought back to Stefan’s question and realised what a clever and intelligent question he had asked, and I was surprised by his depth of understanding of the topic I covered.

But why should I be surprised? After all, I have known for this past year he is a MASTER’S STUDENT – his intelligence and subject knowledge shouldn’t be underestimated. Yet all the same I am left sobered and impressed upon, deeply influenced by the fact that that man, barely able to utter a word without problems, his arms, his head forever flailing, agitated, disturbed and erratic, his continual moans and groans, his paralysed, demon-possessed, wooden body forever requiring to be carried around, towed here and there in his skooting, shooting, spurting electric chair – I am left sobered by the fact that trapped within this body is a very fine and developed intelligence, and left saddened that even though I am now fully aware of this, I somehow still don’t really believe it, and can never regard Stefan as an intelligent, sentient being.

I am struck profoundly by him: for he is as intelligent as anyone, it is an incontrovertible fact and yet he can only really express himself through exuberant cabbage-like gestures, as if he is a madman or infant.

And I wonder whether he was really so interested in knowing the answer to the question he posed at the time; or whether, quietly regarding my downfall and humiliation, a seed of sympathy was sown within his soul, and he wanted, in his generous and kindly way, to commiserate with me and show me, in my hour of humiliation, that I had a friend. I am almost certain of it.

Extracts from my personal diary (part 2)

2009-06-07T06:58:00.000-07:00

Looking good, aged 23.

My cousins came to see me the other day. They are incredibly handsome young men, tall, erect and sturdy, with dark, bold, sexy faces. Alex has a refined goatee. In their teenage years they were arrogant, superior, I didn’t much like them. But I see now they have changed. They could not have been more genial, more sensitive. They are true gentlemen.

They invited me to go to the dogs with them. I don’t normally go to such places. I don’t go to nightclubs, bars, parties; I don’t even go to restaurants or the cinema. I am shy retiring, I like to read books. However I couldn’t really say no. Plus, a part of me was excited by the prospect. In their company it could be quite a night.

So I said yes, and in the intervening days I was plagued by a mixture of nervousness, doubt and anticipation. To be honest, my soul felt left of centre, not at rest. I took to looking at myself in the mirror. The delicate, handsome, refined features of my cousins had left an inedible mark on my memory; and I couldn’t help note the family resemblance in my face. I looked like my cousins, they were handsome. So didn’t that mean…..

So tonight I went out with them. I was to meet them in town, and I walked alone through the streets, dressed up in fancy, fashionable clothes. I’d bought them a year ago, in a spur of the moment thing, but then, realising that they just weren’t me, I’d kept them locked up in my wardrobe. Tonight however, I’d finally decided to wear them. As I walked, my belt dangling about my midriff, my glasses removed for once and replaced by contacts, I felt foolish, as if everybody watched me and was saying to themselves ‘look at him, dressed up like that – he looks ridiculous.’ The belt dangling at my midriff seemed especially silly; I kept wanting to tuck it in, to hide it. I walked tensely, nervously across the town. Part of me wished I’d never come.

When I met my cousins I had mixed feelings. They are splendid specimens, and I was overcome with wonder, seeing how they, wearing dangling belts like I, wore them with such command, such manly bravado. Physically I am not much inferior, I don’t think. But they seemed to posses some elusive quality that I lacked, that allowed them to strut around, bold and erect, their belts at their beck and call. In comparison, I looked lost and rudderless, my belt dangled around me embarrassed, as if it resented my lack of leadership, and was sick of me. Their belts were happy to have such masters; they followed their command.

So we walked to the dogs, and though I felt a bit like an idiot, the protection afforded to me, by the presence of my cousins – who didn’t seem to notice I looked like such a dip-stick – made me forget about my appearance. Instead I noted the glances of men and women directed our way, the respect afforded us, the feeling that as a group my defects were hidden, and that the appreciation of my cousin’s attractiveness extended to myself. We were like the three musketeers.

The greyhound course was a dive. I would never have come here alone. The clientele were decidedly rough. However not only did that not phase my rich, privately educated cousins, but in fact they were perfectly at home here, and were treated like royalty. The man on the door doffed his cap as it were and said evening boys in his common accent; they responded with alpha male condescension, courteously, ever so courteously replying, assured however of their supremacy. As they strutted about the place, like proud peacocks, I in tow, I was overcome by immense pride, seeing how they dominated this venue. The bar maid could not have been more ingratiating, calling them darling and honey, showing such true respect. And as they wandered away, pint in hand, amidst the punters – hard men, working class men, genuine rough and tough specimens – their dominance, in the way they strolled at ease through their ranks, in the way the punters, in their self-deprecating body language, and occasional nods and greetings, bowed to them – their dominance could not have been more complete. I also noted the constant attention the women were throwing ‘our way’.

Anyway it was at some point in the evening that I shelved all doubts regarding my appearance, saw that I was a handsome man, and gave myself up to being admired by women. It was such a good feeling to finally feel at home with the opposite sex, to feel sort after. And almost immediately as this pure and novel feeling kicked in, a secondary and impure one, a feeling common to the nouveau riche, set in: I was overcome with bitchiness toward other men, and spotted all of their weaknesses, that my cousins and I, in our undoubted dominance, lacked. Like I say I was overcome with these feelings, though deep down I was beset by major, major doubts. And my soul felt not at rest, as though it were on the waltzer. I was not myself, I acted unnaturally. I talked loudly and made stupid jokes. I acted as though all watched me.

It was a lovely feeling though. At one point a beautiful young lady walked by our group inspecting us with interest. My cousins seemed oblivious, but I looked directly back at her, as if to say ‘hello my dear’. As I did this, I imagined, in my mind's eye, the look of bold, lion-like sexiness that my cousins’ faces display, I imagined this upon my own face. Eventually the young girl, seemingly buckling under the pressure of my gaze, could not help a smile flit across her face, and so raised her hand to her mouth, to cover her embarrassment. I was overcome by my power to impress, my ability to make a girl like that buckle under the power of my presence. On another occasion, as I went to the toilet, a group of young girls eyed me up, and extremely flattered, I stared cockily back at them. They looked at each other and giggled in that teenage way.

So I spent the evening surfing a wave of happiness, as though a new world had opened up to me. But in my heart I think I had major doubts, my soul was all at sea and deep down I was unhappy. Ignoring these feelings however, I surfed on, and at one moment, when I happened to pass, on my way to the toilets, a man dressed foolishly in a white suit, I stared contemptuously at him. I had watched him all evening, like a cat with a mouse. The white suit had evidently been a great idea back at home; but when he’d found himself out here with it on, he’d been overcome with regret, and I had watched his sorry figure wander back and forth around the terrace, clearly wishing the ground would swallow him up. I was glad to see someone else suffering the sort of humiliation usually reserved for myself. As I passed him I shot him a cocky, contemptuous glance; surprisingly he replied with a genuinely outraged look, seeming to question my impudence. I was puzzled by that.

Anyway, I arrived home, said goodbye to my cousins, and joyous over my new found happiness, went to examine my good looks in the mirror. I have never experienced a more excruciating, colder blow.

Instead of a handsome man, I saw an utter fool. Having gone out with wet, gelled hair, I saw how, by the action of the wind, it had become tufted like a mad professor’s. My eyes, nose and cheeks were red, swollen and bleary after the alcohol. But the worst thing of all were the bits of pie leftovers on my face. Why my cousins had not mentioned this to me I could not say. Perhaps they see me as such a contemptible figure anyway, they thought it made no difference. Perhaps they were too polite to mention it. In any case, observing the tufted hair, the red swollen face, the pie remains before me, I now saw with crystal clarity just why that young lady had put her hand to her mouth to avoid smiling; why the school girls had giggled uncontrollably; why white suit, as I had arrogantly dubbed him, had questioned my impudence, as if I should look at my own undignified person before insulting his.

I am so utterly mortified by all of this. I feel so cold and lonely, so suicidal. I am such a fool, so susceptible to being delusional. I feel so ashamed, so embarrassed by my antics. I want to get into bed, switch all the lights off, bury my head deep in my pillow, and never wake up again.

Extracts from my personal diary (part1)

2009-06-07T06:56:00.000-07:00

Red nose, buck teeth, aged 19.

In the shop today, a Russian woman, aged about thirty, happened to pass a comment to me that my nose was red.

I was very much taken aback by this, wounded to the core. I didn’t know what to say. I had been in a good mood till then. I really felt the women – who I’d never before met – had such cheek to say that to me. But I was impotent to retaliate. I just withdrew into myself, looked daggers at her. I felt really deflated inside, as if my day had been flushed down the toilet.

She has lived in this country for a few years, is married to an Englishman, and comes to work here on a Saturday for the good of her soul, I understand. Otherwise she is a housewife. She is moderately attractive, but her face is pasty and sluggish, her eyes dull and dead. She is clearly intelligent, clearly unhappy; she is not an out and out waster – like I say she comes here to work for the good of her soul. But, like so many Russians I have met, she is slovenly and insipid, doesn’t work, exercise or study, and this shows itself, in the spiritual torpor and dissatisfaction writ into her eyes and her sluggish, immobile face. Her skin is so pale and pasty; it is blotchy and set with slight fat deposits, so that her face is inclined to hang down; her features are so slothful, so rigid; there is no blush in her pallid face, no readiness to smile. When I see her dissatisfied eyes, looking out at me, she is like an intelligent person trapped, through bad karma, in the body of a rigid, ponderous slug.

She could not hold her tongue on my red nose. And I think my evidently sensitive face and deportment had encouraged her to make the remark. Although I think she hated herself for saying it, she made a pretence that I was to blame for taking her words too seriously, for being huffy. And to rub salt in my wounds, and deject me further, she played a game of favouring Michael, my friend and colleague. Talking to him with greater respect and touching him with womanly charm, she ignored me and made him out to be a real man. He is I guess, and more handsome, more masculine than I. He is incredibly genial too, also more pleasant and sociable than myself. He is my friend. He felt sorry for me, for Sonya’s insult. But he also felt flattered by her favour, and played her game, happy to be her lapdog. I don’t blame him. He was at pains to ensure me he meant no ill will. He called me mate and so on.

I know I have a red nose, but to be reminded of the fact so bluntly like that, in public hearing, hit me in the heart. It is funny how we can live our lives in a bubble, deluding ourselves about who and what we are. Our true selves know everything about us, our weaknesses, faults, limitations. But in order to get through the everyday slog of life, we blot this knowledge out, and see ourselves as unblemished, invincible. Then one cold winter’s morning we are given a rude wake up call, a snow ball in the face. We stare in the mirror of truth, and see ourselves once more as we truly are. See our unchangeable weaknesses.

But although Sonya’s insult scored me to the marrow, it is also in a sad, dreary way salutary, as if I see the truth, the cold light of day. I feel so depressed tonight, so dejected. There is no God, there is no future save death. I am stuck with my big red nose for life. But I also feel tired, ready for my grave. Death will be a relief, an escape. I am gratified that one day I will no longer be.

I spent the afternoon with a complex, as though a big, shiny red nose abutted from and dominated, the landscape off my face. I was curt with the customers, I didn’t look them in the eye. I was ashamed, I kept wanting to hide my face. I was really downcast and low. I just wanted to go home. And it was in this state that I endured an even worse blow to my moral.

In the afternoon another girl, Pauline, came on to work at the till with me. She is middle-aged and divorced. She has spent her life working in a department store, but was recently laid off, and is now on the dole. Though uneducated, she is wise, intelligent, extremely sensitive. In appearance she is blond and fairly comely; she is tall and if a little too well-built and corpulent she is also buxom, plump, motherly. She has in fact got children. When she arrived she started talking to me. She was keen, sensitive, she started to tell me a joke. I was down, dispirited, low. I tried to rouse myself, but my eyes, as I looked at her and listened, were sad and humourless, cold. I wanted to be at home. Anyway as she came to the punch line, she smiled sensitively, and at that point, ‘ping’ her front teeth, like a pair of fangs, popped out, so sharply, so grotesquely.

I couldn’t hide the look of disgust that swept across my sad, miserable face; could not hide the contempt written in my stony, cold, mirthless eyes, as she laughed sensitively, exposing her awful teeth. She saw my look and immediately coiled into herself, a mixture of shame and anger clouding her person. She was fuelled by an impotent anger, a bitterness. She didn’t speak to me for the rest of the day. She couldn’t argue with me or take me to task, my insult had been indirect. I had given her a cold, mean, contemptuous look.

I had, after this subconscious reaction of mine, brightened up, smiled, tried to be kind, and for a while, as I sat and brooded in my dejected mood, hit for six now by the awful but undeniable reality of Pauline’s buck teeth and my disgust with them, I tried to kid myself that I was not as bad as Sonya, not having so openly insulted Pauline as Sonya had me. But in the end I saw that there was no real difference, that my cold, contemptuous look and the feelings of disgust engendered in my heart were just as cruel as Sonya’s thoughts and words. And so I spent the rest of the day utterly gloomy, wondering if there was any point in being alive.

I tried for a while to accept Pauline for what she is, but the teeth are just too bad; otherwise I think she would be very pleasing, in her blond, buxom, motherly way. But the teeth are dreadful and I can’t get beyond them.

There seem to be so many unsightly appendages in this world. In the shop today I served an old lady with huge grey whiskers sprouting from her face; a young girl with a thin but prominent black moustache; a man with a deformed hand and lots of people with bad breath. In all cases I was unable, in my mirthless state, to think beyond the grey whiskers or the moustache, to mentally escape the deformed hand or the bad breath, I was overcome with an obsessive disgust of them; unable to look and think beyond them. Imprisoned in a gloomy cell and left to chew over all the ugliness of man. Others have it worse. The other day I saw a young girl with an elephant man like condition; her face was flabby, tumourous, as well as porridgey and pale; I could invoke no sympathy for her, no love; I was simply overcome by disgust.

Demoralised I stood in front of the mirror tonight, spending hours looking at my disgusting, big red nose, and sticking my teeth out savagely, making such an ugly, hideous sight.

Foreign holiday (part 2)

2009-06-06T11:03:00.000-07:00

‘I went abroad again on several other occasions, over the next ten years or so’ continued Paul once more after an interlude in which he was kind enough to service me with some coffee from his flask and some cheese savoury sandwiches, ‘and although I certainly enjoyed myself and had a lot of fun, it was as ever a mixed bag of emotions for me. Especially as I hit my teenage years. Suddenly awkward, embarrassed, ill at ease, the nudity of the beach now had greater significance for me, and for myself and my brother holidaying with ideas of women, sex and lustful pleasures and meeting with the reality of soured hopes, misspent days, and the experience of being out of place in the cooking cauldron of sexual competition, we vented our teenage angst in quarrels with our parents, whom of course we wanted to be rid of. Thinking of going to nightclubs, but not daring, and not in truth really wanting to. I remember getting extremely sunburnt on one holiday, and subsequently being laughed at and pelted with pebbles by a gang of Spanish youths, a football team, who were out on the beach, in preseason training. And when I got home from that holiday I decided that it would be a good many years before I returned abroad again.’

I tucked into the delicious cheese savouries and washed them down with coffee. Being addicted to caffeine, I do like to drink the stuff. But from someone else’s flask, someone else’s cheap, plastic flask, on a day like today, when you’re out of doors, by the lake, and the air is wet, as if it wants to rain, then that coffee is extra magical. Oh so good! And the sandwiches as well. Yes, it’s a universally acknowledged truth that, when prepared by the hand of some stranger, morsels and victuals always taste infinitely better than if you’d made them yourself. Peculiar human trait. Yet too true.

‘And so there was a time when I never ventured abroad and when I held a strict belief that I shouldn’t. Not that it didn’t attract me, it did. As I matured, went to university and so on, desires burnt away inside me to visit the cultural cities of Europe, Paris, Prague, Rome, Vienna or Berlin, to travel out east to drown myself in the culture of India or Japan, to roam the African continent, cradle of humanity, to visit the halls of Moctezuma or see kangaroos and koala bears. But I held those desires in place with a constant reminder of the cold realities of travel, the sunburn, the language barrier, the inability to truly immerse yourself in another culture. My friends, young, excited and ready to explore would often try to entice me to go on world tours, gap years or eighteen to thirty holidays, but I always resisted.

‘You know someone once said that, until you’re forty, you shouldn’t ever go abroad, and I think that by and large I agree. I don’t know which annoys me more the thought of young people on an eighteen to thirty holiday, drinking, nightclubbing and copulating to excess, or the thought of more educated, richer students, taking a gap year and going off to India say, to imbibe the culture as they would have it, when in fact, too young to appreciate anything really, not knowing themselves, inexperienced, not particularly saffey of their own culture, they jet off to the far reaches of the planet, never having read a single book on India or wherever it is; and there, unable to speak a word of the language, ‘immerse’ themselves in the local culture.

‘I knew of one girl, the daughter of a friend, who dropped out of university and went off to Brazil for a year, where I understand she took a lot of drugs and enjoyed herself. Well perfectly fine you might say, I shouldn’t be so hokey-pokey. Only the thing is, she came back a year later and began working in an office in Leeds: where she’s been working non-stop for the last ten years, with no thought of ever travelling again. I can’t understand that mindset.

‘No, youth is wasted on the young, and it does bug me to see fakers and hippies swarming to India or Brazil as much as it incenses me to see drunken British louts head off to Prague for a weekend, polluting the atmosphere as they do so, lured by the thought of cheap beer and cheap sex; mindless, brutal, unhappy holidays in which I presume, the lost and misled tourists drink pointlessly and don’t have the balls to do anything more than chat with the expensive prostitutes. Mindless, thoughtless holidays, just as much so as the gap year students trekking across the Andes, struggling through the terrain, sunburnt, bored, hot and bothered, walking through the Andes, even though they’ve never explored their own backyard, never walked through the Cotswalds or Snowdonia, never even tasted the delights of their nearby woods or lakes, never even went for a walk around the block. And even though they hated the holiday, they always come back with tales of how it was an experience, how they’d do it all again if they had the chance; and you know I wonder how many people in their heart of hearts have ever really enjoyed a holiday. Really, it’s a form of mental illness, a malaise. To see a swarm of humans fly half way around the world to descend on a tourist hot spot, Niagara Falls, Lake Garda, the gardens of Versailles, get their cameras out and take a photo, then head off somewhere else – what on earth is it all about?

‘Anyway such were my thoughts. I made it a rule then never to go abroad at least until I could work out and formulate some ground rules, some codes of conduct, and until I truly believed that I could go abroad and really make something of my time there, be happy and truly absorb the foreign culture. And so one day, now aged thirty, twelve years having elapsed since I last went abroad, I found myself up North visiting relatives. It was a drizzly day in Dunston, a small habitation just south of the Tyne. I stood before a black door with a bronzed knocker on it. Raising my hand I knocked.

‘‘Hi son, come in’ said my auntie, opening up the door. I stepped inside the hallway and wiped my feet on the door mat. ‘He’s missed you’ she said, referring to my uncle ‘he’s been full of himself mind, talking too much, really pleased with himself. He’s had the maps out everyday’ she added as we passed down the hall ‘every night I’m saying to myself, ee you bugger, what the hell's he doing through there, and then I find him bent over the table, holding a magnifying glass, scouring the maps and working out a route. He’s at it now again’ she said as we entered the dining room and saw my uncle examining a map on the table in front of him.

‘Having attended private school when young I do and always shall consider myself a bona fide gentleman and toff, a nobleman, scholar and old boy. And that’s as it should be. But my aunty and uncle were quite the opposite; they were true working class folk, peasants I might say if I can use that word with a good connotation, in that they seemed to typify a lot of what is worthy in the working people. I think they liked me especially, and more so than my in-between parents who had managed to jump the class barriers, because I was an out and out toff, knew that I was, was proud of it, didn’t try to pretend I was something else, and took them for exactly what they were.

‘My uncle was a peculiar man. Tall, strong and sturdy with the rough hands of a labourer, he talked with a thick accent, could curse like a navvy and had tattoos running all over his body. He was a bully in lots of ways, yet that went hand in hand with a sensitive nature, a cynical nature, a nature which saw the world for what it was and was horrified by it, by the injustices of it, by its falsity. Looking like a brigand and speaking like one, he could however hold his own on just about any issue or debate in politics or the state of the world, loved to moan, to bang the world to rights, and as well as this he was cultured, he read books, watched the history channel, enjoyed visiting old buildings and churches, and drank fine wine and travelled. Now retired, he had worked for times as a labourer, for times as an engineer and his work had taken him to London for example where he helped build the Dockland express; or up to Skye in Scotland for the construction of a bridge.

‘My aunt, more meek and submissive, seemed an eternally pleasant woman, always caring, always pleasant, she gossiped it was true and could be a bit common, but her flaws were few. Whenever you visited their house you were always made to feel welcome, at home, at ease, and offered cup of tea after cup of tea, cake, sandwiches, ice cream and more. My aunt could not have been more generous or accommodating. Everyone in the family liked them, and more so because, for whatever reason, they had no children of their own. From that perspective nieces and nephews meant a lot to them.

‘My uncle being a man of such capabilities, he had decorated and furnished the house himself. The dining room in which I now stood was a grand example of this. On the right stood an oaken bookcase full of books and leatherbound volumes; on the left an oaken dresser full of plates, cups and crockery; then in the centre of the room a polished mahogany dining table. And the kitchen, in the manner of a bar, was placed behind a counter looking into the dining room. But the centrepiece of the room were the stairs, which, like those in a lighthouse, spiralled upwards from ground to second floor. There was a feeling of peace and happiness here, and I always felt calm and at ease. My uncle started showing me the maps.

‘You see, this here is a place called Lourdes. I don’t know if I’m saying that right, you’ll know better than me, but aye, this was where they used to bring cripples and invalids you see, to try and cure them with holy water from the local springs. Now, we’ll take the train to Lourdes and start the walk there.

‘Now you see this little place here’ he continued, pointing to a small depression on the Spanish side of the Pyrenees, this is called XXX. What we’ll do is, we’ll hop over the border at this point and take a look at the waterfall. It’s meant to be the most spectacular in Europe. It’ll take us off the beaten track mind you, but then we don’t wanna be restricting ourselves to the tourist trail. You know, I’m not one of these for following the umbrella like a tourist, we wanna get out there, see the wilds. There’s little points along the way, resting huts that the Spaniards and French have put up, and you can stop overnight in these for free; and there’ll be shepherds, I’ve been reading, they make this cheese stuff, and we can buy it from them, as well as some fresh bread, and you know kid that’ll do for your dinner’ he said satisfied, delighted by the thought of roughing it. ‘And’ he added ‘if we time it right, we’ll even be able to get a glimpse of the tour de France as it passes by.’

I shared my uncle’s reverence for this pure, esoteric way of life that we hoped to experience on our camping-walking trip through the Pyrenees. For myself the whole venture seemed ideal, the ideal antidote to the package holidays I’d known as a child. Not only would we be heading to the heart of mainland Europe, to a place so rugged, ancient and untouched as the Pyrenees – wild, untamed, off the beaten track; but doing it as we would, camping, roughing it and parleying with native shepherds, and the tour de France along the way – it all seemed perfect.

‘And I also shared my uncle’s reverence of maps. I don’t know what it is about them, but just to see all the myriad towns and villages of civilisation dotted about, to see lakes, rivers and mountains, and to plan a route through these, just gives me such a thrill. A map is such a refined thing, a symbol of man’s knowledge, an artefact combining his love of exploration, geography and geometry in one. That sense of adventure and discovery that must have inspired all explorers, must have always been accompanied by a scholaric thirst, a desire to steep oneself in the ancient traditions of cartography. Yes maps, whether of the land or of the Heavens, are one of humankind’s most treasured, most exquisite delights. In my travels through the Cotswalds, Snowdonia, and the Yorkshire Dales, I had in my twenties fallen in love with the map, and would spend endless hours studying them, planning routes, my imagination lost in dreams, as I wandered through the forests, bridleways and byways and alighted upon a small village, hamlet or church.

‘My uncle put the map away and we sat down at the table; in between times my aunt brought us Earl Grey tea with lemon and some beef and mustard sandwiches. He started telling me about the holiday they’d taken to Portugal, in which they’d walked the length of the Iberian peninsula, along a route known as the Camino. It was tales of this holiday of theirs that had inspired me to join with them on our upcoming walk; that had finally decided me to break my duck once more on foreign travel.

‘‘There was one day’ said my uncle ‘we were absolutely choking for a drink. Anyway we comes to this village. Apparently it was deserted. I has a little look around and finally I found this guy in a run down little house. It turns out he was German and he’d been living here for nearly two years, trying to make a living somehow. He went to this little shed and picked out a bottle of coke and I tell you that was the sweetest thing I ever tasted. God I was absolutely perched. Your auntie Linda as well. Ugh! How sweet it was that coke! God, so refreshing. And the guy didn’t want anything for it. You know kid that’s the generosity of this sort of people. You know, didn’t want anything for it’ said he wistfully, reflecting.

‘‘But I says’ said my auntie Linda, who sat now at the table with us ‘I says give the poor soul something for it. He was clearly struggling to make any sort of a living out here.’

‘‘Aye, aye’ said my uncle ‘so I gives him ten Euro’s and says it’s no problem, you’ve saved our lives kid, there you go. Aye, but that’s the sort of people you bump into out there in the wilds. People who are looking for something a bit different in life. Aye, you’ve got to admire him, for trying to break free of civilisation like that.’

‘‘All the Portuguese mind were generous as well, weren’t they Ted’ chipped in my aunt.

‘Oh aye, they would give you huge great jugs of wine, at meal times, filling it up time after time, we ate huge big bowls of soup and other Portuguese dishes – the food was delicious. You know, after walking twenty miles or so everyday, you could just eat non-stop as well. Aye, every night after a long days trek, it was nice to book into a hotel along the route, have a bath and a siesta, and then come down for dinner, a glass of Portuguese red, you couldn’t beat it. Aye, it was a route you see that the pilgrims used to walk in order to cleanse their sins. And along the way they would give generously to the Portuguese peasants. So there was lots of religious types along the way, and anyway I got chatting to this one woman, a nun from America, on the final day, and she starts telling me about how I’ve purged my sins and all, and I says to her ‘me? Purged all of my sins? I doubt it. What’s God gonna say to me at the end? ‘Hey you, you daft old sod, you think that cleanses your soul? Go on, get yourself round again!’

‘And with this he broke into his usual laughter, pleased with himself as my aunty always said. It didn’t take him long to get into one of his favourite rants.

‘Aye, you know your cousin's husband Craig? I well, the daft sod, he was telling me about his trip to the Himalayas. ‘Now you know Ted’ he says ‘I only get two weeks holiday in the summer, so I had one chance to see the Himalayas. So I signed up with this party, they take you up along a route you see, they take care of everything, you don’t have to worry about planning and all that lark. Aye, well on the first day my heart sinks when I see the guide take a red umbrella out and says ‘follow the umbrella.’’

‘And my uncle broke out with contemptuous laughter, mimicking a snob’s voice, saying ‘follow the umbrella’ despising the sort of tourists who couldn’t venture out alone, or who had no self will, but who had to follow the pack, the trail, the herd. Although in general I agreed with a lot of what my uncle had to say, he did sometimes appear over cynical, and ready to do down everyone and everything, to act as though nothing in this world ever worked out as it should. And this filled me with slight foreboding; for in slating this Himalayan adventure, I wondered how acquainted my uncle truly was with the realities of venturing out alone, and getting off the beaten track.

‘The next day we took a trip out to the Derwent valley. It’s very picturesque out there. Grassy hillsides bordered by grey stone walls and dotted with sheep; quaint little farmhouses and grey stoned, ancient-looking buildings; deserted expanses of moor land and purple heather, with roads and telegraph lines making a solitary trek across these, and up and down the hills. We walked awhile through some hilly parts, poked our noses inside a disused mine, and finally came to rest at a rushing little brook, that concoursed down the hillside; where we sat down and tucked into a picnic, prepared by my aunt, who as ever provided some delicious morsels.

‘This, this outing into the rurality of the English landscape, this tranquility and peace, as we sat by the brook in solitude, eating sandwiches and cakes, this was what I loved more than anything, and what I had satisfied myself with over the last twelve years. And I was lucky enough to have in my aunt and uncle, people who shared my love of the good things in life. It was because of this that I felt confident of going abroad with them; I felt that with them at least I stood a good chance of experiencing the joys of foreign travel, of squeezing out the orange of experience to the full, in the same way that I had learnt to maximize and fully appreciate all that we have here in England. It would be a great holiday, done in the right spirit, we would rough it, go native and be braced to experience the pleasures of France and Spain. And I would learn the languages as well. It would be, as my aunt said, the holiday of a lifetime.

‘So there it was’ said Paul turning to me momentarily, then returning his gaze to the waters, ‘I finally had my formula for going abroad. And more so than this I had hope that this would be the way in which I would see the world. For my uncle spoke of similar walks across Spain, Germany, Italy and the Czech Republic, similar walks across China, Russia and Chile. My appetite was wetted, and I settled down to improving my French and Spanish. I would spend a couple of hours reading a French children’s book on the culture and history, wines, foods and sports of that great land. Then I would switch and spend a couple of hours reading something similar in Spanish. How wonderful! What a joy it is to read about French society and culture, in the language of the French, to find, you know, one of those books suited perfectly to your level, without any complicated grammar or colloquialisms. Yes what a joy. Yet how that joy multiplies tenfold, a hundredfold even when on finishing you are then able to do the same in Spanish! And not only did I improve my languages, I read widely on the history of the region, read travel accounts from travellers who’d made similar voyages, as well as dipping into French and Spanish literature. I intended to do everything properly, perfectly.’

‘Yes’ said Paul lapsing into one of his moods of reflection, in which I picked out a chocolate donut and tucked in. ‘But of course’ he added after a few moments, ‘it was all destined to blow up in my face.’

‘I don’t know if you’ve ever been camping, but one of the first things you learn is that no matter how light you intend to travel, no matter how many items you might deem unnecessary luxuries, you always end up having to cram things in the night before, and when you finally put your rucksack on it weighs an utter tonne. I had the lightest tent on the market; I had only one change of underwear; in every department I had only the essentials; but when you have to lug around everything, I mean food, clothing, shelter, cooking equipment and utensils, soaps, detergents and sun creams, mirrors, books, guides and maps, water and so on forever, God it adds up!

‘So one early morning in June I made my way to London Waterloo to meet with my aunt and uncle. Even on my way there I began to feel vulnerable. The cumbersome, heavy rucksack on my back, annoying me already; the mental stress of knowing that I’d be lugging it around for the next two weeks; the irritation of bumping people with it as I walked; and feeling ill at ease amongst ordinary, relaxed people, commuters on their way to work. I, in contrast, dressed in shabby camping gear, a tombstone on my back, a cap on my head, two sticks in my hand, all my possessions on me, of no fixed abode, and heading of to the continent in an anxious frame of mind.

‘When I arrived at Waterloo I found my aunt and uncle there. It was no reassuring sight to see them, dressed like myself in camping gear, huge, weighty rucksacks on their backs, they too now appreciating the horror of what was up ahead. We’d all had really poor night's sleep, my aunt and uncle especially, since they’d had to travel down from up north. As we waited in the train station we all felt vulnerable and isolated, as though we stuck out like sore thumbs. There was such a feeling of well being and joy emanating from the other holiday makers as they prepared to set off for the continent. They were decked out in fashionable, expensive clothes and lounged casually in cafés and bars, drinking coffees and wines, eating pastries and croissants. Little children ran around excited. We however felt only vulnerable and foolish. It wasn’t just the fact that we wore caps, boots, anoraks and bumbags, it wasn’t just the fact that we were half-human, half-rucksack creatures; it wasn’t just the fact that sticks, shopping bags and water bottles cluttered up our hands and persons. More than all these things it was the simple knowledge that all of our possessions were with us, and that we were not headed for any cushy hotel room or apartment, but essentially for nowhere. The vague sense that we were homeless.

‘But I guess it was still just a vague sense at that point. Well anyway, after arriving in Paris we took the train down to our destination of Lourdes. We’d already begun to have a few arguments, all of us tired and irritated, and my attempts to speak French in a burger bar in Paris had utterly failed, as unable to comprehend a word of what the young cashier had said to me, I froze, got tongue tied and was eventually relieved of my misery when the young French man demonstrated his excellent command of English. It was all very depressing. Of course those feelings of vulnerability and isolation that we’d experienced even in London, intensified dramatically as we stepped onto foreign soil. I don’t know what it was, I really don’t, but just being on foreign soil seemed to scare me, to enervate me. I felt I just couldn’t relax. As I sat at the train window and watched the French landscape fly past, even though it so resembled the English landscape we’d just journeyed through, I felt intimidated by it, it felt foreign. Yes, foreign soil, foreign climate, foreign moon: that feeling of being an outsider, an alien.

‘We finally reached our destination, Lourdes, and it was here that our feelings of loneliness, vulnerability and intimidation were finally consecrated.

‘I still have never found any explanation for it, but even though it was the month of June, the town was shut up and in slumber. Worse than this, it was no bastion of French culture, but rather, from the glimpses afforded to us of tacky tourist shops selling beach balls and lilos; of run down nightclubs playing dance music; and of petit bourgeoisie natives, looking sleepy, wearied, miserable and worn out – from all of this you had the distinct impression that it was an uncouth, uncultured little backwater.

‘By the time we got here it was already six o’clock, so we decided to find our intended campsite and set up camp. The guide book we were using was in every way excellent. Written by a young man who had pretty much made a profession of touring this region, it described in the minutest detail, all the various campsites, places to eat and watering holes along the route, told you where to have a cold beer, where to see wildlife and waterfalls, and how to respect the local customs and soak up the ambience, the history of the region. It was this guidebook that had recommended the campsite we were now heading to. Lonely, vulnerable and feeling despised and ogled by the natives as we did, the campsite at least offered some refuge, in that finally we would be amongst our own kind.

‘I cannot describe the desolation that overpowered our hearts, when, the sun slowly sinking and extinguishing the day, we finally found the campsite and traipsed into its environs. In the foreign twilight, in the balmy, calm summer night, we saw before us a line of six or seven campervans. They were all seemingly deserted, and no one, no proprieter, no owner, and no campers were visible. As we stood in the grassy courtyard of the site, we felt we were being watched, looked on with contempt and scorn. The thought of setting up our lowly, weak, humble little tents adjacent to the monstrous, luxurious campervans daunted us, and, unsure if we were even allowed to, and wishing to have the blessing of the proprieter, our hearts were filled with foreboding. Nevertheless, I was one for sticking to my guns and following our plan, no matter what indignity. However my uncle, unable to face the degradation of it, talked me around, and we all ended up that night in a hotel.

'And after booking in, instead of now preparing a camp meal, we headed off to a restaurant. It would’ve been impractical to do otherwise.

‘The three of us, aliens, foreigners and outcasts, relieved at least for the night of our rucksacks, wandered the deserted town, trying to find a place to eat. Time and again we came across a restaurant, and would stand nervously outside, sniffing at the menu, before one of us plucked up the courage to enter; only to be told, by some sleepy, wearied owner that no, they weren’t in fact open. Finally we found somewhere, begging the sullen, contemptuous, petit bourgeoisie owners to allow us in, which they did, under the condition that one, we could only choose viel and chips, and two, we paid extra, which the old woman informed us of by pointing to the viel dish on the menu, then moving her finger along to the price, which she’d managed to increase for the night by adding an extra scribbled zero to the end.

‘Totally alone we sat there intimidated, as a rabid and unfriendly dog came up and growled at us, and as from time to time the sullen owners threw contemptuous glances our way. We were served complimentary stale bread, after which came the viel and chips.

‘Determined to stick to my guns vis-à-vis good manners, I managed after the meal to embarrass both myself and the old woman, by not only passing some trite phrasebook compliment about the meal, but also, after paying the extortionate price, by generously leaving a tip; not a little one, no. But for some bizarre reason a large one.

‘When I returned to my hotel room and was alone that night, I felt really sick at heart. I felt depressed by this dreadful town, depressed also by my contemptuous behaviour with the locals and by the fact that I’d so foolishly given a large tip. This was the last place on earth I wanted to be and so far the holiday had been one big disaster. I felt however, that I had one consolation. Tomorrow we would begin the walk. We could leave this town to rot, and head out to the solace of the Pyrenean loneliness. I went to sleep comforted.

‘And so the next day I woke up fresh and rejuvenated, and with hope in my heart we set off on our trek. We had to troop through the town first, then take a bus to our starting position. But finally we were there: the countryside, its freedom, its expanse, its solitude lay ahead, and we were finally free to escape the lowly French towns, to escape the contemptuous eyes of the natives, to feel the liberty and aloneness of the Pyrenees. We began our walk.

‘Well, and so we spent a couple of hours plodding along a forested trail. The progress was slow, as we constantly went uphill, but at least we were getting going now. Or so we thought. In fact the realities of the walk were about to set in.

‘Although my aunt and uncle were regular walking people, they usually did so without the burden of a rucksack; even on their walk across Portugal, stopping off at hotels along the way, they had travelled light, free of camping equipment and cooking gear. Here they were weighed down. For my rough and tough uncle I did not fear; nor either for my demure, small of stature aunt: she was resilient, persistent, in her slow way, a true working class woman. Still, I perceived they were somewhat fazed by the experience. For myself, having made several camping expeditions in England, I at least had some experience of carrying a rucksack, experience that had taught me in the end to stick to one day expeditions and travel light. However here, under the influence of my uncle’s naïve encouragement, and lured once more by the deceitful charms of camping, I had decided to take it up again.

‘We plodded slowly on, resting at times, consuming water, even though at present, shielded as we were by trees, the gross heat of the day did not really thwart us. Eventually however the forest gave way. And in its place, our old foe returned to haunt us.

‘For now, and in fact for what turned out to be the remainder of the morning, the route followed a course along a road, and through built up areas. It was with horror that I saw the forested area dwindle, and perceived that once more we were back into the realms of civilisation. In fact I realised that for the last two hours we hadn’t really been walking through a forest, but simply through a forested margin by the side of a road.

‘And so now trouping along a road, a road shared with cars and lorries, we persisted in our route, feeling stupid, dogged and despised. In our caps, boots and anoraks, and loaded with our sticks and our rucksacks, we met with the contemptuous glances of locals, occasionally shouted at and mocked at by passengers in passing cars. The progress was as slow as ever, the conurbation seemed to sprawl on forever, and hot, sticky and having to stop to consume water every so often, we now felt the full force of the sun, unprotected as we now were by the forest. Eventually, all of us having had enough, we hit upon a roadside café and refuelled.

‘Of course one of the intended highlights we anticipated with this walk, was to stop off at cafés, as a well-earned reward, and partake of French coffee and croissants, of pain-au-chocolats and sorbets. But God how the reality was different. How many times did we come across a deserted, empty, ghost of a café. How many times did we have to tread nervously in and discover if anyone was alive to serve us. Then the awkward, painstaking process of trying to speak French. I should say that already by day two I had come to realise how limited and pathetic my French conversation was; and not encouraged by the few encounters I’d so far had, or by the unwillingness of the natives to humour me; and more so discouraged by the fact that, even when people were willing to speak to me, I wasn’t forceful enough and was cringe-worthy – with all of this my confidence had rocketed to an all time low, and I desperately tried to avoid speaking at all costs. Anyway this time, we were eventually served coffee. But, of course contrary to how the guidebook painted it all, there were no croissants or pastries.

‘We sat by the roadside eating, watching cars go by and on one occasion given hand gestures by some passing French youths. We spent our time bickering and quarrelling, before, desperately wanting to get on, we took up our trail once more.

‘At least the afternoon was better. Now we did finally enter the countryside, and though packed with French tourists – it was a national park, a hot-spot for one day outings – we could at last breathe more easily, feel more at home, more in our comfort zone. The scenery was at times breathtaking and magnificent, and just to see how huge and dominating the Pyrenean mastiffs could be; simply to walk through a glacial valley, grassy with verdure, French citizens playing ball or picnicking on the greenery; and on every side, rising stark and dominant, the huge rocky mountains. Later we sat down to drink a much needed lemonade in the baking sun. We sat adjacent to a gorge, and watched the splendour of waterfall pour into a basin below. Though our progress was slow, we could now say we were moving; and by that evening we had gone so far as to escape the tourist section of the park. We had reached a more remote spot.

‘And it truly was lonely and this, this I now felt was where we had intended to come to, this was what the holiday was meant to be about. We hit upon a campsite near the Spanish border, and for the first time saw genuine walkers and campers, hikers and explorers like ourselves. There were perhaps twenty or so in total, and some had arranged their tents on the ground, others were staying in the adjacent youth hostel. We loitered in the vicinity for a while, resting.

‘Yet for all that we were now amongst our own kind, we felt just as lonely and outcast as ever. I don’t know whether it was the language barrier, I don’t know whether it was the feeling of self-loathing engendered in all of us campers, by the contemptuous eyes of those we’d met during the day. In any event we found no camaraderie or friendship here. It was as though we were all competing against each other. As the sun started to wane and seven o’clock approached, we felt, in the lonely backdrop of the Pyrenean expanses, lonely, outcast and vulnerable. We were unsure of ourselves, like lost sheep, and as we watched on as French campers set up for the night and engrossed themselves in cooking and so on, seemingly disdaining us, we all felt sick at heart and dejected, wishing only to be on home soil. And when my uncle said that we should head on and get away from here, and camp on our own further up, I didn’t object much. Even though I thought it a foolish move and even though I thought my uncle amateurish and excessive for wanting to camp right out in the wilds, disdaining even the slight comfort afforded by this campsite, I was not sad to say goodbye to this place and its people.

‘And so an hour or so later, climbing up a grassy, rocky path, the sun started to disappear, the dusk descended, and the three of us, isolated in the lonely wilderness of a foreign land, knew that we had to set up camp for the night. It was a tricky business to find a spot. The land hereabout was perpetually sloping and rocky. We spent some angst filled time, as the sun departed, trying to find a decent location. In the end, conscious of the approaching dusk, we had to make do with setting up on the hill.

‘And so disheartened and depressed we got along with the laborious task of putting up our tents and cooking. The cooking was especially faffy, not to mention dangerous. Resting a small cauldron of boiling water above our burning gas canister, my aunt and I were in constant trepidation that the stove, placed as it was on the sloping hillside, would topple, and, hitting the tinder dry grassland, set off a forest fire. As we looked down the hillside in the twilight, we realised just how far we were from anywhere, just how desolate this spot was. It dawned on us how perilous our plight was, here in the outback of a foreign land. What the hell would we do if we started a fire? It was like being in our worst nightmare. My aunt and I crouched on our honkers over the bubbling cauldron, like two witches on the hillside, praying the pasta would cook. After an eternity it did so, and we tucked in. It was foul, mushy, tasteless and watery, no solace at all on this dreary, depressing night. At least I still had my health however. That much could not be said for my uncle, who lay a few yards away, trying to rest off an illness. He was prone to stomach problems, and after having spent all day in the heat, was now, at the worst possible time, at the mercy of one.

‘We went to bed with sinking hearts as the night strangled out the day. It was a sleepless night, it was an anxious night, it was a night spent in conscious torment on the stony, slanting ground. I spent virtually all the night simply lying there, terrified, unable to relax or sleep. When dawn finally came, we were all mightily relieved, my uncle now recovered, and we joyously swapped stories of how, hearing the slightest noise in the vicinity, we’d all assumed it was an axe murderer come here to slay us.

‘And the dawn, the Pyrenean dawn, was indeed a sight to behold, an experience to savour. That beautiful moment when the stranglehold of night was broken and succeeded by the promise of the virginal dawn. The red sun appearing. The birds singing joyously. The sound of a rushing brook, the fresh country air – all of this was so welcome and calming as it came and displaced the night; and wearied though we were by lack of sleep, it was a solace, an invigorating, rejuvenating solace. I stood awhile and contemplated. The grassy hill we were on ran down before me to a gravel path some one hundred metres away. Two peaks rose immensely from the ground, to dominate the sky in front of me. And as I watched on as the red, sombre sun of dawn, rose and broke through those two peaks, I realised that I didn’t watch alone.

‘Although I wouldn’t say it made up for the holiday as a whole, and somehow justified the persistent misery of it, still I was lucky enough to experience a very rare and profound moment. Watching the dawn of day, I saw on the rocky slopes next to me, a creature – some sort of dog, bear or badger: to this day I really don’t know what – sitting on a rock and just looking out, like myself, on the crimson dawn. Never have I seen an animal so at peace, so content, never have I seen such a look of calm wisdom on the face of an animal, as it studied the sun rise. Such a profound, sensitive expression possessed its glorious, golden, sun-soaked face. He was like a wizened old man, who had come to the end of his days and only wanted to calmly appreciate all that is magnificent in this world. A serene, wistful, self-deprecating look on its face. Wise and yet overcome by an innocent wonder at such a simple, exquisite joy. And then finally, having had enough of it, it turned its sensitive little face away, and calmly and without hurrying, retreated inside its stony habitat.

‘That morning we set out to cross into Spain.’

‘‘Look’ I shouted to my uncle, ‘you’re having a joke aren’t you’ as the path, heading up ever more steeper terrain, petered out and broke down, and as the boulders got ever bigger and the walk promised to turn into an Everest-style rock climbing expedition. ‘This is crazy’ I shouted.

‘We were all on all fours now, my uncle in the lead desperately wanting to go on. Eventually he realised the futility of it. It was beginning to look like very dangerous ground.

‘Why couldn’t you just have stuck to the established route’ I asked my uncle reproachfully, angrily. I had left all the decisions concerning our route to my uncle, he being senior and headstrong. I had hoped he would stick to one of the established routes, for this I felt would be more than sufficiently tasking. But he, determined to go off limits, determined to incorporate into our route all the wonders of the Pyrenees such as the rarely seen Spanish waterfall we had been headed to today, had planned his own little route, employing little paths and tracks on the map, that in reality turned out to be precarious, dangerous, unsigned and unmarked, non-existent I might say. Anyway the upshot of all this was to alter our route, which meant, in the first instance, entirely retracing our steps from day one. Depressed, angry and annoyed we did so.

‘And that night we arrived back at the town of XXX, and checked into the local campsite. Under no illusions as to what we were getting into now, I spoke with a decent, but as usual wearied French woman who showed us to a humble little plot, opposite to the rows of caravans, where we were left to set up our feeble little tents, and there, believing ourselves watched by all, went about preparing our meal. Not only were we intimidated by the sheer size and presence of the caravans, but the clientele of the site seemed, for want of a better word, like such riff-raff, typified by a group of five or six young women who spent the evening drinking and laughing raucously. We were scared and paranoid and as we went about our business, searching out the toilets and showers, or heading off to town, we felt like marked people. We wandered around the deserted streets of XXX, a desolate, uncultured, sleepy little domicile, desperately unhappy in our hearts and wishing only for the morning to come so that we could be, once more, on our merry little way.

‘And so the next day we left and this time, under my instigation, headed onto the standard route, hoping now finally to make some progress along what would hopefully prove to be a relatively well-worn and well-trodden trail. But it only took three hours of uphill walking for the frustrating reality of it all to be revealed to us: the path was closed until September, as huge signs pointed out. There was no access along our intended route.

‘After fruitlessly trying to find a detour route, we shamefully accepted the inevitable, and retraced our steps. And with hanging heads, we must have cut sorry figures as the three of us, sunburnt and sweaty, dirty and demoralised, returned to the campsite and presented ourselves once more to the run down populace, who presumably had breathed a big sigh of relief when we had left their holiday camp that morning.

‘Oh. And so it went’ said Paul, sighing, seeming to relive the misery of it all as he spoke. He was a downcast sort of fellow. He looked distractedly at the lake for several minutes. After which, turning to me and looking quite cross, he asked why I had only eaten one donut. Apparently upset about it, I thought it a good idea to get on and eat some more.

‘Yes it was a complete farce and disaster’ he pursued after a pause. ‘The whole trip went on exactly in the same vein. Every time we felt we were starting, making some progress, something cropped up to hold us back. The trail would turn out to be too steep or dangerous, and more often than not we took wrong turnings and got completely lost. The paths were never well signed and map reading, well, it’s such a fine art. We were forever in a state of altering our plans, as travelling at such a slow rate we failed to reach our targets. Moreover just about all of the designated cafés and campsites along the way turned out to be shut up and fast asleep when we got there, some were even boarded up and long since abandoned. We would have to try and persuade the owners to feed us, whilst they usually didn’t want to know. Not one of the many campsites we visited boasted any tents. Everywhere it was only campervans and caravans. And so many times along the trail, we found ourselves not in the idyll of the countryside, but marching along the roads.

‘Camping is an onerous, stressful experience, the most miserable form of holiday. You wake up after a few hours of awful sleep on hard ground and with some t-shirt or bag as a pillow, and struggle out of your tent. If you’re on a campsite you can take your toiletries to the shower room and go through the faff of shaving, tooth brushing and showering, in facilities that are usually wet, dark, cold and dirty. You scrounge around in your bag for all your different lotions, and everything, your clothes, your shoes, your toiletries, your towel get soaked in the badly designed, claustrophobic shower. Then afterwards you attempt to dry yourself with your one and only towel, which being such, is wet, dirty and thoroughly useless. And of course if you’re not on a campsite, you have to make do with the ordeal of washing near a freezing cold stream, and accepting the fact that for the rest of the day you’re going to be greasy, dirty, sweaty and run down. Humans need to shower in the morning to rejuvenate. Otherwise we’re mentally snappy, irritated, jaded.

‘Then you skip breakfast, spend hours dismantling your tent and creosoting your body in sun cream and so finally you are ready for the day’s march. You walk through the sunny day, a load on your back, you sweat, you go up and down hills, your knees ache and crumble, so too your back, your feet get blisters and insects persistently bite you. You constantly need water, and because it’s so heavy and you haven’t brought much with you, you’re constantly stressed about where the next drop is going to come from. You’re constantly on the lookout for food as well, limited in how much you can carry, and because the meals you do make are usually tasteless, bland and thoroughly disappointing. And if it wasn’t enough stress setting up your tent at the end of the day, you can add to that the thrill of squatting down on your honkers and preparing your meal, after which you spend an equal amount of time, also on your honkers, doing the washing up; which chore, hindered by the lack of clean water, detergent or anything clean on which to dry the crockery, is an almost futile procedure. Just as is washing your clothes and underwear, which you must or else you’ll run out; the washing part not being so tortuous, but the process of drying seemingly impossible, as you come up with ingenious ways of hanging your underpants to your tent or more often your bag; which when in place, since you’re already touring across the French countryside like a dog and a fool in your cap, boots and anorak, since you’re already a sunburnt, half-man half-rucksack creature, and since you’re dirty, sweaty and smelly, cannot in any way further embarrass you in front of contemptuous onlookers. No, whether you’re washing your clothes, your crockery or your body, it is always when camping a precarious operation, as with limited space and equipment, and with a shortage of things that are actually clean, you’re always playing the game of standing on one foot, of crouching on your honkers, of putting a cleaned cup, a cleaned sock, a clean limb in the one minute area of the communal basin that looks remotely clean. And getting dressed is a pain as well, carried out as it is when you’re prone in your tent.

‘And yet for all that it was a pain in the neck, back and rectum, I might have found it tolerable had we been out in the wilds. But the problem was that we were forever within touching distance of civilisation, forever forced, in our degraded state, to French kiss it’s people and population. And of course it was nice – and necessary – to refuel at little cafés and shops along the way; or at least it would’ve been nice, had we not been sweaty, dirty, sunburnt and oderous; had we not have cut such horrific, outcast, lowly figures. In reality we were nothing but homeless people and vagabonds, and it was torture for me to sit in cafés and wonder if the owners and other customers were annoyed by our presence, by our odours, by our unhygienic state of grace. No, never clean, never wholesome, how can anyone relax and enjoy themselves in such circumstances? Sitting at cafés, not having showered, smelling like rotten vegetables and donning our caps to reveal tufted, matted, ridiculous hair styles. Is that any condition in which to sit with locals and tourists joyously lounging about in their holiday season? Dirty, despised and downtrodden, looked upon as vagabonds by all, constantly stressed over your appearance, paranoid as well – in such a state you just cannot relax.

‘Had we been strictly out of bounds, had we been truly banished beyond the sphere of civilisation, it might have been a different story. Living purely off limits, out in the wilds, out in the wastelands who would’ve cared if we smelled or were dirty, that we didn’t wash, bathe or shower, that we crapped without toilet paper or didn’t wash our clothes. Perhaps in that way the holiday might’ve been easier, had we gone native, and lived like our primitive forebears, not caring for any of the ways of civilised man. But in this day and age, when civilizations’ grasp is so far, wide, and strangulating so that you’re expected to present clean cut, polished, neat and tidy figures with every man, dog and horse you meet on your travels, it really is so difficult to truly escape.

‘And you really are like a homeless person. Persistently you worry about where the next meal will come from, constantly you stress yourself about water supplies. You bank on reaching cafés, shops, and water sources and just as often when you reach them it turns out that they are closed, defunct or simply no more. You have to consistently plan and then carry out the annoying and futile process of washing your clothes. You have to skip breakfast, making do with a biscuit or a banana, some stale bread or a cake instead, in short whatever you can get your hands on. And so constantly stressed out from all angles, harassed by worries of food, water, clothing and shelter, physically sick and tired, mentally depressed and dispirited over the state of your person, your animal, vagabond status; feeling stared at and mocked; dirty, grimy, down and despised; in a state of constant fear and apprehension, that not only are you on foreign soil, but that you have no home, no bed to go to, no place where you can get five minutes – five fucking minutes! – of downtime, solace, time to yourself, five minutes in which to relax, find comfort, prey to God, five minutes to just feel yourself at peace – all your possessions on your back, harassed twenty-four-seven by a mental unrest, a state of peacelessness – how on earth I ask, how on God’s green earth, are you then meant to enjoy the sights, sounds and smells of the continent, to soak up the ambiance of the locale?

‘Sometimes during the evening after we’d made camp and eaten, we would go for a stroll through the town. And even though many of these French towns were sleepy and apparently devoid of culture, still you might have thought it would’ve been a pleasure to peruse its environs. But that was never so. Because deprived of that sense of well-being and ease which comes of having your own home, your own place, your own room, deprived of that sense of security, you cannot relax or take it easy. On other occasions I would set off by myself and sit down in the town and read a book. Feeling vulnerable and isolated as I sat alone amidst French citizens, the gulf let me tell you, between the French novel I was reading and the impression I had of the town, the feeling of boredom and dullness that it gave off, couldn’t have been greater. Here I was in some backwater, rural French town, feeling an alien and having no desire to mix with its citizens, reading exactly the same books I had done when in England; delightful books, treasures so to speak, books depicting French life, history and culture. It was a massive irony, the contrast between my love of the book and my dislike of the reality, the chasm separating my appetite for French culture and the bad taste it’s towns left in my mouth. And it made me feel as if the whole notion of culture is a fraud. The book lost something in light of my experiences, the cold reality, the sleepy, slumbering, comme si, comme sa, indifferent attitude of the town.

‘Not that I did much reading, I couldn’t. I didn’t have the concentration, for I could never relax. Whatever we did, whether touring a small town, viewing a church, sitting at a café drinking wine, whatever it was we were never once able to take it easy, and the ideas that I had of making similar camping trips abroad and visiting art galleries and eating in restaurants along the way now seemed ludicrous. No, we need that solace of a place of our own, a room to shut oneself up in, even if it’s just for an hour or so, in order to feel tranquil, at peace, to find serenity. And when you give that up, you might as well not be alive. Even the natural wonders of the wilds, a gorge, a waterfall, a grassy verge, none of these can you fully appreciate under the stress of camping. Magnificent as they were, we were never at liberty to fully enjoy them, never felt the freedom of the young honeymoon couple, hand in hand, relaxing before the spectacular sight of the foaming waterfall; running in and out of the spume, screaming, laughing. Or the happy family playing tennis and picnicking on the grassy verge, soaking up the sunshine and the joy of life. No, for we, unlike they, would not be going to comfortable beds that night, to a home, to security, to a place of our own.’

A pause ensued. Paul’s story seemed to be nearing its end. We were both silent awhile. I looked out onto the lake, not giving him any encouragement to continue. Eventually he started up again.

‘I shouldn’t talk as if it was all so bad’ he resumed with evident self reproach for being so negative. ‘No, ha!’ and he laughed to himself in a wise manner, ‘no, there was one occasion, where my aunt, uncle and I landed up at this ‘designated’ campsite, a farm in fact in the middle of nowhere. As usual, no-one was in sight and so daunted, we walked together to this farm building. God it was sleepy, it puzzles me how all the industries of these French provinces don’t go under. Well, as we approached, out came the farm owners: a fifty-something, corpulent, buxom, French Madame, flanked by two forty-something men, two specimens indeed, a little wild and rugged, brawny, contemptuous, either the sons of Madame or her lovers, or both; these three appeared, so picturesque – the Madame straight out of Dickens or Zola, her two rugged, half-tamed mountain men, dressed incongruently in sleeveless tops and shorts with crazy furry caps on their heads; crazy dudes, also picturesque and colourful, also contemptuous and rude, looking down on us with scorn, the Madame, more able to hide her feelings, generously showing us to the campsite area; yes what a threesome indeed! And though I really hated it at the time, being treated with such contempt, I can’t help smile now that I recall this motley crew, on this beautiful, secluded, mountain farm, in the evening sunshine, watching the two sons lazily lark about, chasing the golden, sun-imbued cockerels; the cockerels strutting around, clucking and making a fuss and being chased in a silly game by one of the sons, as the other watched on and laughed; the man chasing and imitating the cockerels, mimicking its voice and run; larking about and having fun, though there was an anger in his temperament, a dissatisfaction and he disliked it that I laughed at his antics and tried to share the joke with him. Yes funny specimens.

‘And plenty of the French people were helpful and friendly too. Just it was difficult to carry on a conversation. Painful. For example the Frenchman at one of the caravan sites I met – even with someone who was patient and intelligent how cringe worthy and awkward it was. Or the picturesque French peasant I met out in the hills; decked in beret and yellow peasant garb, pushing seventy, digging and ploughing with his spade on a little plot; toiling in the heat – who after trying to give me directions, and trying to make conversation with me, and trying to impress upon me his French culture, his French status, his French life – I think he felt flattered I should take an interest in him – after trying and failing to make me understand he simply concluded with ‘Moi, je suis paysane. Bonjour’ and he resumed his digging in his old mannish way.

‘The little girls who waved to us from a castle window shouting Bonjour, the café proprietors, a genial man and woman who served us steak and chips at a mountain café; genuinely pleasant people, who served us with such grace; whilst the sullen French family at the other table eyed us with undisguised contempt, despising our sun-burnt, awkward, nervous foreign presence; and I remember feeling then, there was something flawed in my attitude, in that, instead of just being satisfied with the good will of the proprietors, I felt only anger and rage toward our contemptuous onlookers.

‘But contempt was exactly what I felt toward the other English tourists we saw here who looked equally as lost, befuddled and nervous as we. No it was no pleasant image to look in the mirror; to see waiting at the bus stop two people, a middle aged man and woman, who by their aurora of nervousness, isolation and vulnerability, signposted themselves as Brits abroad; the mere act of hailing and boarding a bus a big problem for them – the stress of asking for a ticket, of enquiring after destinations all too overwhelming for this poor couple. Yes, I was sorry for them. But my sympathy was mixed with a good dose of contempt, and I shrunk into myself as they boarded, not wishing for the ordeal of a parley.

‘On the two occasions when we did parley with our English brothers and sisters it was either with mutual disrespect and dislike, as with the listless, bored, equally sun-burnt sixth-formers we happened upon, trekking wearily through the Pyrenees; or, as with the retired couple we met near Lourdes, it was an over false, over-exuberant parley, as, realizing we were both English people amongst the Frogs, we swapped stories in loud, pretentious English voices, telling each other of where we came from in England and just how we were finding it out here; false, disgenuine and nauseous meetings with people who in England, we would never have spoken to. It was testimony to the fact that we were all deeply unhappy.

‘The holiday eventually came to an end. I decided to leave after only eight of the planned fourteen days, opting to cut my losses and sick of my aunt and uncle with whom I had quarreled to knock out proportions. All the stress of camping, all the rigours of the march had laid bare our relations, so that the class and education tensions that existed inchoate between us, took root and sprouted, blooming into fields of nettles and thorns. We really did argue, that was one of the chief pastimes of the excursion. It took five whole years for our relationship to be restored.

‘So I went home early and was glad to. One night in France seems to capture all the joy and misery, the dream and the reality, all the contradictions of the holiday.

‘It was a beautiful, still, summer evening. Calm, tranquil. We had set up our tents and eaten and now went for a relaxed stroll around the sleepy, little town where we were quartered. We strolled around for a while before sitting down at a street café.

‘We sat on the terrace outside drinking red wine. The sky was that dark, dark blue of late evening, and as we sat at the lulling, calm café, in the quietude of a beautiful, summer evening, I couldn’t help recall that painting of Van Gogh’s, of the illuminated night café, and the blue star-encrusted Heavens above. The solemnity of that work, its peace and serenity seemed also to imbibe our locale, our setting. We were figures in a colourful, beautiful, living piece of art.

‘But that didn’t stop my uncle from petit-bickering and later as we strolled around the town I was deeply angered when, finding a secluded, little park and sitting down on a bench, my uncle proceeded to tell me a tale of how his brother in law – a decent, sensitive man – had, a long, long time ago, refused to give him soap from the shop in which he worked for free, instead selling it on to him for a knocked down price. It wasn’t just the fact that my uncle so savagely took to pieces this kindly uncle of mine, or so whined about such trifling matters. But I’d heard this story so many times before. And now again, in this the most charmed and magical of French settings, this splendid little park, facing onto a row of quaint old French houses, and on such a balmy, pleasant evening, I was forced to hear it again.

‘And I was all the more frustrated as, in coming to sit down here we had seen at the entrance to one of the houses an old French Monsieur come to his door. I think he had seen or heard us approaching, and the sight of that old and evidently lonely, sensitive chap coming out of doors in the hopes of conversation had really touched me. But my uncle – who also was aware of all of this – simply paid him off with a kindly, well-intentioned ‘hello’ and then, knowing fine well communication with him was impossible, withdrew to the park. I had smiled to the old gent as if to apologise for the fact that we couldn’t talk, and he had looked so sensitive and genial and appeared to accept our apologies.

‘Yet as I listened to my uncle whinge, wondering why the hell we had had to come to France to hear this stupid story, I was overcome with sadness that I couldn’t speak to the old gentleman. He looked so old, so French, and I wondered if he had fought in the war, and what stories he might tell me, how he could, as a bona fide specimen of French culture, bring me into living connection with France. I was full of regret for not having talked with him, but the more I considered, the more I realized I couldn’t have really done so, my conversational French being so exceptionally weak; and so I was frustrated, for essentially, I was no better than my uncle.

‘I let my regret and sadness turn to anger against my uncle and swore at him. I decided to go for a stroll.

‘It was a beautiful summer’s night, but what a lonely, isolated feeling fertilised my heart. I was a little way out of town and whilst grasshoppers chirped thereabouts, I heard the distant sounds of a teenage party in the distance; and as I let my heart and spirit be overcome with feelings of loneliness and disconnection, I realized that those teenagers, who laughed, talked and screamed in a foreign tongue, were in no way different to those in England; and the whole town seemed so cultureless and bland.

‘When I arrived back in England a few days later, it felt oh so good to be back on solid ground, oh so good. As the taxi drove me from the train station to my home, I looked out the window and felt calm; just to see the English landscape, to feel myself once more with my own people, made me so tranquil, so relaxed, so at ease. I was glad to be home.

‘And over the next few weeks I saw many a depressed looking backpacker in my hometown or in London, sometimes sitting down reading a book, sometimes walking around, all looking sad, lonely and upset in their bedraggled camping gear and with their rucksacks, and harassed by that restless frame of mind that I had known so well; and whenever I saw them I always felt pity for them and thanked God for having allowed me to escape the horrors of being a camper.’

The sun was setting. Some way into the lake I watched on as a group of ducks came into land; descending and then skid-breaking onto the lake as the mellowing orange sun fell deeper toward the earth.

‘Well’ Paul said a little while later, after he’d packed up his things and was ready to go. ‘I’m going to that take-away shop now for some dinner – do you fancy joining me?’

I considered. I had passed the shop two days earlier, and the smell that it had exuded had been delicious.

‘Sure’ I said, being genial ‘let’s go and have some good old fish and chips.’

The waning, peachy sun went down over the trout meadow.

Foreign holiday (part 1)

2009-06-06T10:57:00.000-07:00

In the county of Wiltshire, and southwards of the river Severn, which takes its course westwards from Bath to Bristol, lies the Trout Meadow. It is an expansive and relatively remote region of grassland, a stream down the middle of it, bordered by copses here and there. This stream, having its beginnings on the river Severn, where, disdaining to carry onwards to the urban sprawl of Bristol, it strikes off southwards; escaping the rush, din and activity of the Severn, and instead migrating to the country beneath it, flows down its centre; and as it does so, it leaves behind it all the worries of the world and happily pursues its own tranquil course. At times broadening out into lake like expanses, at others slimming right down to a brook, it is in all places serene, calm and tranquil. Yes, whether one is walking in the open, expansive moor; or around the lake looking across to the distant shore and its bosquey margins, or the reedy habitat of the swans that make their home here; or again, strolling through the dark, cool woods, and daring to cross the little rushing brook using the slippery, green with algae, stepping stones; in all these instances one has a sense of calm, of peace, of well-being; a freedom to be so far removed from the rush and chaos of the world. It is nerve relieving, it mollifies all stress. One wants to scream for joy.

In proximity to the expansive lake region lies a caravan park and an ale and eating establishment also designated the Trout Meadow. Unsurprisingly, the waters here abound in trout, so that one sees anglers dotted fore and hinter on the verges of the lake.

Well, I don’t know what it is, but I guess I’ve got one of those faces that so melts people’s inhibitions, that they open up to me and tell me their entire life stories. It is a fault of mine to listen too much, to indulge people, and it’s not a great trait either, because on occasion, when utterly stressed out and wanting only peace and quiet, I have told people, in the full run of conversation, to ‘shut the hell up!’ I am a counsellor, so people say. Yet I came here to relax and soothe my soul; not to listen to people and certainly not to write or generate story ideas. However it never rains but it pours. At least three tales were thrown into my lap as finished articles, and I’ll write up two of them now. Really, sometimes I get the distinct impression that people subconsciously know I’m a writer, and tell me their problems and so forth, in order to put on record their lives, to chronicle their worries, woes and unresolved feelings – as if they accept when they meet me that they can’t solve their problems, so just state them – in order to give an outline of life as we know it here and now, so that, just like the Bayeux tapestry, future generations can look back upon us and perhaps have sympathy with the mess we’re all in. We’re all, at the end of the day, humans in a lonely world, the most advanced form of creature ever to have evolved, slowly and with unsure footing feeling our way into a future which no one has ever explored, an advanced guard, vulnerable and exposed, heading naked into the uncertain, mysterious deeps. Anyway.

Out for a walk one day, I got chatting to an angler Paul, and sat down next to him, on a foldable stool like he, by the waterside.

‘Have you met that family from Bolton?’ he said looking me directly in the eyes, his face lit up with a hint of mischief. He returned his gaze to the water in front of him, holding his rod out as he did.

‘Yes’ I said with a kind humour in my tone. I presumed he meant a northern man I’d met several days previously, a simple, working class, pleasant and sensitive man, here with his wife and little children, who had extolled the virtues of the Trout meadow and the English countryside in general, and who had asked me what sort of philistine need venture abroad, with all that fancy foreign nonsense, when you could stay here and have all you wanted, live like a prince in our Island kingdom.

‘Well’ continued Paul slowly, a calm smile fleeting over his face, as he persisted, while he spoke, in looking out to the lake and not me, ‘well, you’ve got to like him, he’s so genuine. But you know, it would be easy to label him as an uneducated lout and claim that his dismissal of foreign holidays is uncultured and uncouth. You might argue that he lacks the refinement of soul, of say you and I, and is unable to find fascination in the spectrum of customs and manners, tongues and scripts, fashions and philosophies afforded by foreign cultures. But actually I think the reverse is true. I think he’s quite refined to say what he does, and I like him better for it. I mean it’s easy to imagine a man like him, and a family like his, uneducated and unsophisticated, common northerners as you might label them, flying off to the Costa del sol every year, sunning themselves on the beach, drinking to excess, insulting the natives, unable to speak Spanish, rowdy, drunk and abusive, sullying the reputation of Brits everywhere. So when you come across one such as he, outwardly a lout, but at heart sensitive and thoughtful; not one to bunk off abroad on a binge drinking crusade, but preferring to stay here; and appreciative of these lakes and woods you see before us, well I find it quite cheering to my soul.

‘Don’t get me wrong. I can’t stand the small island mentality we have here, the notion that British is best, the three lions, God save the Queen, the union Jack, for king and country, good old fish and chips, bacon and eggs, bangers and mash and I do love foreign culture, foreign cuisine, foreign tongues and foreign ideas, but some part of my soul responds to that man’s words and thoughts. For I too, like him, am intimidated by going abroad.

‘I first had a foreign holiday aged ten with my family. We went to a place called Alcudia, on the Spanish island of Majorca. I can still recall the excitement as my younger brother and sister and I awoke at four o’clock one summer morning and in the quiet calm of dawn, headed in a taxi with our parents to the airport. Then the wait there, my parents looking whacked and stressed, sitting on chairs, as we three children played and ran around, excited and full of beans. Then finally the much anticipated aeroplane journey, we boarded for the first time ever, and experienced the excitement, fear and uncertainty of flying, the miracle of it, our little eager faces peeping incredulously out over the clouds. The land beneath us eventually giving way to sea, just as on a map, though somehow to see it happen, to see the solid earth jaggedly and abruptly coming to a halt and the sea taking over is somehow surreal; as if you never truly believed it happened in practice. Then the thrill of the aeroplane meal, dinky little cups of tea and coffee, the tray with hot beef and vegetables, a bun, a sachet of butter, so like an astronauts meal, so compact, everything in a compartment, a side section with fruit in it, another with cheese and crackers. All so appetising and novel to little children. Then finally the landing, that running thud onto terra firma as the aeroplane hit’s the ground running; and then the first steps onto foreign soil.

‘It was, as my mother said, as though, when they opened the aeroplane doors ‘someone had opened an oven door’. The excessive heat engulfed us, my mother now regretting having brought along so many woolly jumpers and thermals ‘just in case it was cold.’ As we stepped out onto the boiling concrete, the scorching sun now beating down relentlessly, we perceived clearly that this was somewhere very different from home. This was Spain, the Mediterranean. The cool, clement, tranquility of England was a distant memory. We had exchanged it for the alluring, the scintillating, the heat, light and humidity of Majorca. No more the serenity and temperate calm of England, that surrounds us here now; but instead the tempting, sensual seduction of the Tropicana; the blaze and glory of it, the temptation of it, offering something more than we have here; at the same time there was a nasty edge to it, it was savage, the sun beat down continuously, it was as though we had stepped into a pressure cooker.

You know, it sort of induces and parallels sexual feeling. I think here in temperate England, we’re fairly staid and undersexed, looking on sexual proclivity with a cold, distant, almost contemptuous and sardonic eye. We’re not on heat. And with that goes a certain calm, a peace, a tranquility; a modest coolness as though we are eternally in the quiet of life, experiencing that serenity that sweeps through your soul, when you’re sated, mature and content, when your life is over the hill. Whereas in Spain, in the Latin climes, you trade this in to live in a blaze of glory, living to burn, to engage dramatically in life, to sample all that glitters and glows, the scintillating, the brazen, to give in to lust and temptation; and in gaining this you also loose something. For the heat, the sun, is savage, it takes something from you, just like promiscuity, it robs your soul, leaves you slaughtered, hurts you profoundly. The clime, the heat makes you sullen, just like sex does. And I think subconsciously I could somehow see all this, recognise it as we travelled by coach to our hotel. I sat rapturously at the window, watching this novel world unfold before me; seeing the gorgeous deep blue of the sky, the pure emerald green of those seductive waters, the novelty of palm trees, their strange green leaves shooting out of a beige, cane-like trunk; the natives, sun-kissed, dark and brown, strangely foreign yet exactly the same as us. That peculiar sense that here was a totally, totally foreign culture, that at the same time was really just identical to ours. Exactly the same.

‘We arrived at the hotel, went to our room and explored it like a little army of ants, looking at our beds, opening up the wardrobes and drawers, going to the bathroom, running the shower, the taps, flushing the toilet, opening up the peddle bin, delighted by the towels and complimentary soap, ditto the kitchen, then out onto the balcony to survey our dominions, the delight of opening up the mini bar and seeing all the drinks there, our mother yelling at us never to take a drink, for it cost the earth, and picking up the telephone and pretending to dial. It took us perhaps five minutes. Then we had to be out, eager to explore the hotel. We were warned, be on our best behaviour, and then released, I first, my siblings in tow, our parents I imagine, dropping down dead on the bed as the door shut behind us.

‘And so the real orgy of exploration began, as we ran a mock around the hotel, our young, energetic, eager souls desperate to know, see and devour everything. We ran riot, never satisfied, gorging ourselves on the novelty and luxury of this hotel complex, that was to be, for the next two weeks, our home and backyard.

‘Boarding the lift, our excitement overtook us and we went crazy, pressing all the buttons, stopping on every floor, at one of which an Italian man and boy got on, and we were amazed, I mean amazed, to hear them speak Italian and not English. They were both in shorts and flip-flops, the boy topless and with wet, glistening, black hair and a bronzed torso, a towel around his shoulders, having just come out of the pool. The sight of everyone in shorts, of naked bodies and wet hair, the smell of sun cream, the shuffle of flip-flops, all of this gave one a feeling of release and abandon, a desire to bask in the languor of the resort.

When we reached the bottom floor, we spilled out of the lift, sprinting and darting around. The hotel was a beautiful place with a palatial white marble décor. Modern and undistinguished you might argue, but for me, splendid, luxurious und easy. You could stand on the ground floor and look high, high up to the other floors and eventually the ceiling. Anyway we ran around the ground floor, finding an indoor fish pond with a fountain gushing into it ceaselessly; we peeped our heads inside the expansive and plush dining room where they were preparing dinner; then the bar and TV room; and finally we found the shop.

It’s so funny that having a little shop on sight and within access should be such a source of bliss to little children, but we were so taken with it. We browsed the shelves, saw the ice cream, the confectionary, the desserts, the drinks, thrilled to bits to see our old favourites, English chocolate bars and sweets, relabelled in Spanish, and thereby lent an air of foreign mystery to; as well as some indigenous, continental treats. And what with a big wad of foreign currency in our pockets – this was in the good old days before the centralised currency, when all the nations of Europe had their own coins – for Spain the Peseta – we went crazy, indulging ourselves.

We left the shop, I with a Spanish ice cream in hand and mouth, my sister behind with a big bag of jellies, my little brother to the rear, a chocolate bar melting in his hands, half in his mouth, half on his face. We couldn’t have been happier, freer, we were a troupe of little devils let off the leash. And like this we went outside.

We were greeted by the happy, joyous screams of children playing, the splash of people jumping into the pool. The rear of the complex consisted of a hierarchy of swimming pools, in which people dived, played and lounged on lilos; and surrounding which were sun-beds, deckchairs and tables with umbrella shades; where people, mainly adults, sat and smoked, drank, ate, relaxed and chilled, this seated area bordering onto a café and bar. Away from the pools there was a grassy area, where children ran around chasing each other, screaming and playing, then a little further off tennis courts, five a side-pitches, a handball court. Just outside the bar there were table tennis and pool tables.

The complex was vast, and the front of the hotel, where stood a volleyball court, bordered onto a tranquil lake with pedaloes on it. The front was so relaxed and deserted and offered such a get away, such an escape, from the din and excitement of the rear. Solitary anglers would come here and fish. Yes, it was really quite pleasant.

But of course as children, it was the joyous melee of the rear with all its fun and games that attracted us, and ice cream, sweets and melted chocolate in hand, we ran around like little animals on the grass, intermingling so easily with the other children, of all nationalities, Spanish, French, German, Italian, Greeks, Turks, Egyptians and so on. Some dressed so prettily, so neatly in their little costumes, especially I recall two little French girls wearing pink. And how easy it was to mingle at that age, we were so uninhibited. We felt a thrill that here was a melting pot, where all the nations, at least of western Europe, met and parleyed. This was the place to be, this was where it was at. Who could not feel, that wondrous sensation of simultaneously being awed by the might of Europe and yet glowing with pride at representing England. Here to parade, play and show off, hand in hand with the other kings of Europe, a dualism of rivalry and respect, of kinship and common purpose festered in our hearts. So it was.

And this was never more evident than at the table tennis table.

We had hungrily watched on as a Spanish kid sporting a bandana played out a wonder match with a French boy. The enduring rallies and exquisite skill, had kept the crowd of children around the table poised with excitement. We were desperate to play ourselves, and it seemed that it was winner stays on, all-comers welcome. Eventually my turn came, and afterwards that of my sister, each of us playing the dominating Spanish boy wonder; playing with panache, skill and agility, pumped up in the tournament atmosphere, knowing we were playing for England, desperate to impress the crowd. We both played our hearts out, and did our nation proud, yet in the end were defeated by the bandana wearing Miguel, a true professional and sportsman. Defeated yes, but all the same not disgraced. And even though the language barrier hindered communication between ourselves and Miguel, there was a mutual respect between us, a common bond somehow, achieved by challenging each other at sport. We shook hands at the end, we made eye contact and displayed expressions of friendship, unable to comprehend his words, but taking it in good faith all the same, and in our behaviour, breaking down barriers of language and culture, in our uninhibited way, that I think, it’s fair to say, are impossible to overcome when an adult. No, we lose something as adults, it’s harder.

Later on, when my parents had had a siesta, we went to the beach.

That vista, of pure white sand, green emerald seas and cloudless blue skies; of a relentless molten sun, ceaselessly blazing and brazen; of palm trees and sun beds and sun-kissed, bronzed men and women joyously lapping up the sun and enjoying themselves; the visible heat and sun-baked, languid arena; that vista has scorched itself onto my memory, and I can see it now before me. See the never ending heat and glory, its enduring, uninterrupted dominance; the magnificent, pregnant blue sky, forming a tent over the earth, so, so pure and cloudless. The shocking magnificence of a dominant, cloudless sky, the ideas of rain or wind utterly alien; the stillness, the purity of the unblemished Heavens. The humidity, as though the air were saturated and clogged up with an immovable morass of hot particles; and in light of all this, a feeling amidst all the people on the beach of enduring well-being, a carefree joy and satisfaction, as if life and all its worries should just be forgotten about and you could simply lie face down on the sand, soaking up the sun and giving into oblivion. What more was there to live for?

So we had sun cream applied to our backs and bodies and scampered bare foot over the tortuously hot sand and into the water, swimming and lolling about, amazed to see little lance-like fish swimming in the water so near the beach. We walked along a jetty that ran out into the sea and jumped into the water. We would sunbathe inbetween times, and also play the beloved bat and ball game, that young and old alike enjoyed, either on the beach or in the water; and purchasing the bat and balls from one of those tacky, yet somehow endearing Spanish shops, those ones you step into from off the baking hot streets, and you find them so shady and protected inside. On one day we hired a pedalo and went out a gallivanting along the coast, seeing the white sands stretch on forever to the town of Alcudia on one side; and to Alcudia pines on the other side, with its more rugged, natural appearance, of fir trees struggling to grow amidst the rocks and sands.

So we got into a routine. We would wake in the morning and go downstairs for breakfast, and it all being paid for, and it being all you could eat, we gorged ourselves on this feast, in the luxury and opulence of the dining room; in that atmosphere of well-being that pervaded the place, as all the guests came down to congregate and eat, the French especially noteworthy with their kisses, their hugs and their bon appetites. There was so much food on offer, huge trays of all sorts, ready for you to help yourself to, and I made a point of trying everything once. My favourite item though was the crusty bread, and just to see piles and piles and piles of these fresh, crusty loaves made me so, so happy. Really, just the sight of luxury, opulence and bounty, oh this gives one such a good feeling, a feeling of security, of satisfaction. And so with these rolls. I would have two or three, sometimes with apple jam, sometimes with strawberry, sometimes with butter, the charm of confitures in an individual carton never fading for us children; then a coffee and orange juice from the magic machine; followed by a tea and grapefruit juice afterwards, unable as I was to decide between these four choices, even though at home I never had tea or coffee.

Afterwards we would take a courtesy bus to the beach, and there give ourselves up to bathing, swimming, and bat and ball, soaking up the sun and basking in that sauna of well being, in the splendour of the beach, the beautiful women, the health, the youth and the happiness of it all. Yes the beach, the bronzed men and women sunning around, little children playing, a young couple on honeymoon and in love, playing bat and ball in the water. The cries of ‘coco, melona’ as a vendor made his way along the beach. Yes it was in Spain that I first tasted the wonders of the succulent water melon, first saw this exotically coloured fruit, for you couldn’t get it in this country back then. The same was true of the ice cream and ice lollies. Sorbets, I should say, for that was what they were; probably my favourite being a boomy; a wondrous creation comprised of three different parts on a stick: a yellow sorbet lemon, an orange sorbet orange and a red sorbet strawberry. Utterly incredible. And there were sloshes, pizzases, oh what else? I can’t remember…I’m getting sidetracked. Anyway there were lots. Utterly incredible. Don’t let anyone ever say to you ‘well what about the good old British ice lolly?’ Let me tell you it pales in comparison to these sorbet delights. Yes, in terms of ice cream and desserts, the continentals were, and still are, way ahead of us.

‘At dinner time, a hunger starting to develop in us after all our swimming and running around, we would head into a beach café, and have say a pizza with anchovies and olives, or a crepe a la fraise or au chocolat, or even simply a burger and chips. Then after replenishing ourselves it was back out into the sea, onto the beach.

‘Then by four or five, the mood subtly changed. Just the sun began to be on the wane. Don’t get me wrong, by English standards, you could’ve stayed there all night, but there was a slight decline in its heat, in its radiance, it was less brazen, more melancholic and in decline. People started to go home. Many remained, the fun and games continued here and there, but that centrality of feeling, as though everyone was here and this was the place to be now subsided. The people dispersed. Some stayed on, and sometimes we did, determined to squeeze every last drop of pleasure out of the day; but mainly we succumbed to tiredness and exhaustion, and following the general consensus, headed home.

‘It was quite a distance to our hotel, and by the time we had walked back we were foot weary and moody, sun-stricken after this march through the heat. My whole family were tired and irritable as for the next two or three hours we set about showering one by one, washing away the heat, dust and sand from the day; then lying down on our beds in the shade of the apartment, recuperating, getting our strength back, having a siesta. Then at around six or seven things changed once more, we emerged revived and fresh from our chrysalis, ready for our next stage of life.

‘Dressed smartly in clean, crisp, summer clothes; refreshed after our showers and with wet hair; and reeking of deodorant and other pleasant scents, we trouped down for dinner. God it was good. To eat once more in that vast opulent restaurant, a hive of activity, humming, buzzing, as people, refreshed after the days activity in the blaze, now looked forward to an evening of entertainment, rest and fun. All those happy, healthy people, young, alive, vigorous, come here from all over Europe, talking, feasting, orgying on the joys of life.

‘I don’t think I ever ate so well and so joyously as in those two weeks in Alcudia. The food was spread on two long tables, in the centre of the dining hall, and you simply queued up and helped yourself to the buffet. There were tray after tray after tray of different dishes, and each dish seemed in unending supply, as waiters ceaselessly went back and forth replenishing each one, tipping in piles and piles of reserves, constantly replacing old trays with new, so that there was a never ending bounty. Chicken, sausages, beef, pork, and veal; corn, gherkins, tomatoes, mushrooms and lettuce; salmon, tuna, potatoes, bread and butter; and chips, crisps, cheese and crackers – and so, so, so much besides – so that we returned many times with brimming plates, gorging ourselves on all that cuisine, replenishing the energy lost during the day.

‘Then at around eight say, the restaurant would begin to empty, people had had their fill of food and after dinner conversation, and something new beckoned them, they were called out into the cool of evening.

‘Really, it was almost as if a new mood, a new part of the day kicked in, at around eight. You came alive again at this time of the night, now that it was cooler, more habitable; and the dark, serene nights seemed so charming, so full of promise.

‘So we would head outside, to the rear of the hotel, the swimming pool now shut up and sleeping. Sometimes we would have a walk out to the tennis courts and spellbound watch the match. They had those red, continental clay courts, and we would watch the Spaniards play; brought back to life at this cool hour of the day, scampering around the court, the red dust being displaced underfoot and kicking up onto their white trainers; the rally enduring as the last red beams of day came down, that sunset, that epiphany, those last lees of crimson sun, dying in glory as the oblivious tennis players played on. Sometimes we would even play ourselves, but this time on the all-weather courts and under the flood lights in the perfect, dark, cool of nine o’clock; revitalised, reenergised in the cool, running around the court in the thrills and spills of it all.

‘Usually though we congregated at night around the hotel bar area, sitting outside under the starlit night, at a café table, and, in the company of seemingly the entire hotel, listen to some live music or watch the hotel’s entertainment.

‘It was, just like the beach during the day, the place to be at night. This was where it was at. We would find a table and my mother would have an Irish coffee, we children chocolate milkshakes, my father a beer, and then we would let the evening unfold. At times we would run off and play with the posse of other children on the grass; sometimes we watched the table tennis or pool; but mostly we sat down and watched the cabaret act.

‘There was a young blonde woman and a black man who were in charge of this entertainment. Sometimes they sang and danced, on other days they got members of the audience up to compete in singing and dancing competitions. At other times they acted out comedy sketches or held talent contests. For example, in the two weeks that we were there, there was a competition to find the best male and best female in the resort, and a junior version of this too; and here the more uninhibited of the hotel residents put themselves forward to represent their country and to compete against other for the honour of their tribe. They would have to sing, dance, act or perform and the audience would have to vote, by volume of applause, to judge the winner. Yes, we three children were enchanted by these games, to see the beautiful women of the resort, Margherita from Spain, Heidi from Germany, or our personal favourite Debbie from England, thrilled to see them sing and dance, and play to the crowd, enraptured to see how sexy they were, oh, we were impressed. Especially when the seemingly shy and demure Debbie came out of her shell and started break dancing. Then again the men would have to take their shirts off and tense their muscles, or vie with one another in arm wrestling matches; or little boys would have to keep a football up, whilst little girls skipped or danced. Then on other evenings there was simply a disco; and here we sat enthralled, as the songs, those cheap and nasty Spanish holiday songs, which are, all the same, so, so good, so melodic and cheerful, came on, and the women and girls would get up to dance, doing the hand actions, making the moves in synchronisation. What a spectacle.

‘So the nights went by, languid, cool and peaceful, and we would sit there soaking up the atmosphere, our hearts warmed, under the magic Spanish night, the stars like diamonds, the sound of a splashing fountain never far distant. Eventually the night would come to a close, the entertainment end, and incredibly sad at heart and desiring to live on, we children would reluctantly return to our hotel room.

‘And there, sad and depressed, we would, as a final solace, so unwilling were we to go to bed, gently break ourselves in, by sitting out on the balcony, and gently come to terms with the fact that the day was over. It was one last hurrah, one final goodbye. We would sit there in the quiet of night, looking out over the tranquil lake; the quiet calm of night, the ceaseless chirruping of the grass hoppers; the strains of melancholic Spanish music, of the guitar, of the piano, drifting in from a distant hotel. So we slowly accepted our fate.

‘And so, well’ continued Paul after a few minutes silence, in which he seemed to reflect, ‘it was a great holiday.’ He seemed quite a neutral man: never smiling really, never really looking at me, persistently staring ahead at his rod, occasionally recasting his line anew, focusing on his fishing; but I liked him all the same, there was an honesty to him.

‘But, although there were many high points’ he continued again after another silence ‘I wouldn’t want you to get the impression that it was a perfectly untarnished holiday or that myself or that my family were at home in this new environment. That was not true at all.’

‘I think the most profound, upsetting and obvious difference you’re exposed to when abroad, is the sight of women’s naked breasts on the beach. Don’t get me wrong, my family and I new all about this, prior to our trip, but to actually witness it in reality is something different. As a ten year old boy, I was, when we first arrived, somewhat in Heaven, making a protracted scrutiny of all the naked breasts on show, of the young and of the old, looking at them all, comparing size and shape, though to be honest at that age, you love all of those breasts; and deludedly believing that my mother didn’t realise that I was ogling all those naked women. Everywhere you saw naked breasts, you watched enthralled as a woman came to the beach, sat down in her bikini, and then, just when you believed she was perhaps more modest than the other women here, happy just to be in her bikini, she would unclip the back of her top, and hey Presto!, out popped her naked breasts. They were everywhere, and as a child you might say, if you were floating aimlessly on a lilo, obliviously career, as you lay prostrate, eyes shut or to the Heavens, into a pair of naked breasts; or again in the sea, focused on the game of bat and ball, diving here and there, you might accidentally bump into a naked woman, tumble against, collide with, or if lucky, run head on into her breasts; or simply running over the beach, you were forever in danger of corralling yourself into a dead end of naked flesh; the tantalising sight of young, naked women, your steps faltering in trepidation, yet in ecstasy, as you found yourself in such close proximity, running into them head on.

‘Yes, naked breasts everywhere. But I ask you, is that any environment for a young boy to be in? Or a young girl either? What did my sister look at? But more so than this, was this a suitable place for a family? I mean come on. My mother, thank God did not go topless, otherwise I would’ve been mortified, but where was she now left to look? At the naked breasts of young women? Not buxom herself, over the hill, I knew my mother was in a tortuous state of envy and bitterness. And what about my father? Perhaps for him, reserved and prudish, it was worst. Sensitive and intelligent, he would never have been at home here even on his own or in his youth; but in the presence of his wife and little children, God it must have been awful for him, his soul could never have been at ease, at peace here. We all, incidentally, suffered sun burn, our pale bodies unable to cope with the excessive sunlight, and my father was probably the most affected by this. We were all fish out of water to some extent, not quite in the centre of that hive of well-being, where the bronzed, fit, sexy and satisfied people sunned themselves, perfectly at home.

‘But as children it was easier for us to get involved, to take part and not feel left out. I recall one day, my siblings and I, standing on the jetty and jumping in and enjoying ourselves whilst our parents sat on the beach. Then we caught sight of our father walking down the pier in his hat, and all of us children felt annoyed to see him, clearly not at home here, out of sorts, looking unsure of himself in his sombrero, and with his pale, sun burnt skin. ‘Oh? hi dad’ we greeted him reluctantly, our hearts sinking. We just wanted to be left alone to revel in the fun of jumping into the sea. We didn’t want our father here, since he wouldn’t take part, and was irksome and irritating. We felt sorry that he couldn’t enjoy himself, but annoyed since he was such a fish out of water, and couldn’t relax. We stopped playing momentarily and asked him some questions. But we felt stifled and wanted him to go. He, poor man, didn’t know what he wanted. I think he wanted to escape, and came to us to see if we could help him. But he knew we couldn’t, and so he held himself back, unengagingly, and this we found so annoying. In the end our awkward little parley on the jetty came to an end, he told us he was going off for a walk and we, our hearts split with mixed emotions, glad he was going and the merriment could continue, yet sorry for him and sad, that our dear father was so unhappy, watched his lonely, hatted figure walk off back up the pier. It was a sad sight indeed.

‘It wasn’t as if my father was some kill-joy, not at all. In our English holidays for example he was always so active, keen and positive, so engaging, especially in activities like swimming or playing. But here he was just not at home. Later our mother came down the pier to see us. Though we knew in our hearts, we asked her what was wrong with father, and where had he gone to. ‘Oh just for a walk’ she replied. Her tone betrayed that she was upset for him, sorry for him, yet annoyed by him all the same. She couldn’t do anything for him, she was irked and unhappy herself and felt intimidated by all the naked women. He only annoyed her the more.

‘So yes there was a tension in the air, acknowledged, but never spoken off, my dear father at times seemingly down, craving something more. He wanted to go off and look at historic buildings perhaps, to do something of worth, but there were no such things here in this tacky little resort.

‘And my mother like I say, unhappy, jealous, angry and raging to see all these pretty, arrogant, young women. But I would be lying to say that I was simply joyed by the breasts. Not at all. Intermingled with my boyish love of them, I was also intimidated and scared. Many of the young women frightened me, they seemed so nasty, and I felt upset by them, not at peace. I associated those women who kept their tops on with morality and modesty, and I would always watch when ladies arrived on the beach to see just which category they fell into; whether they were good, moral and bikini-clad; or whether they were brazen hussies, who bared all. However even then I realised you couldn’t make such generalisations. For all that though I did, and when I saw a nice, decent woman enter the beach, and saw her take her shorts and t-shirt off, if she happened to go that extra mile and remove her bikini bra, I always felt hurt and upset. I don’t know which was worse: to see an apparently nice girl do it, or to see a hard faced, fag-in-mouth, nasty-looking bitch, expose herself.

‘You know’ continued Paul after a pause ‘the majority of people in this world are unhappy at heart. If they weren’t, what they’d do is go out and enjoy themselves when young and single, enjoying the pleasure of naked women and bare breasts; then when they’ve matured and have a family, say no thanks, that’s not the place for us, for a loving family. But in reality most people are unhappy, lost and disorganised, and are always ready to punish themselves.

‘I think to the good majority of people, like my parents, naked women on a beach induces feelings of jealousy, bitterness and moral outrage. Yet people are so scared of appearing prudish and prim, so terrified of revealing that they are jealous, envious and unhappy in this world, that, instead of staying well clear of such places, they go along as if to try and prove to themselves that they’re cool and comfortable in the presence of naked women. It annoys me it does, that instead of just calmly raising their hand and saying sorry I’m just not happy with this, they bottle up all that rage and indignity and descend on such places, pretending all is fine.

‘But perhaps I’m being too harsh. Take for example my parents. Married when young and innocent, brought up in a world of convention, they’d never really thought too hard about their lives or had the chance to arrive at a philosophy of life; and moreover they hadn’t ever really lived in their youth. They weren’t accustomed to the ways of the world, and probably, never having bronzed themselves naked when young, a good part of their under experienced, unfulfilled selves was attracted to this sexually relaxed environment. Anyway, like I say, the majority of people go through their life without a master plan, following the herd, and so aren’t ever in that powerful position of knowing themselves, of being able to stand up against the pressures of the pack, to say I won’t do this because it doesn’t make me happy. So many people are unhappy in heart and soul, and go around punishing themselves, confused and unsure, trying to conform.

‘And I think it’s fair to say that a good majority of the young naked women, also felt these feelings of moral outrage and envy. Few were the women who, satisfied with themselves in heart and soul, could relax, exposing their naked breasts, simply joyed by the luxury of their body, reveling in the joy of life. No, I believe a lot of those women were also scared and intimidated, and deliberately exposed themselves to try and prove that they didn’t have a problem with it, that they were totally at home in this world. And under such feelings of insecurity, there came to reign on the beach, a bitchiness, a cattiness, as all the vixens of the pack competed with one another, putting down and tormenting with shows of arrogance and hauteur those women beneath them, the older, the less endowed, the morally clad women, the obvious prudes, whilst at the same time enviously eyeing other women, feeling humiliated to have smaller breasts, less well-shaped breasts, feeling angry and intimidated by the lionesses above them, spitefully and arrogantly displaying their superior breasts. No I ask you, in such a tense, cat-like atmosphere, full of sexual tension and brooding, so carnal and primitive, so like the environment of a pack of lionesses on heat in the scorching desert scrub, I ask you, was this any place for young children and families?

‘Perhaps I’m being prudish myself. Actually’ continued Paul after a moments brooding, looking at the lake, ‘I once saw a women with her breasts exposed in England. In a park in Bath it was. I was shocked and terrified to see her, a young girl with big beautiful breasts, sitting in the park with friends. And yet what a look of dissatisfaction was on her face; almost as if she was annoyed, annoyed to have to have such exquisite breasts, needing to expose them and feeling that whilst she had such a perfect bosom, her life was flying by fruitless, unsatisfied and unfulfilled, her breasts going to waste. Yes she was so angered, dissatisfied, perhaps just embarrassed to have to expose them, though expose them she did. I thought it was vulgar, and was upset and sad to find that even here in my beloved, temperate England such obscenities could haunt you.

‘And perhaps I don’t even mean to say they are obscene: it’s simply nice to be able to avoid the issue. I mean to keep the lid on the Pandora’s box of conflicting emotions, that comes by having to see naked breasts. No, all I want to be sure of, is that in England, I won’t be forced to see any. That way I can happily bury my head in the sand vis-à-vis the morality of it. Anyway enough about breasts.

‘Other things upset me besides. The native workers for one thing. Even at that tender age I recall feeling a guilt, as we holiday makers enjoyed ourselves, relaxed, took it easy, wined and dined, splurging, gorging ourselves, revelling in luxury, whilst the native Spanish waiters and hotel staff had to work, hard pushed serving drinks and running around taking care of the guests. I recall that my siblings and I, when playing pool one time, knocked a plant pot off the wall by accident; it fell to the concrete beneath and smashed to pieces. And I remember we all felt embarrassed and ashamed, as the elderly Spanish waiter, unable to speak a word of English, came out, and despite looking old, ill and ready for his grave, got on with sweeping it up, never bothering to shout at us, but just accepting his fate as a beast of burden. I felt sad on his behalf, sad that he was so kind, as if it would’ve been easier for us if he had have lost his temper.

‘On other occasions it was simple wastefulness that must have annoyed the Spanish. Forever buying ice lollies and chocolate we would often only half eat them, for instance if I was called up to the table tennis table, I would simply toss my half eaten lolly in the bin. At mealtimes too, inspired by the appetising array of dishes, we filled our plates high only to find ourselves stuffed and sated with less than half our food eaten. It was so, so wasteful, and the Spanish hotel staff must have witnessed such improvidence on a daily basis.

‘Then again another incident which sticks in my heart was insulting a Spanish woman cashier. Polite and pleasant, one of those calm yet strong Latin women, she spoke perfect English and politely served me at the shop. Then I, mimicking my father, who knew no different, began counting my change, to make sure it was all there – always assuming the cashier had made a mistake. Then aggrieved, realising that I’d been short changed, I went back to the counter to demand of the woman my due; only for her to point out, angrily, and much to my embarrassment, that it was of course I, unfamiliar with the foreign currency, who had made the mistake. I felt such mixed feelings; of shame and embarrassment; upset to see that woman turn angry and berate me; yet annoyed with myself, for I knew that I had made her so, by my stupid behaviour.

‘When we first arrived, we had a meeting with our holiday rep, a common young English woman to be honest, who told us to ‘haggle and make sure’ when we went to Inca market to buy goods ‘that we didn’t let the natives cheat us, because believe her, they would try and con you if they could.’ She again, just like my father, presumably knew no better, but I mean come on, even if the Spanish had been out to cheat us, and I’m not saying they weren’t, such words, such advice was repulsive, common and tacky, I mean what sort of mindset was that to have? Not to let the natives con you. To stand up for your good old British rights. The good old Brit abroad. Not one to be easily conned. The them versus us mentality.

‘Later on we went to Inca market. I was desperate to buy one of these fancy illuminated watches everyone was wearing, and eventually we found a stall selling them. My father, who made the purchase for me, hated to have to barter, yet knew all the same that, to avoid being ripped off, he would have to do it. Poor man. I’m sure he saw the horror of it, but also saw we would be cheated otherwise. He bravely rolled up his sleeves and reluctantly got on with it.

‘We bartered with an old, grey haired, little Spanish woman, and she began proceedings by asking for 3000 pesetas, clearly extortionate. My father immediately acted up and said he’d pay no more than a 1000 and so on. So it continued. At times I, hearing the plaintive words of the Spanish lady, that such and such was a very reasonable price, would butt in, begging my father to just accept the price, and why would the good lady lie to us. But he, knowing better, persisted, driving the price down till it was reasonable. Eventually they agreed, at something not much more than a 1000, and I distinctly recall the old peasant lady then, now that the proceedings were over, sadly put her arm around the shoulder of my taller, younger father and say ‘oh sir, you rob me, you do.’ It was so, so sad, I felt so sorry as though we had robbed her, taken all, when she needed it more and we had plenty. I asked my father, please, couldn’t we pay her a bit more? But he, seeing fine well that this was all a put on and a part of the game, wouldn’t budge. Not because he drove a mean bargain, not at all. He too was clearly hurt by the whole process. He simply knew he had to stand his quarter or be made a fool of.

‘Well it was like that. I went away feeling sorry for that poor old Spanish woman, though in truth, she would never have sold the thing at a loss. Still it was the whole ordeal of the thing, the slag on slag, rat on rat, each man for himself mentality, the mutual suspicion and hostility, the feeling you were being ripped off by dark, dirty, cunning natives; hating yourself for being so mean and suspicious, but terrified of being fooled, and feeling all the same, that whatever price they asked was alright, since we were the rich ones, they the poor. No it was a bad business.

‘Of course relationships with the natives weren’t helped by the fact that none of us could speak a word of Spanish, and I mean not a word, not even amigo or horla, although I guess we learnt gracias and mucho gracias as the holiday elapsed and would make an effort of condescendingly saying it to the waiters and waitresses. Likewise the language barrier interfered with our friendship for a young Spanish boy. My siblings and I had met him one day outside our hotel, and taken a liking to him, that brown skinned, black haired, cute little boy; and he had, when we were playing bat and ball, made up the numbers, so that we could play rallies two on two. Like I say it was so easy to make these sorts of spontaneous friendships when young, but even here, we had problems extending that friendship, and I remember how after the game was over, and in the days ensuing, we tried to talk to the boy and he to us, and it was of course completely impossible. In the end we all gave up; we opting to play by ourselves, he with other Spanish children. Yes, such friendships were soon extinguished, neither party quite knowing who had got sick of whom first. My siblings and I left wondering whether the boy had grown tired of us and left us; or whether, what he had told us when he went off was that ‘he was coming back to play in half an hour or so and would we please wait for him?’ So our hearts were on the line, and later when we saw him playing separately, we wondered if we had upset him or whether he simply had gotten sick of us.

‘And just as we couldn’t speak the language, we were also the archetypical, uncultured tourists. I don’t say that lightly either, for my parents were decent people, we children too, sensitive, just uneducated so to speak. My parents were nearly people. Bright and intelligent yes, just not educated enough, not empowered enough, so that they had a real will of their own, the sort of will that would’ve steered them well clear of such package holidays and sent them to a place more cultured. We were accustomed to, on holiday, going to places of historic interest, visiting castles, museums, animal sanctuaries, historic parts, disused mines and so on, but here there was utterly none of that. There was no Spanish culture here. Had it not have been for the weather, it might as well have been some anonymous, backwater, Northern industrial town.

‘And in lieu of anything cultural or historic, the island was one sprawling mass of cheap, newly put up hotels, bars, cafés and swimming pools, and in order to remind you of this, there were in the neigbourhood of the resort, newly constructed hotels being erected on the spot, surrounded by mechanical diggers and those wonderful tarmac machines, and the horrific noise of road digging, drilling, and construction as yet another anonymous hotel block was built, ready to receive a new influx of uncultured tourists. On top of all that natural beauty bequeathed to the island, the gorgeous white sands and emerald bays, the rugged rocks and pines, the mountains the harbours, the exotic lagoons, there was added to it a morass of roads, airports, hotels and restaurants, a concrete jungle, a sprawling network of cheap and nasty eyesores and noise polluters, blemishing the natural landscape, and rendering heart-sad any native who knew and loved the island in its infancy, in its innocence, purity and deserted virginity. Really the whole tourist titan, that mammoth, terrifying, rip-roaring industry, its tentacles grappling far and wide, its huge wheels set permanently in motion, as an endless conveyer belt of ignorant tourists are flown from A to B, on loud, angry, earth polluting journeys; chucked in a hotel where they splurge themselves for a couple of weeks, eating to excess and throwing just as much on the rubbish tip; then flown off back home, as a new wave of tourists arrive and are regurgitated into the resort; the chaos of the never-ending planes, fighting for air space, vying with one another to land and take off; the never ending supply of tourists being boarded, flown and brought to terra firma, bussed, hoteled, wined, dined and entertained, shuttled here and there for cultural excursions – look at it from a distance and it seems so improvident, wasteful and unnecessary.

‘Anyway what typified that sense of cultural vacuity, were the tawdry entertainments put on by the hotel. We would sit there along with other families and watch as the egotists of the resort got up on stage and sung and danced or performed other types of entertainment, like in a talent show, such as impressions or juggling or break-dancing. In the macho-man contest, the men would strip down and flex their muscles, whilst in the ladies competition, the women would do an erotic dance or striptease. On other nights the cabaret would act out feeble comedy sketches.

‘We would sit there spell bound and intrigued, at least us children anyway. With my parents, I sensed they were wearied and annoyed by it, and I think that was in fact true for us children, really. Certainly I wouldn’t be found dead at such an event now. There was just a tension once more, especially manifest in my parents. When we watched the cabaret sketches we always laughed loud, but in reality they weren’t at all funny, it was simply that the entertainers were cool and sexy and so we were ‘forced’ to laugh. We were scared, intimidated. Yes, that memory remains with me, of my father, my mother and us children all laughing, trying to pretend we were like the other guests roundabout, enjoying the spectacle of this monkey bizarre. Whereas in truth there was a weariness in our eyes, and my parents I think wished to be elsewhere.

‘And again when the ladies stripped and danced we would have to pretend to be enthralled and we had to clap and cheer, but in truth we hated it all. The talent shows, the egotism, the petit rivalry of the nations one against another, the commonness of it, as the audience cheered, delighted by an entertainer, or jeered and booed when they hated them, the erotic dancing and strip-teasing – no, I don’t think in our hearts it truly pleased us. And when afterwards, when the entertainment was over, and we would head off by ourselves, then, in the quiet, stillness of the night, as we skirted the lake and went back to our room, finally by ourselves, then there was an apparent sadness in our hearts and souls, as if really we would have preferred to be elsewhere. As if this were a cultural backwater. And when I compare these balmy nights to the balmy nights we experienced in a summer holiday to Paris, when in the evening we would stroll at our leisure around the Parisian environs, free to soak up the ambiance of the artists quarter, the Seine, the Champs-Elise and so forth, I see then my parents much more at home, much more at peace, especially my father, in that mood of cultured serenity that pervades the French capital.

‘Well and that’s just about it I guess. Add in squabbles with Germans, either over sun beds or which TV channel we would watch, plus the fact that when new English families would arrive at the resort, and we saw that they were first timers, and more prudish than ourselves, we would scoff at them, pretend to be old hands, and laugh and mock when they got sunburnt and felt out of place. Anyway.

‘And so that’s that’ said Paul, persisting to look out onto the lake, ‘a dual edged sword of an experience, simultaneously attracting and repelling one. I think if there is one enduring memory of the holiday, one that etched itself on my soul and which encapsulates the entire holiday, it was of seeing a young Italian girl, perhaps twelve, thirteen, or fourteen, topless and naked, playing in the swimming pool.

‘She was incredibly beautiful and tanned and with lustrous black hair; and her bust, even at such a tender age, was humongous and incredible. And topless and perfectly at ease, she would play, totally intoxicated in the joy of life, bouncy, curvaceous and oblivious of all else, not needing to look at those around her; lolling around in the swimming pool, jumping in, playing water volleyball with her younger brother, noisy, screaming, yelling, completely in the groove of life, so comfortable with her body, the water, the swimming pool.

‘She was so at home, so fulfilled, her brain and soul so abandoned, recessive, and obsolete. She was purely of the body, her spirit of the age-old Latin stamp. She would shout away in Italian, so raucously and thoughtlessly to her brother and parents. And we sat, my mother, my brother and I, a few tables away, unable to stop ourselves from watching this girl with a mixture of envy, incredulity and fascination. We watched on like cold, stiff, Northern people who could never in this life experience the sort of pleasure bestowed upon this girl. Their family was alien to us. The mother and father sat at their table a few yards away, smoking like chimneys, perfectly at home in the presence of their topless daughter; the girl meanwhile raucous, loud, yelling away in Italian, the language of the Latin; whilst her brother played, swam and jumped with her, casual and sated. My brother and I wishing so much that we were him and that we could play with the girl. Then my mother, irritable, with headache, and incensed by the whole scene, angrily telling us it was time to go in; and so we went, I with Boomy in mouth, chomping on that lovely sorbet, giving one last regretful look on that alien, Italian girl, that busty bronzed Bella, splashing around and shouting, totally heedless of all else.

‘Yes, that is the image that stays with me, that of that naked girl, jumping around in the pool; her bosom huge and perfect; her lustrous, black hair falling behind her head; her brow and breasts Christened with the water splashing over her neck and shoulders; her cries raucous and joyous, as the last red rays of the sun came down at the close of day; her face and bosom lit up crimson, in flame. And as others retired indoors, tired and dispirited, she played on enraptured, and abandoned, joyously attaining the high note of life.’

Two months in the life of miserable old, me: Part 7

2009-04-10T06:25:00.000-07:00

Tuesday 16th February

In a quest to have a game of tennis, I rang an old friend John, the best man at my wedding in fact, but not only unwilling to play me, he also, completely misunderstanding the purpose of my call, and blinded by guilt and good intentions, invited me around to his house, out of a sense of duty; something I could see he didn’t really want to do, something which I was also loathe to do.

I really dislike him as he is now, overburdened with a wife, a mortgage and three teenage children and overworked in his job. He was so lacking in spirit, so jaded. Physically he’s aged, got balder, fatter, looks worse for wear. But spiritually too he’s run down, apparently never, absolutely never having five minutes of solace in his life, his time perpetually taken up with work and children, with unremitting, unrewarding stress.

And so blinded by the fact that he in no way wanted to see me, has no time to do so, or is in any mood to be reminded, in my presence, that he once was youthful, happy and had a life, he invited me around, thinking it was what I wanted, seeing me only as a nice, kind, sensitive person desperate to meet up with him and be his chum, and in no way perceiving that it was the last thing on earth I wanted to do.

We sat in his desolate, dirty, run-down little kitchen. He was sick, depressed, soul-sore after work, and it was almost unbearable to sit with him and eat. Their kitchen was so shabby, the wallpaper so tatty and miserable, and there were messy pans here, there and everywhere, symbolising their spiritual unhappiness, their run down, dead in the water existence. They had so many spices in their kitchen, I mean so many, and as I saw John grind out some black pepper onto his chicken, saw his desperate eyes as he screwed out tonnes of the stuff, I saw that spices – the near to murderous look in his eyes as he twisted more and more of it on, desperate for an extra hit of it, tolerant off it as he is becoming – I saw that only spices can provide any comfort to him, and that his soul and spirit are undernourished and in an awful, terrible, critical state; and that anyone who goes in for a career, marriage and children, risks losing all the calm, good sense and serenity that the young John whom I once knew possessed in abundance.

And so we sat in the kitchen, he unhappy at heart, trying to be pleasant, I only wanting to be gone. Their whole house seemed repulsive to me. It was untidy and slovenly for one thing. But there is just something about other people’s houses that can sometimes afflict me. Perhaps it is the subtle odour, captured in the wallpaper, of someone else’s house. Perhaps it was the dingy lighting of John’s house. I don’t know, but God, I felt so low, so miserable, so depressed by it all. I remember how once when I was young, I went after school to my best friend’s house. But there, succumbing to a horrible feeling of doom, I had to go home early, and was relieved to get back to my own house. I don’t know what it was, whether physical or psychological, I don’t know. But I wanted to be out, I hated it in there.

So we sat there, and not only was John in such an awful mood, but I felt completely unwelcome, like the unwanted guest that I was, as his wife, now a tired, spiritually run down, hag woman, popped in to see me, to explain how she had already planned a night out, and how she was sorry she couldn’t have dinner with us. I saw, in her tired, energyless eyes that she is suffering the same fate as John, is sick of her life and has no solace in it. Then I was briefly introduced to the moody, repulsive teenagers. Huffy and hormonal, they were able, on seeing me to slightly modify their behaviour, forcing slight smiles, but being incapable of hiding the spiritual torpour that seems to infect their whole family; the son, dissolute and dissatisfied, a teenage bully and waster, a horrific concoction of hormones, e-numbers and intoxicants evidently at war within his body, came and said hello briefly; and in his revolting eyes and false smile I got a sense of greasy, pent up anger, a sense, in his low, low spirits, his joyless eyes and the yoghurty, old fish, cheesy odour he disseminated that the worthless son of a bitch had just masturbated. Then the daughter too, putting on a pleasant face, but not really able to hide the fact that she too, is huffy, moody and spiritually discontent. And with all this the totally infuriating fact that they made the effort to be polite to me under the illusion that I am a nice, kind, dear old man, who wanted to come and see them all, a bore, an intellect and teetotal churchgoer, someone who they should be pleasant to.

Later on John, recalling my skill with science, suggested to his daughter Jenny, when she happened to pop in, that I could probably help her with a bit of homework she’d been having problems with. As she went off to get her books I was overcome with hatred of John for doing this, for trying, so unsubtly, to bring me and his daughter together like this; to try and show her that I am not just a kind but worthless individual, and to try and do me a favour, by helping me overcome the reluctant, awkward, uncouth behaviour I showed, when I was introduced to her.

When she brought the books I sat there in puzzlement, a look of intense agony on my face, as I tried to work out what the fuck the book was talking about, bewildered by it all, my memory an absolute blank, my brain struggling into gear, pressurised by the presence of John and his daughter, who seeing me struggle, only upped the pressure on me, by demonstrably saying it really didn’t matter, and don’t worry about it; sitting there looking at the book pretending to think but actually, my mind wholly vacant – it was intractable and unwilling like a wild beast that refuses to drink the water it’s been lead to – just wishing the earth would swallow me up; looking at the question and seeing how hard it is, and thinking on how society and middle-aged miseries like myself are perpetually going on about how easy school is these days; and wondering whether the daughter, who so clearly thinks that physics is boring, I mean BOOOOOORING, and that school in general and miserable old gits like me are beneath contempt, I wonder whether the daughter a) would at least like to know the answer, for the sake of getting her homework out of the way, and that I can in fact do her a favour, or whether b) she in no way at all cares, and is just doing this because her father asked her to.

I struggled for some time, but unable to work out the answers, and hating myself as a teacher anyway, in the end gave it up with a half explanation and apology to Jenny. And as I told her, I loathed myself for speaking of physics to her, for playing teacher, loathed myself, absolutely despised myself, whilst she put on a pleasant act and accepted my words of apology.

Eventually the evening came to an end and I was let out.

When I stepped outside into the cold, dark, wintry night and was ridded of John, his family and his home, I felt utterly, utterly low. It was almost like a shock, as if in the cold, dark night, my breath panted out of me in relief; as if I had been, whilst at John’s, held down under water; and that on being released, I bobbed to the surface and was desperately, desperately panting for breath. It was a cold night, it was a dark and lonely sea; my person was still cold and wet; I was breathing for life, panting dramatically, at the surface. I don’t know whether I was relieved to be alone at the surface, after the horror of being at John’s; I don’t know whether in fact as I panted for breath, in the awful, gloomy deserted sea, I was in fact in a worse state. I do not know.

And so I made my way through the cold, winter’s night, a dreadful feeling of depression rankling in my heart, an awful, clinical, suicidal feeling gnawing at me, at my soul. I felt so low, so dreadfully, dreadfully deflated. My mind swirling with the memories of John, how awful he has become, his abysmal house, the dinghy lighting, the dirty kitchen, the peeling wallpaper, his worn out wife, the hormonal teenagers, my feeling of being utterly worthless, the horrific memory of trying and failing to teach Jenny, gnawing at me, biting at me, a feeling of contempt for myself, of self-loathing for being so worthless – all of this swirled around chaotically in my head and heart. I was so, so low.

I walked through the dark winter’s night in dismal Newcastle, a lonely man in this seemingly hostile, unfriendly, doomed place, and as I looked up and saw the cold, half moon, one edge removed like a worn down rubber, I felt a total sinking of my spirits. This is the lowest point of life, almost profound in a way, the sinking of my heart, the spirit of suicide, the cold, half moon. It was not the feeling of deadness, dullness, frigidity that I experienced after fighting with my wife; it was not the feeling of loneliness and isolation I felt on Saturday; there, though I may have been alone, my person was insulated, wrapped up in cotton wool, alone in my own home. I may have been lonely, but happily cosseted, not profoundly dismal; nor either is it the sort of depression I used to suffer, that second Autumn after Joanna left for university, when on a dark Autumnal night I would sit in my arm chair, terrified, profoundly upset, wondering what the hell was wrong with me, my soul set upon by a horde of nagging doubts. Those nights were thoroughly horrific, as inexperienced as I then was, my depression terrified me, it nagged at me and manifested itself in rages and anger. Then I felt myself sink with uncertainty. Now I know the score, I know what is happening. I am wise to it. Unlike back then I can see my death ahead of me, my demise at the end of it, I can see that, it is almost reassuring. It was a profound depression, a final depression of a man who has come to the end, an old hand. Physically my death may be a while away, but spiritually I see the end.

It was horrific and awful to experience, I was so sad and lonely. But it was almost with a religious awe that it bit me, nagged me. The loneliness, the dark night, my sinking, sinking heart. And in this mood, with this sinking heart, I saw up ahead of me a group of fashionable school girls, sixteen or seventeen or so, tall, slim, beautiful, laughing and happy and excited, entering their private school for girls up ahead, on what must be a parent’s evening or open night or theatre production or something; and as I saw them my heart sunk further. I felt so alien to them, the days when I could say I was in league with women are long gone, that part of my life completed and over, dead and buried, and as I saw them, saw their youth, beauty and excitement, I felt doubly doomed, and I crossed over the road deliberately to try and get as far away from them as possible.

And so I walked through the gloomy night and as if all was not already lost, I found myself taking a deliberately out of the way and lonely route back into town, a route that lead me down a deserted alley, where I heard myself crunching snail shell after snail shell underfoot, unable to do anything to avoid it, condemning those fantastically intricate and artistic works of nature to what must I presume have been a slow and sad death; unable to help, my feelings of guilt being tormented by the realisation that I couldn’t help but stand on them, that it wasn’t really my fault, that terrible things simply happen, that there’s no justice or reason in this God-awful world and that I would, as I continued down this alley way murder yet more poor snails. The thought of somehow trying to save them flickered momentarily through my mind before I gave it up for ludicrous. My heart was low and lonely. God, I was depressed.

Lonely and forlorn I entered the city. On this bleak night when all seemed lost, when I had no friends or solace to comfort me; when all about me seemed darkness, gloom, loneliness and desertation; where everywhere seemed shut up and closed for the night, no more room at the inn – one light in town shone brightly and promised food, warmth and shelter, a place to sit down and be amongst others. It was McDonalds, and I entered it, and sat down with a cheeseburger and a coffee, in the gaudy light of its interior.

Somehow I was brought back to life, resurrected, the coffee played its part, but so too the light of the interior, the sight of other lonely specimens like myself, the feeling of gathering here on this dark, cold night and of socialising. However much people may badmouth McDonalds for killing off the rain forest and inflaming the obesity crisis, it is one of the few places one can come to of an evening and not feel unwelcome. McDonalds opens up its doors to all waifs and strays, there is no pretension as with many other coffee houses and restaurants, it is egalitarian in that sense. Lowly, dirty and unkempt, even the homeless may enter in the hopes of finding a hot coffee, a hot burger, of finding food and shelter. There is something in the spirit of the place that is admirable.

I come here quite often and just sit, looking doomed and lonely. Others do too. Mainly the old, the middle aged, the divorcees of this world. A woman sitting alone, reading a gossip magazine; a young man reading a book. There are many Macdonalds loners out there. One man whom I saw in here the other day, I had also happened to see, earlier that same day, in a different McDonalds, which I had entered to use the toilet; so that I was left to conclude that he merely goes around from one outlet to the next in the hopes of socialising. He cuts a lonely figure, hopping along on crutches as he does, and is always on the lookout to start a conversation. For example yesterday, as a fight threatened to break out, he used the opportunity to try and start a conversation with some pretty, young girls sat next to him, who just as quickly made an exit.

There are lots of loners like this, like me. Some will make a pretence of reading or being busy, but others like myself merely sit there, in no way disguising the fact that they are lonely, unhappy and came here to ‘socialise’. I am not worried what people may think. I have friends, friends like John, and it would be a lie to somehow pretend that with them I am happy. I am not. I am lonely and alone, and when I come here I sit with the other Macdonalds loners and am proud of it.

Like I say, anyone and everyone seems welcome, no one cares a jot. The old, the lonely, the destitute, the homeless – no one is turned away. There is a spirit of egalitarianism, of Christian moral; and though one could write from here to eternity on all the misuse, abuse and misrepresentation the Christian religion has suffered since Christ died 2000 years ago, one can see in places like Macdonalds, that actually our society, slowly, surely and without fuss, is realising the core values of equality and respect for all at the heart of the Christian teachings.

Amidst the McDonald’s loners is the Black Raven. Emboldened and brought back to life by the coffee, I decided to go and sit next to her, to see what she had to say, to have her discern my fate from her tealeaves. Yet my illusions were soon shattered.

Although she seemed to recognise me, I found her in no way wise or special, but even the reverse. She is deaf I learnt, a good enough rationale for her homeless state. She stinks horrendously, and to the core, of body odour and excrement: It would take a lot of bathing and scrubbing to make her wholesome. But she was a good enough, kind enough, old soul. And she told me her tale of woe, moaned to me about her problems, that no shelter is interested in taking an old woman like herself and so on and so on. And so I sat there and listened to her problems, she was glad of the chance to talk, and warmed to me. For myself I felt a tad foolish for ever having believed she was something special, holding the secret of my destiny.

Tuesday 23rd February

A man sent me an email in reply to that confession I made as regards feeling lonely. He commiserated with me on this score, and told me a bit about his life. Although I posted the comment with a vague wish to share my feelings with others, I found it almost an invasion of myself and a thorough nuisance, to have this chap replying to me and lending me his thoughts. He was so open, friendly, and annoyingly nice, that I felt a full four-quarters irritated, as if I’d put myself in the position of moral responsibility, of leadership; as if I am to guide the many lonely souls of this world to a better existence, an existence which in truth I have no idea how to even bring about for myself, let alone for others.

But putting these cursory feelings aside, and warming to the genuine and sincere, last dog in the window approach of this man – as much as I was worried he would cling to me in a desperate need for friends, I also found an honesty, a truth in his simple admittance, that he too is lonely, and is unashamed of it, as he believes we all are – I decided to meet up with him, on his invitation, out in the country around Morpeth, where he fishes regularly. It was difficult and slightly awkward to meet with him, thoughts of axe murder, rape and sexual perversion all running through my mind, as we met in such a spot, but I realised I had nothing to lose, that I am in need of friendship, and what is the point of spending another day alone, why not gamble and see what happens.

He turned out to be a very agreeable man. In his fifties, he was a retired joiner, having lived in the north east all his life. Although there was an evident gulf in our educations and outlooks, our paths having diverged so long ago, we put all that to one side, as if it did not matter anymore, both of us simply interested in the pursuit of human bonding. Probably, I imagine, at school he was the sort of joker and ridiculer, the sort who used to tease me for being small and intelligent. But in his genuine, open manner, his way of portraying himself as nothing but an ageing, weakening man, who simply wants to make peace with the world, and bury old hatchets, to try and find some sort of human fellowship, I really warmed to him. And I found him to be quite well read, one of those non-university-educated, working class people, who have a thirst for knowledge, and devour books on history and so forth, and have one of those souls that seem full of wonder, youth. There was something pure and young in him.

And so, after making me feel welcome and offering me coffee and sandwiches, we talked awhile about life, and he spoke so openly about his lack of friends, how he and his wife are alone, but really how everyone, in this modern society of ours, is. And he told me of a project he is thinking of doing. Apparently he has heard of groups of men of our age going off to the wilds, to deserted islands in the pacific even, to set up a sort of primitive camp and to live in a simple way as men once did; working together on making camp, fishing, hunting, and living in simple huts and cooking on a camp fire. He told me how all men go naked, and are discouraged from worrying about their nudity. It is an interesting picture, that which he presents, and I am in some ways drawn to it, seeing myself naked on a tropical beach with other men, building a boat, a hammock, sitting around a campfire talking, eating; no women being present, men only, as if the mere presence of the opposite sex would spoil it all (though he was at pains to tell me that they too should seek to have their own exclusive camp, that he was no misogynist, that it’s just better to segregate the sexes for something like this); and the men only mature and middle aged like ourselves, only wanting to live together in a commune.

I am seduced somewhat by this image, of returning to the wilds, to the simple life, this male bonding, though I have reservations, concerns that the men, far from being mature will turn out to be immature macho-men, he-men, and that power struggles will ensue, each man believing himself to be the chief; and that, what with all the nudity, there will be some sort of lude undercurrent to it all, some sort of sexual hanky panky lurking in the background, something which I’m not at all interested in. Anyway my friend promised to send me some details.

And so we sat there, on this beautiful, calm day in February, the sunshine so quiet, so cool, yet so bright; and shining down on the river so splendidly, a river overhung with the bare, grey branches of trees, wholly naked in winter. And as we sat there the two of us, both of us retired and far removed from the world of work; but here also physically removed from the noise and dirt of the world, secluded in the countryside on this bright winter’s day, I saw how strange it was that I was infinitely happier when in the company of a man I have never met, who I have no ties with, than in the company of a man like John, my best man, whom on account of the life we once knew, that is now long gone, I find it nauseous to even be reminded that he exists.

Wednesday 24th February

Well I’ve been to the football tonight, and what better way to not only drown my sorrows and kick to shreds, at least for an evening, the misery of my life, but also what a great way to round off this excursion of mine.

Not that football has always been my cup of tea, or that I don’t find the endless, mindless obsession with it tiresome and detracting, not that I don’t find the swarm of squawking seagulls that forever and anon hound and follow the trawler a sapping, tiring nuisance, I do. In fact for many years I didn’t even follow the sport. Even, on what was one memorable night of European glory for an English side, I remember that A, J and I all headed off for a bike ride through the East Anglian countryside on what was a beautiful spring evening. We rode through the quiet country lanes, along paths bordered by bramble, past fields full of tranquil cattle, and churches wrapped deep in slumber, before stopping in some strawberry fields to pick some produce. We made our way finally to the beautiful little villages of Eye and Diss, where we stopped and rested in the silence, in the calm, in the immortal, monastic peace that reigned there. I recall feeling joy at being so free and happy and alone on that spring evening, so removed from all the fuss and nonsense of the football match. And when we got home, and when on the next day I spoke of my evening with work colleagues, who spoke of nothing but the football, I felt joyed and happy to have missed out on all the false glory of the Champions league final, to have spent my evening in the poetry of a bike ride with my family, through the quiet of the East Anglian countryside, on a beautiful, peaceful, spring night.

But of course those days were soon consigned to the crypt, and on the dark, lonely, depressing evenings that followed in the wake of J’s departure, I soon realised that football and especially the mid-week European matches on the TV, could provide a relief, an escape, a dark well of drowned sorrows, down which to bury my head. It is of course no solution. But it is certainly a distraction.

And more so than the matches on TV, I do like to go to live games from time to time, the atmosphere, the commotion simultaneously attracting and repelling me. I’ve been to some good games in the past. The chief highlight of which was a European game, where the English team, going behind to an early goal, required to get four goals back to survive and live on in the tournament: a very tall order; a very tall order which they somehow managed to pull off, so that the feeling of collective desolation that beset us spectators as our side went down by three and we thought we were out; that sickening feeling of despair and deflation, as the entire crowd went silent, save for a collective sigh, a hallowed requiem of the doomed souls as if we’d all been herded in to the arena for our execution; that feeling was ultimately succeeded by one of utter jubilation, untold joy at our reprieve, a feeling of life-everlasting, a cheap, hollow feeling yes, but not one to be scoffed at in this lonely world, in a life devoid of true happiness and peace; a feeling of elation, a feeling of common union and communion with fellow fans, so that I hugged the odourous man next to me, embraced the other supporters in one mad, dizzying moment, where we all seemed as one, where the usual barriers between us were dissolved and disintegrated, where a drunken man, who had sat eating pies next to me the entire match, put his arm around me in the celebrations, told me I was his friend and tried to French kiss me.

And so on this dark, cold diamond of a night, I gave myself a night off from feeling lonely and depressed and headed off into town, there to make the trail to the stadium. And as I got nearer, and more and more fans appeared as from nowhere, one here, one there, an army of us forming, as with every corner turned and every cross road crossed, from all directions they converged, sorting into one burgeoning stream, like Pilgrims to Mecca, like roads to Rome; so that I found myself in rank and file amongst them, slightly wary of them; and then I began to get a glimpse of the towering, domineering stadium up ahead; and on this cold, winter’s night, the wind swirling and howling, an atmosphere is brewing up there, in that cauldron of fire; as out from it pumps the harrowing, stark, religiously inspiring music – we were like Druids come here to make a sacrifice – that classical piece, I don’t know which – Carmina Burana by Carl Orff apparently – that bleak yet inspiring music booming out of the stadium, mixing with the howling, swirling wind, creating such an intimidating atmosphere that bubbles over the cauldron, and that must have been scaring the living daylights out of the lonely team from London, having to play up here on this freezing cold, electric night. What daunting music it was. What an atmosphere.

And so I found my seat and in the noisy, deafening atmosphere looked down and watched the subuteo players and subuteo managers, act out this drama. Not one for following the herd, I do however give myself up to the mob mentality on a rare occasion such as this, enjoying the humour of it, and feeling uninhibited; so that when the referee, a diminutive man attempted to dodge the ball, but inadvertently and amusingly failed to do so, so that our side’s attack broke down and a horde of fans cynically shouted ‘cheat-cheat-cheat’ at the poor referee as if he had deliberately helped the opposition; as this happened, I didn’t worry about the truth of the situation, but taken by the frenzy of it, and with a sense of humour and a regression to the child within me, stood up and shouted ‘cheat-cheat-cheat’ with cynical passion, as loudly as anyone around me.

For all the rush and excitement of it however, the result is a bore draw, and disappointed I boo the players off at the end.

Friday 26th February

So I’m on the train back to Norwich now, and I realise that this is the end of my narrative. I know it might not be a very conclusive note on which to end, and I know my tale somewhat tailed off toward the end, but I feel I’ve said all I want to, and to be honest, have grown wearied of this self-indulgent, emotional, outpouring of mine.

The life of my wife and I, will I anticipate, go on in much the same way as before, probably getting worse as we age and become more prone to illness, more house bound, more incontinent, more grouchy and irritable on account of our agedness. It is all down hill from here. There may be good points though, J may get married, may have children, we are not finished yet. So it will be just as dreary as ever, just as lonely, though I think I will always hope, it is in my nature to do so, to always hope and dream for something better, something more, to always search for an antidote to the misery of the world.

I visited an art gallery up in Newcastle and was given there a rather bleak view of the future of humanity. The picture depicted a catch of fish on the deck of a small boat, in the harbour of a small fishing village. The picture was excessively gloomy and bleak: in the hinterground the sky was dominated by grey leaden clouds, whilst beneath it there was a choppy, grey sea, dangerous and frightening. It appeared to be raining. Inland of the sea, the beach looked dirty and unbecoming, and was completely devoid of people. The whole landscape was bleak and deserted, the weather grey and fretting, and up land of the desolated beach, there was, situated at its head, a cliff side; and upon this cliff side was some fashion of industrial works, basically six or seven chimneys pumping purple clouds of effluence into the air. It was all so representative of our cold, sterile, industrial world.

But this was just the backdrop. The foreground, the focus of the painting, was the pile of captured fish. They lay there in the gloom of the open air, piled together, one on top of the other, some dead, others dyeing, all with mouths wide open, some gasping desperately for one last breath in this poisoned world, wriggling desperately, squirming for life. And in the fate of these fish I see my wife and I. We have been caught, fished out of the ocean of life, where we once swam so freely, so easily. And together, and in the irritating presence of other fish, we squirm and wriggle on the deck of the boat, suffocating, taking our last gasps in this world. All of us desperate to save ourselves, but totally incapable of doing so, not able or willing to save our neighbours, who we selfishly wriggle against in our final agonising moments. My wife next to me, underneath me, as we both squirm and wriggle, gasping for breath, each unable to help the other, but forced nevertheless to die with such indignity next to each other, the both of us stuck in the middle, lumped together in the same catch as the other fish; the undignified melee of it, as we, the middle agers, loving not our neighbours, squirm and wriggle helplessly for life, in the backdrop of a lonely, dismal, sterile world.

I arrived back in Norwich, and in the back of a cab, looked out of my window and saw the country lanes leading to the farmhouse, then the farmhouse itself, then the drive out to the cottage. When I got out of the cab I just stood awhile looking at my house and looking out on the distant fields, some green, some black, simply looking out on the ever so flat East Anglian landscape, the land so utterly flat, the sky so pastel blue and pure, and so dominating on this calm, sunny, winter’s afternoon.

And as I stand here, there is a bit of commotion over at the farm house; and I look and see one of the farm hands, a taciturn, stolid young man come out of the house and walk with amazing calm and slowness towards me; whilst ahead of him runs the irrepressible Harry, barking and yapping, running to see me, happy to be reunited after his stay at the farm. He comes, I lift him, stroke and mollycoddle him, and he licks my face. The figure of the farmhand slowly makes its way toward me. I’m feeling positive and happy for some reason; and I’ve got tennis to look forward to this evening.

Two months in the life of miserable old, me: Part 6

2009-04-10T06:22:00.000-07:00

Saturday 6th February

I realise that in saying my sister is in France for a month, I might mislead people into thinking she is some sort of aristocratic spinster off to the continent for a small tour. I guess it’s indicative of the age that we live in, that she, a recently retired secretary, should be able to enjoy such excursions. Anyway she did ask me to housesit, prior to her departure, and I’m glad to have this getaway, this sanctuary that her house, which she originally shared with my deceased mother, offers.

My sister like me is somewhat cold and cynical, an outsider and misanthrope in many ways, an intelligent, wise woman. Never having married herself, she is even somewhat above me in that regard, in that I, for all my scepticism on life, did throw my hat into the ring, did try to live the dream, did try to mould out of the bread crumbs thrown to me in life something of substance, something magnificent, something esoteric. That desire to hew out of the rock face a sculpture both bold and revealing, to testimony my life, to sow my seed as a man, that vision seemingly never deluded her as a woman, and as I with egg on my face, and my sculptures, schemes and bread buns all gone to ruin – as my life waned and my fortunes fell, she was as ever, wise, cold and removed in her spinster-like way.

I’ve often talked to her vis-à-vis my life, my marriage, separation and so on, and she seems to understand it all, and has often suggested to me divorce, never being one to worry about what anyone may think, and always valuing personal happiness as life’s highest goal.

She isn’t keen on Anna either. No love ever having been lost between the pair, the last time the three of us got together, we partook, on the suggestion of my sister, of a slap-up Chinese meal. My sister and I both love Chinese, but as we’ve aged and come to learn that the stuff in no way enhances your figure, we know that it’s best not to splurge on it. And being somewhat strong willed and disciplined we can control our appetites.

But Anna is different. As we sat there that night, the three of us at the table, full and plentiful with dishes – orange chicken, barbecued ribs, beef and peppers, egg fu yung, egg fried rice, chips, king prawns, prawn crackers, crispy duck pancakes – as we sat there, this magnificent banquet before us, Anna, depressed, clinically depressed, by both her life in general and this visit to my sisters, Anna, as a means of escaping the almost suicidal feelings in her heart, set about tucking in to every tray on the table; single mindedly engrossing herself with it, eating relentlessly without thought, without looking at us, like one absorbed, barely stopping for breath; and as she did this, my sister and I – with only a few spoonfuls of rice and a piece of chicken on our plates, disciplined, refined and controlling in the way we ate, like a pair of po-faced robots not disposed to pleasure – my sister and I both watched on as she single-handedly ate up the table, the feeling of suicide written all over her downcast face, the desperation in her eyes as she tried to bury and conceal her low spirits, desperately slogging her way through all the dishes on the table.

And as I saw all of this, I also saw the look upon my sister’s face, and saw how just like me, she watched on with cold contempt in her heart as Anna ate up. And as much as I felt an involuntary contempt for Anna, I also felt dislike of my sister, for being so sterile, for watching on as Anna, clearly terribly depressed, gave herself up to gourmandizing, more so because my sister I think loves Chinese herself, but being strong-willed and cold can control her appetites, and more so because it was her idea to have Chinese in the first place. Whatever it is, I felt sorry that my sister and I couldn’t both just give ourselves up to the feast, and so join Anna, and accept we’re human, instead of cold-heartedly being above her and ‘sitting out’ the meal. And in this, in this calculated, cold, sterile behaviour of my sister and I, in my nasty thoughts and feelings toward my poor wife, then, and now as I write, I think I and indeed my sister achieved a state of dehumanization akin to the sort of mentality that saw through the horrors of Auschwitz; or indeed displayed by the psychopathic Hannibal Lektor, in his civilized, refined savagery, in the cynical and inhuman way he went about intimidating, killing and butchering people, in the way he gourmandised so refinedly on human flesh.

Anyway, as I sit now on the moving train, heading into Darlington, with a café latte in my hand, as I sit casually and look out on the dark and pregnant Saturday night, I feel rejuvenated by the process of travel, by the simple human joy of escaping somewhere, of journeying.

Separation from Anna for a few weeks does not worry me: it will revitalize both of us. When I first met Anna, I brought about an end to three or so years of intense loneliness and misery; but I recall how, some three months into our courtship, one Saturday evening Anna came around to my flat; and at one point, when I had to go out to the garage to procure something, I found myself alone in the dark night, and I stumbled upon a small wooden bird table, that I had made, a year or so earlier. And there and then in the garage, as Anna waited inside, I fell into reverie for my old life, when on a dark, cold Saturday night I would come out here alone, and calmed and relaxed on the weekend, work till three o’clock in the morning on crafts such as the bird table, listening to the radio, alone and under the sovereignty of the glorious star-bedecked night. I felt such regret for my former, lonely life and I remember feeling such strangulation of the soul, as in mid-reverie, Anna, who had wondered what had become of me, came out to see me, and with a look of annoyance and questioning on her face – as though she couldn’t comprehend what I was up to, as though my former life, the garage, the bird table, the solitude, the stars were incomprehensible to her – that really irritated me, asked what on earth I was doing out here, and told me to come back in immediately, and watch telly with her uptight and conventional personage.

Yet the idea of divorcing now is almost as unthinkable and unstomachable as having sex. Shackled to each other as we are, the thought of severing our bondage and operating as separate entities might seem enticing. But a few imaginary wanderings down this road to freedom is enough to strike me, and I presume Anna too, with horror. With there being no chance, utterly none, of finding another partner, physically woebegone as I am, and unwilling, and uninterested to fall in love, and being too wise to do so anyway, I see myself alone in a one bedroom flat, dull, insipid, blandly upholstered and lacking in the dirty and unorganised kitchen, bathroom and bedroom, the reassuring touch of a woman. I see my days spent in sterility and loneliness, looking out on a future which to the thirty-something divorcee may offer a fresh start, but which for me offers only a barren end; and for some reason the main image that I see, is of myself, in my underpants, getting older and wrinklier, my skin going krinkly, my body worse for wear, and my underpants now taking on specific significance: the thought, as I see this half naked man, that he is incontinent, the idea of him going to the toilet, being repulsive, odourous and manky and all that one can see in him; this ageing, lonely, awful man, the physical downfall of his body strangling his soul, his ageing body closing in on him, grasping and strangling his spirit till he can take no more.

It would be a non-existent future, and as equally as the thought of being dumped in the middle of America and there left to roam, might appear to a young man full of verve, exhilarating, and exciting, a blessing to travel across that continent and enjoy oneself, equally for a man of my age, it would mean sheer misery and loneliness, it would be awful to find myself alone in a foreign land; and rather than feeling freedom I would only feel the doom and desolation of the situation. Staying with Anna is the honourable thing to do, the manly thing. On our death beds we will be able to breathe satisfactorily. And even though it may often seem we are just wishing our lives away, willing away our days in order to realise the freedom of the end, there are occasional good points in our life, our daughter Joanna being the main one, and the thought that one day we may be grandparents.

*************

Later on, I stepped out of a cab and as it drove off into the night, opened up my sister’s gloomy, lonely, empty house. I stepped inside and shut the door. As I switched the lights on and slowly walked around, although it was empty and gloomy, I felt at home, have memories here and could smell, in the kitchen, living room and landing, the odours, the presence of times past. There is something in the air, pervading it, impregnating it, which tells me I can rest at peace here, I am home.

I wandered upstairs and saw the bedroom my mother once occupied, and reflected that it’s been almost two years now since she passed away. And picking up a small wooden carving of an Indian elephant that my father brought home to us after having served out in Burma during world war two, I held it in my hand awhile, and was left contemplating on all that our family once was.

Saturday 7th February

Wop! The sea air! The salt, the salinity! God I feel alive! I had no idea how unhealthy I was! Wop! How it hit me, restarted me. I can see why in Victorian times, they brought the invalids, the ailing, the consumptive here. God it’s good.

I got up early this morning and headed off down for a walk along the beach, my sisters house being by the sea. As soon as I stood on the promenade, the windy, salty, fresh sea air seemed to surge at me and to cleanse me, so that I breathed in great lungfulls of it, stood there for ten minutes just revelling in the joy of breathing deeply and invigorating myself, seeming to wake up parts of my body and mind that had been sleeping and dormant in the unhealthy atmosphere of my land-locked existence. It was like a natural drug, the fresh, palliative, saline air.

The North East coastline is one of untouched natural beauty, and as I walked along the wide and empty white sands, on this overcast, gloomy, drizzly day I felt refreshed just to be out alone, to look out on the choppy, grey, boundless sea so purifying and relieving to the eye. It is so amorphous and simple, so devoid of all signs of humanity; as if to look out on those boundless, gloomy, dangerous seas is to remind oneself of the sanctity, the joy, the relief to be found in giving oneself up to oblivion. The rain, the drizzle, the grey clouds; the occasional, solitary man or woman out walking their dog; a misty Sunday morning in the cold heartland of the North East, my soul, left to be free, purified, alone – this I would take any day over the sun-scorched, summery, baking hot beaches of more warmer climes.

When I returned home this afternoon, I was exhausted and satisfied and with a hot cup of tea and a bacon sandwich sat down and watched the history channel. Although TV is by and large utter dross, it almost seems worth it when you can isolate yourself from the malaise of it, and seclude yourself in the peace, quiet and comfort of the history channel. What a pleasure it is to watch a programme on World War two, followed by an hour on the Incas, an hour on the Romans, an hour on how the Tudors lived. There seems to be a never ending supply of these well-made documentaries, and they present such an intellectual feast to those fascinated by history such as I. Why history should so intrigue us I do not know. Perhaps we sense within it, some sort of clue to the meaning of our existence.

Watching a programme about a secret mission during World War two, I saw the dead body of a British soldier, dug out of a make-shift grave that it had been thrown into after the soldier was executed by enemy forces. It was a strange and profound sequence of old, shaky camera footage, a soiled soldier’s uniform was dug out, like a Guy Fawkes doll, flimsy, weak, collapsing, the hands tied behind his back with barbed wire. A flimsy, floppy, mummy soldier; strange that it was not just a soldier’s uniform that was uncovered; but rather a uniform with just a vague sense in the way it was positioned that a man once occupied it. The soldiers dug it out, and with dignity and respect – greater than ever, in proportion to the sadness induced by the sight of the sad, shrivelled Guy Fawkes doll they have uncovered, the last remains of a fallen comrade, executed here on foreign soil as he attempted to undermine the Nazi war stratagems – lifted it onto a cart.

Above and beyond the history programmes however are the natural history programmes, and if ever there was a worthwhile and thorough use of televisual technology it is here, in this sphere. There appears again to be a wealth of first class programmes on this topic, so painstakingly put together, so brilliantly presented. And perhaps more so than the history documentaries, these programmes interest me because again, they seem to be hinting at the meaning of our existence.

Later tonight, influenced by imagery of World war two, I went and dug out all the old family albums. Not that nostalgia is any great thing, but occasionally it is worth a trip down memory lane. Starting with the earliest, I saw photos of my beautiful mother, dressed resplendently in a land girls uniform, looking proud and fierce, a dark and handsome young woman. Then one of my father, in his vest and army shorts, dark, rugged, mean and angry, boldly looking at the camera, a shot taken when he was on tour in Burma. And so on into photos of my brothers and sisters, as children, as teenagers, as youths, at home, at school, at college. And some holiday snaps as well. Of a rare trip we took to lake Windermere, a camping holiday we undertook, my father in charge, my three brothers and two sisters and myself all young men and women now, my mother and her dog Liker as well. And in those snaps I saw us all, my siblings and I, having come of age now, and my mother and father showing the first signs of relief and quiet joy, in realising themselves through the rigours of child rearing. Yes, that was a happy holiday, and sometimes the happy family is not the young one, but the one where the children are grown up; and as well as seeing the happiness of youth and maturity on the faces of my siblings, I saw the quite joy and regret on the faces of my worn out mother and father, as if they have accomplished their harrowing fate in life, and can look with pride and relief now upon their independent children.

Tuesday 9th February

There also appears to be a never ending supply of well-made documentaries illuminating the lives of people who have deformities. Whether we see the plight of a man born without arms, attempting to ban the drug that caused his affliction; or the outlook of a young dwarf girl as she attempts to come of age in the world; or again the fate of a mother and father struggling to raise their two children, both of whom will never grow and never live without wheel-chairs – whatever it is, I do appreciate these documentaries, their civilised, socially responsible, ethical point of view, their unflinching spirit in the pursuit of truth, the way in which they portray their subjects with a mixture of pathos, generosity and hard truth, so that we come to better know the unfortunate person, and see them for what they are, see the humanity, the good and the bad in them. It is one of the commendations due to our society I think, that we are able and willing to make and view such programmes. Yes, a never ending supply of them, and all so well made. And of course what makes them so intriguing is that, they seem, boom-boom, to offer us a clue as to the meaning of our existence.

I went over to my sisters this afternoon and evening. She has three children, and the eldest Mark has, since birth, been plagued by a facial deformity. Twenty or so now, and working full time as a plumber, he is a quiet soul, thoughtful, and in his tall, manly frame, his broad shoulders and muscular chest, something of a gentle giant. As he slowly downed his pint of beer, saying little, occasionally entering the conversation, persistently exuding a feeling of calmness, never subdued or introverted, but silent and gentle as if he meant no ill will, I was struck by his presence, his gentle giant presence, as if buried underneath all his quiet and disfigured exterior, there lies something, an energy, a passion, a rage even.

And in the way that his cooler younger brother supported and acknowledged his few words in our conversation and made him feel listened to; and in the way that his brother’s girlfriend, a fashionable, sexy, little lady subtly showed him tenderness, love and affection, I got a glimpse of how the family of those affected by such accursed fate, rally around their unfortunate child or sibling, how they are simultaneously supportive but not defensive; and as well as this I saw how woman, even as young as this fourteen year old girlfriend of my nephews can be incredibly tender, supporting and mature.

Later on after I’d returned home, I went for a midnight stroll around a boating lake, in a nearby park. It is a grand park this one, and often during the day I come out and sit on the benches on the hillside above the park; looking down on the grassy verges and out to sea. Tonight, on this cool, starlit evening, I walked around the boating lake, crammed full of swans, my big woolly gloves on, the breath coming white and visible from my mouth. I stood awhile contemplating the lake and a few people a little way off. I got the impression they were homeless people or drug addicts.

There were two men and a woman. One of the men, middle aged and squat figured, was wading into the lake, asking the young girl if she wanted him to catch her a swan. In appearance a man of humble birth, in speech a man uneducated, illiterate perhaps, I wondered what circumstance in his life had made him homeless, given him that desperation of soul, the inability to cope with the everyday, that the average working class person, whom in appearance he so resembled, manages to deal with. Yes, had I have seen him with his wife in their council house, bearing all the good sense of a simple workman, or downing a cup of tea on the bench of his allotment before he got back to his labours, I wouldn’t have been surprised. Instead he was a vagabond. As he waded into the lake trying to joke with the young girl and impress her with his semi-illiterate banter, I felt only contempt for him. I expected the same from her, but that kindhearted young girl laughed pleasantly, and in encouraging the man to get out, displayed a real affection for her fellow druggie.

And in an age where so many girls are obsessed by being models, where we’re so rich, and fortunate, and our problems are so sterile, I was taken by this young girl, taken by her and this admittedly fleeting and probably unrevealing glance into her life. She is a down and out, on the road to doom. But even here she is no prostitute, no heavy-eyed, heavy-set, mentally scared harlot; instead just a druggie. And in the simple, genuine kindness she displayed to the illiterate and hopeless old man, and in the light in her eyes and gentle smile on her over-skinny and over-aged face, as I passed her in the moonlight and she said jokingly ‘hello ghost’ I was given a momentary insight into an alternative life. As if these people, so sick of our conventional society, choose to avoid it; and living as vagabonds, only dare come out at night, in the magic of stars and moons, in the soothing and soul-calming darkness, that eclipses so dramatically the sterile Disney-land world we live in. Here to be free and happy like nocturnal creatures of old, like primitive man in the days before sunshine.

Saturday 13th February

I haven’t been making the most of my days, watching too much Television, going out to town and mooching around, instead of visiting castles and museums or doing something of worth. But I guess I just can’t be bothered.

In town today I passed by an open air fashion parade. From the screams and cries of young girls, I sensed, as I happed to turn a street corner, that something must be going on: then I approached and saw the thing for myself. Not feeling at all at home at such venues, I skirted, fairy hastily, around its exterior. However, although I felt ill at ease, doomed almost, as I, like a scurrying mouse, hurried past it, I did take time to cast a brief glance over the whole scene.

The fashionable presenter, a hyperactive, noise-polluting, manic depressive young man whipped the crowd up with his inane commentary and thoughtless dribble, and the young girls who walked the catwalk did look happy. But by and large the majority of girls in the vicinity whom I caught a look at, appeared dispirited and annoyed, irritated by it. They just loitered in the vicinity seemingly downcast by the presence of the parade. Many others seemed, like myself, to simply be skirting around it, and with good sense in their heads, totally ignoring it. And that only left perhaps a hundred or so girls, yelling and screaming raucously in the little crowd, and by this time, now that I’d witnessed the reaction of a seeming majority of girls hereabout, I began to see that those in the crowd were amongst the most contemptible; for not having the guts to admit that the parade annoyed them, they stood there pretending to be happy, yelling as loudly as possible to try and prove to all and sundry that they were comfortable with it. Which meant only the models were happy, and actually they seemed, as I saw them standing behind stage smoking, sick as sausages. What an amazing world we live in.

There is an old, homeless woman whom I keep bumping into. She is quite a sight. Probably attractive when young, her face is very aged, but remains, I might say, cute. She has jet black hair, styled a touch in the manner of the American Indians of yore. She is small, wears a black jacket, and even though it is mid-winter, a short skirt and sandals. Everywhere she goes she has bags in all her hands and she waddles, from side to side and walks slowly about town with these, her only possessions.

I first saw her in McDonalds; then the day later near the train station. Then I saw her in McDonalds again. The day after I happened to be walking down Pilgrim street and raising my head I saw a black, waddling figure up ahead of me. She is as black as a Raven, and seemed to dominate my horizon that day, as she waddled towards me. As if she was the only person in the street; as if she is symbolic. I looked at her. We exchanged a meaningful glance, as if she knows who I am, recognised me from earlier. Then unbelievably today I saw her again along way distant from my previous sightings. This time, completely out of the blue, as I sat on a metro pulling into Heworth, who do I see on the platform but the black raven, that wise looking old woman.

I don’t know. I feel she is symbolic, I feel she knows something of me and my fate. I feel she is going to tell me my destiny. Many of these old timer homeless people have suffered torrents in their time. I knew of one man, whom after losing his family in a tragic fire, was only able to live out life as a homeless tramp and down-and-out. And perhaps some such sorrow forced this woman into her current plight. She just looks so wise, so unearthly, as she slowly, calmly walks through the crowds, never rushing as all about her, as if she knows more than we do. I feel I will meet her again.

But by and large life has been uneventful. You might as well read a comment I left on the confessions website:

I haven’t spoken to another human being in four days. I haven’t touched one for much longer either. Surely that’s not healthy. Surely not. I’ve spent my days either isolated and alone in the house, or going to town and being around shoppers; or worse still, sitting in Mcdonalds with a vanilla milkshake, looking like a sad old man with no friends, all in the hopes of socialising.

Four days, it’s not right. I don’t even have a dog or a cat to stroke/touch/talk to. I’m so lonely, so alone, so bored! Even the other day, when I rang up the gas board, all I got was the answering machine. It’s not right I tell you.

It’s not right. And so has it been. I’m thinking of ringing some old friends to see if they want a game of tennis. That would be a social outing, and in any case I don’t want to miss out on my weekly dose of the sport.

Yes how lonely and alone I am, how depressed. And in this mood, the last thing I want or need to do, is to go to the fridge and eat some more chocolate, but that’s exactly what I’ve just gone and done.

Two months in the life of miserable old, me: Part 5

2009-04-10T06:18:00.000-07:00

Thursday 29th January

We went to an historic castle today. Though my wife got next to no sleep last night and looked so this morning, having looked forward to this visit for some time, she was able to shake off her feelings of tiredness.

But as we stood at the starting point of what was to be a guided tour, waiting for other tourists to arrive, the guide, a tall, middle-aged man with spectacles and a big nose, tactlessly remarked to my wife, whom he’d never met before, that she looked terrible and as though she needed to lie down. It was done half in jest, yet there was a meaningful inflexion in his words, an undeniable look on his face which suggested he was in earnest, and that he had been unable to disguise his feelings of displeasure.

Understandably my wife was upset. Admittedly she does have one of those faces, those sensitive, sweet faces that look so radiant when lit up, but so deflated and irritating when tired, moody and depressed. She said nothing but looked huffy, irritated and angered by his words. Which unfortunately made her look like even more of a sourpuss.

Later on however things got worse, as my wife, nervous and bumbling now, her confidence all drained away, and evincing a cold, silent anger toward the guide, kept wandering off from the group to which the guide responded ‘oh? Where are we going now then? Have I lost one?’ I have to confess to not liking this semi-educated man, perhaps a retired history teacher or something, clearly a man of some learning, but all the same obnoxious, supercilious, unhappy in heart and soul, and tactlessly unable to control his thoughts and feelings. By this time he had gotten the other dozen or so followers onside, with a few cheap jokes and the way in which he lightly, and as an aside, made comments about Anna wandering off. He seemed especially keen to get the good will of a few middle aged, yet fairly sophisticated women, including two sumptuously dressed Americans, one in a green top, yellow cravat and stylish beret, the other in a white jumper, blue jeans and glittering in golden jewellery. And as much as he was tactless with my wife, he was submissive and respectful to them, kissed their backsides and tried to joke with them, and they, seeing how limp and weak willed he was and feeling flattered not only by the respect accorded them, but by the way he indirectly and subtly put my wife down, were more than happy to flatter him, and asked him questions which he bowed and scraped to answer.

Then at one point, my wife, angry, silent and really feeling disliked, happened to wander off slightly as the guide spoke, and started fondling some books and pottery resting on a table. To which the guide quickly shouted at her, telling her it was forbidden to touch things. At which point my wife, dejected and humiliated, walked off out of the room we were in, and as I and everyone watched her unhappy, downtrodden, dumpy little figure walk off, the guide, this time with a slight inflexion of genuine regret in his voice said ‘oh, I think I have lost her’ and the rest of the group laughed lightly.

A few minutes later, looking out of a window of the castle, I happened to look down upon the figure of my unhappy little wife, walking along the grassy bank of the riverside, shaded by a line of trees. And as I saw her walk slowly, dejectedly along, a sorry, outcast figure next to the river and trees, I knew I should have felt some profound sense of sympathy and love for her, for her predicament, after all we’ve been through: knew that I should’ve ran after her and consoled her. And yet for all that, I just felt utterly annoyed by her, as if it were all her fault, as if she’d brought it on herself; and as much as I tried to rouse my sympathies, thinking of how much she once meant to me and how much she’s done for me, I could only feel contempt for her.

After the tour finished, I went back to the car and sat waiting for her. I started wondering where she might have got to, or what she might have done, but eventually, after an hour or so, she resurfaced.

I now expected a long, bitter argument with her and to be berated for not following her, and I expected she would be sore, miserable and annoying. However she was in fact very calm, settled.

‘Where have you been?’ I asked slowly, a little taken aback by her cool return.

‘Oh, just having a look around’ she said calmly ‘it’s better that way, more relaxing. I had tea and scones in the refectory.’

‘Oh’ I said calmly. I had been all ready to discuss the events of the morning, to try and placate Anna, to justify myself. She surprised me by her demeanour.

We sat there awhile in silence, Anna’s calm, serious mood infecting me. She wouldn’t make eye contact with me, but looked ahead into the distance. I, sitting next to her, looked at her, seeking her eye contact. Eventually she spoke.

‘I first came here with the school when I was ten or eleven’ she started up.

‘Oh?’ I said, ready to listen.

‘Although it was something of a boring excursion for us children, lots of memories of it remain in my mind, not least that we saw horses and cattle mating in the fields along the country roads our bus took, and that we were in stitches of laughter as we crammed to the windows watching the stallions and bulls, strangely upright and on two legs, mate with the females. The trip and the castle were totally boring in truth, and I remember how annoyed my teacher Mrs Shaw became on this hot and sticky excursion, and how later, as we children sat in the sunshine of the courtyard, we all gossiped about what an old witch she was, and Jennifer Kerr said ‘shut up would you!’ really tactfully, ‘you can’t say that, not when her husband’s just sitting there.’

‘Her husband, an oldish looking man with grey hair and black glasses, had accompanied us on this trip, and we were all a bit scared of him, and thought it weird that Mrs Shaw had a husband. And as we criticized crusty old Shaw and Jennifer Kerr butted in, I remember looking at his face, to see how he responded to this; and instead of being angry or annoyed, he just sat there unconcerned, with sange froide, a look of calmness and forgiving on his face. And that’s the thing I most remember about the trip.

‘He was, in his calm, quiet, bearing, quite the opposite of Mrs Shaw, who spent the whole day tired and irritable, shouting at us children, eternally dogged by headaches and the heat, and forever at the end of her tether. In his calmer constitution, he must, I guess, have provided some solace for her. She was the archetypical school mistress, constantly annoyed, bad tempered, short on energy, never in a good mood, overworked, sick of children. And she was so slight of frame, so small, skinny and anaemic, her hair was grey and her teeth stuck out a bit and were crooked and she spat as she spoke sometimes, a trait which we children never ceased to pick up on. In every way she seemed unhappy, a dissatisfied, raging, angry little Napoleonesse, and yet for all that, she possessed a fine, keen intelligence, a highly-strung sensitivity, a desire for something more. She was special and on occasions we really loved her and warmed to her.

‘English was one of her favourite lessons, and she always picked great books for the class to read, and we would all get into the story and she would spend hours seemingly, talking about it and what we thought would happen. That was when she was at her best, when liberated from all the palaver of disciplining and shouting, of meeting targets and following the rules. That was when she was in her element, when free simply to talk and philosophise at leisure, to capture our imaginations, to spellbind us in awe and silence. I remember reading the Runaways, a book about a boy and a girl who run away from their foster home. And she would take us off for drama as well, in the quadrangle, and there in the summer sunshine and the freedom of youth we would enact little parts from the book and she would guide us and instruct us. Another thing I remember were the Faberge eggs. She really had a love for art and craft, and for a few weeks she set us to work on designing and then executing a display of painted eggs. I spent hours making the drawings and then finally I set to work on the eggs themselves. And at the end, I had this lovely basket full of them, patterned in a sort of tortoise shell design, with black outlines and the regions inside painted damask red, blue, green and purple. It was such a sight and Mrs Shaw and I were both so pleased with them.

‘And I was something of her favourite. Even before I got to her class, there was an assembly taken by her in which she talked about her dogs and how she had needed to weigh them and how that had presented a problem because they wouldn’t stand on the scales, and you could only get them on by taking them in your arms and standing on the scales yourself. And she asked us, if anyone knew how it was possible then to determine the weight of the dogs. And I put my hand up and told her the answer, and she was so impressed. And the next year, I entered her class and there was an immediate bond between us, I was her head girl so to speak and I told her how I wanted to be a vet, and she was pleased by this, for she always wanted us girls to become doctors and lawyers, scientists and prime ministers, she didn’t want there to be any limits to our horizons. And she recommended a book to me, especially for me, lent me her copy of it in fact, the Peppermint Pig, such a delightful book, about a young girl who tries to save a little piglet, the runt of the litter from being slaughtered. And I so enjoyed it and would come in everyday and talk to her about it.

‘Well anyway, she was often angry and run down, easily irritated and annoyed and one day when the head teacher decided that as part of the school’s jubilee celebrations, there would be a football tournament between the classes, she took exception to it and had an argument with him, asking why it shouldn’t be a netball tournament, why the boys were being favoured. Even though she was married and had two sons of her own, she often got irked with the boys and favoured the girls, and trusted them more and always felt aggrieved if the boys were favoured. Anyway her argument with the head fell on deaf ears, and worse than this was that miss Zuckerman, another teacher, sided against her. Miss Zuckerman was a young Jewish teacher with lustrous black hair, a magnificent, beautiful face, and such a wondrous body, tall, rangy, athletic, buxom. Everyone loved her, both boys and girls, and we used to watch her play tennis on a Saturday, on the grass courts, and we would sit spell bound and in awe and cheer her on, enraptured by this women, her grace, her beauty. Well as a rule, Mrs Shaw and Miss Zuckerman got along and were friendly, but on this occasion Miss Zuckerman took the side of the head, saying it didn’t really matter, since the girls would be allowed to play in the football tournament just as much as the boys.

‘Well that was that. Poor Mrs Shaw was having a bad day of it, but later that afternoon she perked up somewhat as she took us for a lesson on farms and animals, wildlife and nature. And at the very start she turned to me and asked, with a pleasant, sensitive look on her face, what did I want to be when I grew up, believing I would say a vet. But at the time I was going to dancing classes and was quite into it and so I said I wanted to be a dancer. And I remember the look of surprise and dejection on Mrs Shaw’s face when I said this, and I felt I’d let her down and hurt her. And she said ‘oh I didn’t know you could dance?’ And I told her how I went to lessons with some other girls, and she couldn’t hide a feeling of disappointment, it was a final blow to her, she had thought she could rely on me, but now she’d found out that I was into dancing and wanted to be a dancer. And that seemed to be the final straw for her on that woeful day, her voice betrayed a hurt, an anger, a feeling of dejection, and she talked without enthusiasm, withdrew into herself, and shortly after, abandoned the talk she was going to give and told us to get on with some book work and went and sat at her desk and did some marking. And I recall feeling so terribly guilty and sad that I’d hurt her, and at the end of the lesson I looked at her, and smiled lovingly at her, but she just looked angered and peeved and wouldn’t respond.

‘And so that was that. She retired about five years ago now, but poor soul, only a year after that her husband died of cancer. Well, as I was touring around the castle, I came across this room on the ground floor, next to where the kitchen is, which is set out as in Tudor times. It was virtually empty, very peaceful, there was music playing and I just walked in slowly and had a look around at the old furniture, the old bookcases, the chairs, the paintings on the wall. Then when I’d walked to the far end, I turned around. On the right there was a blazing fire, and two women dressed in Tudor style sat doing needlework. At the far end sat other old women, bedecked in Tudor garb, one playing a harp, another a lute, and a third, a little old lady with grey hair sat playing the flute. I recognised her immediately as Mrs Shaw. She hadn’t really changed at all. And as I watched her from a distance, saw that little old woman, oblivious to passers by, move her fingers on and off the flute, and heard the melancholic strains, I felt she really captured all the sadness, all the misery of her life, it was like poetry to see and hear her. As though she told her life story through the flute.’

‘Did you speak to her?’ I asked.

‘No’ said my wife. ‘What good would it have done. I didn’t feel like it. Better not to spoil the moment. But it’s funny how someone else’s life, the life of poor Mrs Shaw, a life spent irritated and angered, shouting at stupid and spoilt children, craving for something more, intelligent and bright, yet meeting only with the harsh reality of a senseless world; an unfulfilled life I imagine, a frustrated life, a life unable to express itself, its passion, its energy, a misspent life you might say; it’s funny how viewed from afar it appears so poetical, how in a sad and cruel world, that old woman and her mournful flute somehow portray a meaning and a sadness, a tragedy that would not have been possible, had she have led a more fulfilled, enjoyable life. And it’s funny that I can find myself so full of sympathy for another person, when my own life is so incomplete.

‘It’s just in my nature I guess, to be sympathetic. No matter how awful my own life is, even though I’ve got nothing to live for, am miserable, depressed most days, even though I know I’m a nobody, and nobody is interested in having my sympathy, even so I just can’t help feeling such immense sympathy for Mrs Shaw. Her life has been one long, unremitting series of stresses and strains, disappointments and bitterness, rarely relieved by the pleasures of this world. For her, her life must seem woeful, depressing, not profound, a meaningless and worthless existence, spent being unhappy, just like I know my own life to be. But for myself, looking on her life from a distance, looking on that grey-haired, intelligent old woman playing the flute, I see only the tragedy, the sorrow, the poetry of her life, I see in her woe something profound and magnificent, as if her story, her journey through life was worthy of note.’

We sat there a few moments in reflection and thought, just looking out the front window.

‘Do you still fancy going for fish and chips’ I said after a few minutes to my wife.

‘Yes’ she replied.

Friday 5th February

When I read over my entry of last week I see I am guilty of portraying myself as a calm and cool headed individual who puts up with all life throws at him, whilst portraying my wife as a neurotic, who runs off and makes a fool of herself, on the slightest of pretexts. Although I am often like that, it is also true that I am, from time to time, infected with pathetic moods of rage and anger, childish, petulant behaviour when the bully in me shines through, and that often my wife is the cool and rational one, able to cope with life far better than I. It’s been a disastrous few days, and only now, after tennis, am I in any frame of mind to write about it.

It began on Tuesday evening at a dinner party at my brothers. I don’t really like him or his raucous wife and children that much, and they in turn regard Anna and I as bores and intellects. They especially dislike Anna, as all my family do, and consider her a dour-old fuddy-duddy, a prude, a fumbler, a sour puss. And they do little in there behaviour, and false, supercilious way of speaking to her, to dispel this notion.

I spent the evening brooding and keeping my mouth shut, not particularly showing my dissatisfaction, but not being overtly nice either, annoyed by the senseless laughter and stupidity of my two teenage nieces and teenage nephew, and the annoying behaviour of my brother’s wife. My brother himself loves to moan, ceaselessly putting people down, decrying the injustices of the world and deluding himself that his spiritual dissatisfaction is down to other people, when in fact, given so much in life, it’s his own fault for lazily squandering his opportunities. He thinks Anna a toff and southerner, a naïve, inexperienced woman, and Anna knows he despises her, but she, always trying to get along, tries to placate him, by decrying the world as well, and deliberately bringing up topics such as rising house prices or gun crime in the hopes of getting in his good books and showing herself a cynic. I can’t and couldn’t stand to see her lower herself like this.

Afterwards when we got home and got inside our dark, lonely, cold house, just the two of us now, we didn’t speak a word to each other, and fell into that dismal but truer state of being, after having put on false and frankly despicable faces at a dinner party we didn’t want to be at. There was a tension in the air, as we fell into our real persons. We felt moody, angry, and dissatisfied, tired after all that acting. Sick in heart and soul. We said not a word to each other but were simply gruff and terse.

I woke up at one, unable to sleep. Anna not lying next to me, I went downstairs to the kitchen and found her sat in a chair. Angered and irked with myself, I was overcome with loathing at seeing her person there, a tired, worn out old hag, clearly unable to sleep, exuding a silent, nasty anger, perceptibly irritated as she read. I saw her stupid, stupid face, her tired face looking especially dreadful, her eyes smaller, her nose seemingly bigger and redder, her clunky reading glasses on her face as she sat and read, an awful, annoying sight; her person bristling in a bad temper that manifested itself in angry and persistent sniffs – she being too out of humour and lazy to go and blow her nose. As I poured myself a glass of water, I wanted to scream and shout at her, to beat her to a pulp. But I controlled my temper, and in my pyjamas, walked off upstairs and back to bed.

But I couldn’t sleep, and returned downstairs again, this time with the intention of having it out with my wife. When I got there, she turned her stupid, bespectacled face to me, the glasses perched ridiculously on her nose, so that she glanced over them at me, and in this gesture, this one and single annoying gesture, she really lit the tinder of my bilious and belligerent soul. She returned her glance to her book, persisted in reading and said nothing. I’ve never been overcome with such hatred of her, and her tired worn out face and I went over to the arga, on top of which stood a cauldron of half eaten casserole filth, my wife had made two days earlier.

I had wanted to tell her at the time how disgusting it was, but had held my tongue. Now I stood over the arga, spoon in hand and stirring it, and overcome with psychopathic loathing, shouted out ‘slop-slop-slop’ in savage imitation of somebody eating.

My wife looked up at me. And in the irked glance she gave me I read that she saw precisely that I was spoiling for a fight, that I was trying to precipitate an argument. She looked at me steadily, and there was meaning in her eyes as if to say, she couldn’t be bothered, wouldn’t rise to the bait, and that I should go away and leave her alone. She stopped looking at me, and, ignoring me, returned to her book. But I was determined.

Stirring up the casserole once more I again repeated the ‘slop-slop-slop’ and when she happened to sniff, I mimicked this too. But not rising to it, eventually I simply walked over to her and with evident peevishness and anger in my voice asked

‘Why did you have to be so false tonight, talking the way you did. You know they all hate you, Ronnie especially, so why did you try to lick up to him? And why on earth were you going on about rising house prices and gun crimes? As if that has any bearing on you, as if they were to blame for all the shitiness of your life?’

‘Well what do you want me to say?’ she responded ‘At least I make the effort. Do you think I like any of your family? They’ve never once gone out of their way to be nice to me, not once, not once in the twenty years we’ve been married.’

‘I know. They don’t like you at all, and never have. So why do you have to act like such a despicable dog, grovelling and contemptible, licking their boots and whining for a biscuit, fetching their sticks to try and ingratiate yourself? And why did you have to say that about some people never having experienced true poverty, or having to work for a living – when you know fine well they consider you to be exactly such a person – and then linking that in with orphans in Africa and ‘these silly people spending millions on cosmetic surgery.’ That was an embarrassing little comment you made.’

As my wife, attempting to ingratiate herself with Ronnie had made this remark – he and his wife, never go out of their way to make people feel listened to – the two of them had expressed in their body language a feeling of contempt for Anna, and she, embarrassed and unsure of herself, had faltered as she made this trite little social comment. Whilst I, a look of true loathing and contempt in my eye had looked on her with scorn. She had noticed this at the time. And the memory of this, and the fact that I’d so callously brought it up again now, mortified her.

‘How dare you!’ she shouted, genuinely hurt, deeply wounded ‘how dare you ever look like that at me! Don’t think I didn’t see your look, I did. How dare you! How dare you treat me like some piece of scum, look at me like I’m a worthless piece of rubbish! Do you think I enjoy talking to Ronnie? I hate him, I hate all your family.’

‘Well just don’t act like such a lowly dog’ I said, coolly, oh so coolly, deliberately in response to seeing how mortified, embarrassed and ashamed she was, how much of a lowly dog she felt herself to be, how I’d treated her as such. And there and then bursting into an outpouring of upset emotion, hating to be treated like a cur, she stood up and shouting, screaming and breaking into tears, hurled a tea cup from off of the dresser, right at me. It hit me ‘bop’ straight in the face, fell to the floor and smashed.

The anger, the massive anger that I felt as the thing hit me, hurt me, and truly pained me, the anger inside me exploded, and as much as I had instigated this fight, I now, as though I had been wronged and aggrieved set about retaliating.

And so a fight set in, a fight between two middle aged, diminutive figures, man and wife in their pyjamas, at one o’clock at night, in the kitchen-dining area of their lonely, isolated farm house, situated as it is three miles out in the sticks, the two of us fought, devoid of anyone else, or anything else in our lives, anything more than just each other. Just the two of us, at each others throats, finished, nothing more to live for, no one at hand to help us, no God, no nothing, nobody: just us, fighting each other. We grappled, we wrestled, I was in the ascendancy. Our pathetic, ageing bodies writhed and fought, my wife screaming, emotional, crying, slapping; I, more aggressive and stronger, holding her in submission, venting my pent up psychopathic rage. And as the two of us played out this tragic, theatrical farce on the kitchen floor, this lonely, spectator-less, empty fight, our dog Harry, saddened, depressed and alarmed to see us so viciously at each others throats, ran around the kitchen floor, whining and barking desperately, terribly upset to see us like this, going crazy, terrified of the flying, smashing crockery, of the wrestling, running around in a circle, yelping, screaming, frightened and upset, and reproachfully whining at us to stop: exactly like a child of ours it was too much for him to bare to see us like this, as though his world had ended. He was the only witness to this shameful debacle.

‘Look at poor Jack, look what it’s doing to him’ pleaded my wife, sobbing as I held her in submission now. ‘Look at him!’ But I ignored her. We had wrestled for five minutes or so on the floor, but now I had her, holding, as we lay down, her hand behind her back, as policeman do when they arrest a suspect. I held her like this for a few minutes, recovering, she too, after the fight. Then

‘Get up!’ I shouted, and as she did so, now my prisoner, I angrily force-marched her over to the arga.

‘Now listen to me!’ I screamed at the top of my voice. ‘Don’t you ever dare make me this casserole filth again. Do you hear me!’

In response she just whined pitifully and seemed ready to cry.

‘I hate it, it’s like cow poo, you’ve just shovelled in from the farm’ I shouted. ‘If you ever dare feed me this again I’ll kill you.’

At this point my wife swore angrily in her tear soaked voice and threatened to break loose; and in response, I now tightened my grip, and, my hand on the back of her annoying head, forced her to bow down, bend to place her head in the pot of casserole. She screamed as I did so, and I rubbed her face around in it, that cold mince, and said ‘you eat those disgusting slops, slop-slop-slop!’ And then finally my energy spent, and suddenly overcome with a torrent of regret, I raised my wife’s sorry, sad, pathetic little face from the casserole, saw how pitiable and sad it was, how silly and contemptible, smeared in the thick gravy as it was, the stuff on her cheeks, on her chin, mouth, and on her turned up pretty little nose; and when I saw all this I was so overcome with sadness and regret, I knew the fight was over, I released my wife, she burst into tears, an outpouring of endless tears, and we both dropped to the floor exhausted, and lay on the cold kitchen tiles.

And in that state we both lay on the floor, resting, hoping someone, God for example, would miraculously extend his hand down toward us and help us out, give us comfort. I in my pyjama top and underpants, she in her nightgown, both of us lost, confused, desperate, at a loss, on the cold, kitchen floor, in a big house in the middle of nowhere, in a Godless, spiritless, empty world. And as I lay there I recalled not only the beatings my brute of a father occasionally dished out to me when he was in a bad mood after work or drunk; but more poignant than this, I saw before me again the sad, little face of Joanna, her sad little face so like her mother’s, when she came to me crying, with dog poo all over her face, and especially on her turned up, pretty little nose, and how I comforted her and wondered how on earth anyone could ever do such a thing.

Later we went up to bed and I slept in the spare bedroom alone. I slept for an hour or so. A peculiar sleep, a mixture of regret and sadness colouring my heart, but also indifference and coldness; also strangeness in my new position in the spare bedroom; especially sterile not only because of the bland bed and walls, the guest-room aspect of the place; but because I was alone, estranged from my wife. A strange sleep, a vague sense of sadness that I was alone pervaded my heart, a half-regret at my actions rebuked me. But by and large a simple icing over of my emotions, a coldness and emptiness stole upon me. And it was with this empty feeling that I awoke after an hour or so, my dreaming unhappy, stilted, and halted with a recollection of our previous dog, Rocky, a Border Terrier like Harry, who had to be put down after hurting his leg through excessive walking.

Unable to sleep I got up and went down to the kitchen to see Harry. I opened the door and saw him sleeping in his basket, and suddenly overcome by tenderness, bent down, and lovingly and with real emotion said ‘hey boy’ and stroked him. And he, he roused his sleepy head, opened his eyes, and though tired and somnolent, was pleased to see me, and made a sad puppy face for me, a mixture of tiredness, wisdom and genuine heartfelt love for me in his mien, a look of wisdom that tired dogs posses, as if he were a human in a previous life, and knows all about the ups and downs of it, and is glad now to be living the happy, indifferent, sleepy life of a mongrel. He comforted me and I recalled with sadness how probably I was to blame for killing poor Rocky. Senselessly overwalking him as I did, in my pursuit of the countryside.

We went out for a walk, through the lonely, deserted, dark night. Everywhere in slumber, sleepy at that hour. Even the motorway which we arrived at, was empty and silent, save for the occasional nocturnal car or lorry. And as I walked through the silent, dead night I was overcome by a feeling of deadness, dullness, a coldness, a frigidness, as if I really, really don’t care for anything anymore. I wasn’t depressed or deeply saddened. Just cold, indifferent. I remember that when I was younger, I read of a man whom on his death bed, announced coldly that his heart was empty. And though I’ve always been a cold and cynical man, I remember thinking how could anyone die with such dismal words upon their tongue, and that for all the gloom and misery of the world, there is something else out there, something more, something profound, special and magnificent, something of the otherworld, and that in death one finally experiences this, one is exalted to a higher state of consciousness, one feels the mystic, the religious, the esoteric. Yet here, feeling only cold and numbed, my brain, my senses dulled, dimmed, almost switched off, feeling indifferent, careless of everything I not only have no interest in the higher side of life, the mystical, the spiritual, the necromantic, but I also feel I will die with an empty, tired, indifferent heart, colder and more emotionless than any man’s.

Being an amateur admirer of art, I know something of the painter Constable, a man of these parts and how badly he took it when his wife died. The early, sunny, joyous scenes of pastoral life that he depicted, were in later life, when he lost his dear wife to tuberculosis, and his heart was ploughed asunder with sorrow, replaced by equally impressive evocations of the countryside, this time portraying a more barren, bleak, lonely world; dismal, sad, lonely scenes reflecting the desolation that had taken root in his heart. And having been acquainted with his story and viewed his paintings, I always felt such a deep understanding of his predicament, of how he loved his dear wife, how she meant everything to him, and how her premature death caused immeasurable heartache to him; the sadness that she was gone forever, and wouldn’t ever return, quietly assailing a heart that she had made so tender. And I always felt such sympathy for this story, for the fate of Constable, as if I shared it, knew of it, understood it. And yet for all that, what feelings of utter antipathy do I have for my wife, what coldness and indifference is engendered in my heart toward her. Love was long ago dead between us.

Ironically that very same day, in the nighttime we went off to another dinner party, having to put an act on once more, to bury and hide the fact that we fought so horribly during the night. Yet this dinner party was different, as spent in the company of Derek and Sheila – a retired couple, their children long since gone, who are and were Anna’s friends primarily, and knew her well before I ever came on the scene – I saw how my wife acted completely differently to the other night at Ronny’s, how she was quiet, calm, intelligent and at home, so sweet and gentle, lovely in the presence of her friends, and especially the tall and gracious Derek, who treated her as though she is still the young girl he once knew. Yes, that is the effect of other people: it was a major transformation. And as I watched on, as the tall, manly and gentlemanly Derek, graciously walked around the table as my wife and I were seated and Sheila was at the cooker, as I watched as he stopped to fill up Anna’s wine glass, a bottle of red in one hand, and resting his other hand lovingly on Anna’s shoulder, as if he was happy to see her, and glad of this opportunity to reminisce with her; as I saw the serene, kind face of that strong, manly man look down on her and ask her to say when, and saw how Anna beamed back up to him, and saw how they made a joke of saying when, saw the genuine, heartfelt merriment between them, I was overcome with a feeling of shame for my own despotic, tyrannical, little person, my unmanliness, and reminded that Anna could’ve had a life without me, a better one perhaps, and that I have over the years, to some extent brought her down to my level, moulded her into an opposite of me, never allowing her to be anything more or something else, something else that the likes of the tall, strong, Derek, allows her to be. He sees something in her that I don’t.

When we got home that night, my wife informed me that she would be going off to her mother’s for a while, to spend some time with her sister who is home from France. My wife spoke coldly with me as if all is over, and I was left to feel regretful, like a naughty boy. She didn’t speak to me all day until the dinner, and had spent the afternoon on the telephone arranging something, which I later learnt was her trip down to her mother’s. There was an air about Anna, a cold, distant air, and she hinted to me that her sister, who is now living in France, was interested in asking Anna to join her out there. I think she is only trying to frighten me. I don’t think it will come to divorce. But she wants some time apart.

So she left this afternoon, and before, during, and after tennis, a thought was brewing within me to do the same. My sister up in Newcastle has gone to France for a month and won’t be unhappy if I go and do a spot of house-sitting for her. I need a break. So then, to Newcastle it is.

Two months in the life of miserable old, me: Part 4

2009-04-10T06:14:00.000-07:00

Monday 26th January

So I promised to detail the holiday my wife and I recently took in North Wales.

One of Anna and my mutual interests has always been travel: a desire to visit new places, to experience new cultures, a wanderlust. It’s taken us to many a place in our time, and we still holiday regularly. Yet though that incipient passion remains, of wonder and awe, that sets us revelling in the prospect of travel, the actual holidays themselves as separated from our expectations, have been very lonely affairs. This was no different.

Arriving in Llandudno, at 2.30pm, on a rainy, overcast Wednesday in Autumn, after a two hour drive, we checked in and received the keys to our cottage. It is difficult to express the loneliness and emptiness, the doom that greeted our arrival. The deserted, hibernating, off-peak holiday camp; the polite but unwelcoming, sterile manner of the reception staff; the loneliness, the sheer loneliness and fear that harassed my wife and I as we opened up our cottage alone, and with sinking, sinking hearts explored the interior. The plain walls, the barren, sterile cottage, the feeling that someone had just died in there.

In fact the cottage itself was reasonably plush; in better times, as when J was little, it would’ve been exciting to have come here, and have this cottage as our own. But now, as my wife and I looked around and settled in, it was impossible to keep at bay a gnawing loneliness, biting at each of our lonely persons. We wished we had never come. As if in coming here we were exposed. We were to be locked in, at the mercy of all our demons, face to face with all of our problems. A sense of loneliness and doom, the end. An emptiness, a fear, with nothing, utterly nothing to lift our spirits. It was as if my wife and I had been sent to prison, so desolate was it as we paced around our new quarters. Or like a house we’d come to in order to die; lonely and cut apart from the world, we had been sentenced to come here and live out our lives, disconnected from everything. Like a nursing home, I guess.

We were both taciturn and curt, morosely unpacking our cases. I switched on the TV in the hopes of livening myself up; it worked for a while; but in the end, not even that feeling of well-being and surety evinced by the good old comforter television was strong enough to overcome the all pervading doom of the cottage. It was a death sentence.

We went off to town to explore before long, the two of us desperate to escape. Yet, driving for ten minutes to the seaside town, and there getting out and traipsing about, that same horrifying feeling of loneliness, of being vulnerable and unprotected hounded our souls. As we walked along the deserted promenade in the miserable grey weather, unsure where we were going, our hopes rapidly fading that we would find anything or anyone of intelligence and culture here; a sense that no one was here to welcome us – how lovely it would’ve been to have our own personal guide, a local, happy to show us around, to talk and joke with us, to listen to our problems; yet the reality was that no one was here for us, we were utterly forlorn. The natives seemed unfriendly, we were scared. We were in need of love. It was not forthcoming. And it was stupid of us, we knew, to somehow expect this friendship. As if the staff at the holiday cottage, or the locals in the town, should suddenly welcome us with open arms, enquire about our life and our problems, go out of their way to make us feel welcome, as if we were royalty. No it was absurd. And yet somehow we expected it. Instead, that atrocious feeling of home sickness infected us, strangling and choking our spirits.

We walked miserable and angry through the unfriendly streets, snappy with one another, curt and short, both of us terrified and afraid; my physical insignificance, my shortness, my unprepossessing looks irritating me; then too those of my dowdy, dumpy old wife, miserable faced, towing along after me, unsure where we were going. The rain, the cold, nothing to look forward to in this desolate, forlorn, God forsaken place. The loneliest place on the planet. How is it that the appetite for travel and exploration can so uplift our souls? And never fade with experience? Why should places like North Wales seem so romantic, pure and cultural? When, in both cases, the reality of it is dreariness and utter alienation. My wife and I, like two little old aliens, terrified, lonely, angry and bitter; cut off from society, wishing we were home and not here; eternally glued to one another like two prisoners – I see us walking the streets, a rope around our necks, a rope around our legs, like two shackled slaves; rowing, bickering, expanding our nervous energy on one another in fits of squabbling. Eventually in one loud and angry argument, my wife went off, I let her go. We roamed apart for a while; then came together again, everything the same, nothing having changed.

We went for a bite to eat. Scowering with trepidation, we eventually entered one of the many little coffee shops, a sense that it was a local den and that we were not welcome here accosting us; entering and ordering with complete lack of assurity. Sitting there, eating our morsels hurriedly and in fear as though people were watching us with murderous, hateful, contemptuous faces; talking to one another in subdued voices, feeling as though the natives were listening to our conversation, scoffing at our sensitive, educated speech; walloping the food down and dashing off hurriedly; and, in speaking to the waitress, and giving our orders, suggesting, blatantly and in clear as day undertones, even though we only asked for coffee and cake, that we were the two most loneliest people in the world, that we were dying here in utter doom, and would you please, waitress, or anybody listening for God’s sake save us, help us, oh God please!

Unsurprisingly, our first night here was one of insomnia. Unsettled, unnerved, wishing only to be back home, neither of us could sleep a wink. The wind howled relentlessly outside, dashing at the window pains ceaselessly as we tossed and turned. We were irritated by each others presence, as we lay there wide awake. The wind, whining like a hyena, aggravating our nerves; and apparently blowing on an unlocked gate, which persistently slammed to and fro, to and fro, to and fro! (I went out to try and fix it but couldn’t get access to it.)

The next day, tired and worn out, our nerves on the highest most point of tension, like plucked violin strings, on the point of snapping, my wife went to reception to complain about the gate. Having a long bitter argument, with a taciturn young hussy at reception, a horrible little war between the two of them. The sullen young girl – pert, sleek and sexy – revelling I feel, in my wife’s evident unhappiness, her contemptibleness for getting so bitter and agitated over such a trifling thing as a gate; eventually agreeing to send out the site’s handy man; and that decent, yet annoying old man, an inverted snob, who, presumably on the over exaggerated and misinformed description of the young girl, held a contemptuous view of us both, attempted to fix the gate, and did so; but implying in his attitude that my wife and I were somehow hopelessly impractical toffs; people who’d been used to having everything in life done for them and not wise and philosophic enough (like himself) to see that banging gates, just like shit, happen, and that you’ve just got to get on in life and be less petty; instead of seeing that we were both in fact intelligent, sensitive human beings, lonely and outcast, at the very limit of our tethers.

Yet it was on the second night that things turned disastrous.

As I sat in front of the TV, my wife already in bed, my stomach felt slightly acidic, I felt a touch nauseous. I presumed this was because I’d rather overeaten that night – in a pathetic way of fighting off my misery. I thought it would die down in time.

But as I lay in my bed wide awake, my wife snoring next to me, I realised I wasn’t going to shake off so easily what was in my stomach. Then I started to consider being deliberately sick, to jettison the burden of my stomach, and so be able to get to sleep. Eventually however, as I lay there thinking on it, I realised it was going to come out of its own accord; and I got up and went to be sick.

It was painful indeed – especially so since I had to kickstart the process myself by placing two fingers down my throat; my stomach felt cut and torn as I threw up; the tension in my head lethal; the groaning, the horrible, stressful process of vomiting, bent down on my knees, concentrating only on that; my two hands on the open bowl. The tension, the silence, the hush, the focus, the concentration, the waiting like a sportsman taking aim on a crucial shot; finally one plucks up the courage to get on with it, to start the gruelling process, even though you know it will hurt. Finally though I did it, hurling up bowl-fulls of acidic-stenching, porridge quaff. I felt relieved to have got it out of my system. It was over. I returned to my bed and to sleep.

Yet half an hour later, I wanted to wretch again. Despite now having so little on my stomach, I still had an overwhelming desire to do so. I lay in bed anxious, caught in two minds; wanting to vomit and relieve myself; yet unwilling to go through the gruelling pain of it, my stomach still aching, remembering how last time it was so torn and pained.

In the end I had no choice; circumstance found me kneeled once more before the toilet bowl, sweating now, concentrating, desperate to be sick; yet for all that, no matter how much I tried to wretch, bringing nothing forth. It wasn’t surprising as I had brought it all up before. Yet the urge to vomit persisted, cruelly putting my torn stomach through the mill. Then as I crouched there in agony, sweating, trying to vomit, but unable to, I was afflicted from a new and hideous angle.

I suffered chronic diarrhoea. I had no idea where it came from, but surprising me, as I knelt concentrating, suddenly it burst out of me, drowning, soaking my pants. That horrible feeling of incontinence, of having no control over it. I knew I was in desperate trouble as it spewed out ceaselessly, the diarrhoea dribbling around the corner, soaking my testicles and penis, creosoting my coarse hair.

The agony of wanting to be sick was unbearable. And I thought it would never end. When it finally did, I felt relieved, lying there on the toilet floor, my head next to the open toilet bowl, what sick there was spattering the toilet and its rim; and then the diarrhoea, the hot curry-stuff, drenching my underpants and seeping and spilling out onto the tiles. I removed my pants and lay naked, shivering on the floor, moaning, recovering.

In time I tried to clear up; to flush away the sick; to wipe up with domestos, the diarrhoea on the floor; to put my dirty pants in a make shift sink; to put on some new ones. Wanting now to be at peace I returned to bed.

But it wasn’t long before the feeling of sickness returned. And now I entered, what at the time, promised to be a never ending cycle, of desiring to be sick, lying there preying it would go away, feeling I wouldn’t have the energy, desperately unwilling to put my stomach through the mill once more, recalling my labour pains of last time; then unable to call it off any longer, racing to the toilet, crouching on the floor, sweating, in agony, beside myself, overtaken by the virus, desperately trying to vomit, my stomach feeling as though it had been run through a cheese grater; producing only minor quantities of vomit, transparent, watery, acidic, lethal to bring up; and then, totally unexpectedly, my body telling me to vomit at all costs, the surprise of the hot diarrhoea spewing out incontinently from my backside; the hot curry-stuff rushing out my backside irresistibly, oozing out and spattering over the floor.

Then when it was finally over, sweating, weak and in disarray, now unable to even contemplate cleaning up, simply returning like one possessed to my bed and there lying down, ill, at sea, fighting now this virus, that threatened to overrun me. I was weak, overcome and pained thoroughly, it was vicious. I was at its mercy, ready to die.

My wife became aware that I was ill at around the third time. I can only imagine what awful sight presented itself to her as, opening up the bathroom door, she must have seen an ageing, naked, scrawny man, his back and posterior to her, crouching over the bowl, in agony, desperately trying to be sick; my pasty, white, naked backside pointing right in her direction. And then to see the hot diarrhoea squirting ceaselessly out of my buttocks, incontinently, God it must have been some sight.

She tried to be sympathetic and to help, but it was clear she couldn’t be bothered with it. She spoke pleasant words, told me not to worry, that it would be alright. But I could sense that she just felt annoyed by the whole affair: tired to have to be up in the middle of the night, when all she wanted was to sleep; irritated that the bathroom would have to be cleaned; irritated that I was in agony and that she was powerless to help.

The sickness was immensely aggravating and painful. I was hot, sweaty, barely conscious, struggling, diverting all power to fighting off the virus; the cycle persisted; the need to get up and vomit; the howling, lurching, retching; the failed deliverance of vomit; the flanking, decoy manoeuvre of the insidious virus, fooling one every time so that I was bent double, my head in the bowl as the diarrhoea spewed hotly out. The pain and soreness of my put through the cheese-grater stomach; the pain and soreness of the base of my rectum; my ever growing reluctance to fight another battle, knowing fine well how sore it would be to lurch and excrete; lying in bed, sweaty, delirious and in agony, trying to avoid another debacle; but in the end the inevitability of it, of having to get up and try and vomit once more.

By the time morning came the bathroom was a litany of sick piles and diarrhoea, an atrocious mess. Piles of sick and diarrhoea lay about the place. In the agony of it, in the madness that infested me, I had irrationally crawled around the bathroom, like a man having a heart attack, grasping, moving, desperate to find some relief, the torture of spewing becoming unbearable, the thought of having to puke once more mentally agonising, my stomach ripped and grated; myself desperately lurching up. And then as a pile formed here and another there, on the next occasion I found a new patch and so on.

It must have been another horrendous sight for my wife that morning. The piles of sick and diarrhoea, the piles of dirty underwear in the sink. I should’ve been grateful that, as I lay in bed, out of it, she dutifully went about cleaning up. I should’ve been grateful that she had expressed some sympathy for me at first. But I wasn’t. Instead I just felt annoyed by her and by the fact that she resented being by nurse. She almost seemed to blame me, as though it were my fault for being ill. She came to me early that morning, as I lay there unbearably, dreadfully ill, trying to stay calm, to sleep off my agony, my illness. But she wouldn’t let me rest.

‘Why don’t you get up, you’ll feel much better for it’ she said irritated.

‘No, no, sleep, sleep’ I said barely conscious.

‘You won’t get any better lying there like that’ she said, peeved, aggressive.

‘Noooo!’ I moaned, giving up. I turned over. Weak, feeble and annoyed, it was only by grunting and moaning that I could possibly try to convey to my wife how unbearable my pain was, and that I had no energy to argue.

Why did she have to be like that? To come and harass me, and tell me what was good for me. A nurse yes, but an irritated one. Why couldn’t she just let me in peace, and concentrate on her own life?

Later on, on another visit to see me in bed, I tried to explain.

‘It’s unbearable, please, I need something to eat. I’m desperate to vomit, to wretch, but I have nothing to bring up. Please, I need something to eat.’

‘No, you can’t have anything to eat. It won’t do you any good’ she replied condescendingly. ‘You only imagine you need to be sick.’

I can’t describe how my wife angered me, telling me what was right and wrong for me, and telling me how I felt. It was stupid and irritating of her, yet probably only borne out of frustration that she couldn’t help me. Yet it was annoying all the same. Why couldn’t my wife have had more sange froide? If it meant she was only going to come to our bedroom to get irritated with me, I’d rather she’d have been an indifferent nurse, and left me alone to ride out the storm. Having said that, I have to express my gratitude. Lying there sick, tortured, she saved me with hot lemonade – having had to go out on a twenty minute walk in the rain to acquire it.

I lay in bed with fever for two days. By the end of the second day, I was feeling a lot better.

Given my wife’s attitude to my illness; her annoyance at it, her patronising remarks about how I was feeling, as I lay there in utter agony; and given how close she’d been to me and my vomit and excrement, it wouldn’t have taken a genius to have worked out that my wife would be next victim.

I felt sorry for her, for being hit by a sucker punch like that, for not having seen the blindingly obvious. I also felt satisfaction, justice.

‘It is unbearable, oh it is’ she said, whining pitifully. I felt such sympathy for her as she admitted this.

‘Oh it’s terrible. All I want to do is wretch, to throw up, but I have nothing left in my stomach. I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy.’

And so now I, still lacklustre and lethargic, recovering from my illness, became the nurse and she the patient. Now I got to see the horrific site of her naked, pasty, cellulite backside, pointing at me, diarrhoea projecting rapidly outwards, and falling on her naked legs, cascading hotly, as the poor woman, head in bowl, agonisingly attempted to be sick. I spoke kind words, I tried to soothe her, said ‘it’s ok love, you’ll be alright’ just as she had said ‘come on dear, it’ll be alright, don’t worry’ to me. Yet my sympathy was limited. Even just having had it myself, my sympathy was limited. It’s just not natural to be so. It’s annoying for so many reasons: the irritation of having to get out of bed in the middle of the night, of having to play nurse when you want to sleep; having to mop up spew and shit when all you want to do is sleep; the annoyance of having your patient sully the bathroom yet again, just after you’ve cleaned up for the umpteenth time; yet above and beyond all this, the simple powerlessness of genuinely wanting to help but being totally and completely useless. Who would want another human being to suffer? Yet when you are powerless to help, and can only utter a few, condescending, unfelt, disingenuous words of encouragement as they suffer, it really is frustrating.

So that was how it went, I in agony and she the reluctant and irritated nurse; then our roles reversed, and I, after my ordeal, unable to find any real sympathy within myself, an equally tired and irritable nurse, taking it out on my wife, as if it were her fault she was ill. Only in very special cases, when for example the patient is your child, or say, your loved one, in that psychosis of love that exists between lovers in the first six months of love’s illusion; only in these special cases can sympathy be found and the energy mustered to put your arm around the patient and say with genuine feeling ‘you will get better you poor thing.’ To really feel as though you care. Yet even here sympathy is limited. Eventually people become impatient of the sick one, their dependency on others. It’s annoying and depressing to even know about them. One just wants to forget about them. God help the aged, God help them. Only the truest of true Florence Nightingales could have the energy to care for them.

And old, old, old and terribly lonely was exactly how I felt, as I lay on the floor of that alien bathroom, shivering, sweating, my naked, white, weak, pasty old body, lying sprawled and helpless amidst the sick and diarrhoea piles. I am a lonely man. It was brought home to me just how acutely so, as I lay there in agony. We are all alone. It is the cold reality of things. Once I was young, a young, fresh boy. Now a wrinkly, old, lonely man. The arrogance of youth, one’s past crimes and misdemeanours come back to haunt you, as if now your time has come, and justice will be served. The innocence of youth is totally gone. You are old and finished.

A tired, empty, lonely, old man, vomiting, in agony and helpless, shivering, cold and naked, left for the wolves to come and devour him, to remove him from this empty, Godless world.

Tuesday 27th January

It was ironic that two weeks later we had to almost retrace our journey, travelling again from Norwich to the North Wales area, this times stopping just short of the border in Shrewsbury for a wedding, and I think I’ll spend this evening just penning down this, also unhappy little episode.

The wedding was for the daughter of an old school friend of Anna’s. Close when young, they had however had little contact over the past ten or even fifteen years. Most likely, when they were drawing up the guest list for this celebration, our hosts had been in two minds whether or not to invite us; probably we were a borderline case. In the end, presumably not wishing to offend us, on this jovial occasion, they had extended the hand of invitation to us.

Of course we wished they hadn’t. We were to be involved now, in one of life’s little farces, they too polite to dismiss us, we in turn too polite but to accept the invitation. Neither of us wanted to go. Not only would it mean the awkwardness of having to socialise and mingle with people we no longer knew, who we weren’t close to; the loneliness and hassle, the sheer travail of travelling all the way across the country – the North Wales holiday nightmare, still keen in our memories – to stay a night in yet another, anonymous and lonely hotel; then having to put on false faces, false cheer, to help celebrate the marriage of people we barely knew; the two of us forced to socialise with a load of people we never met; and the two of us, in our position of outsiders, borderline invitees, on the fringes of the hierarchy, the poor relations, having to work hard to force our way into the social scrum of this wedding; pariahs, we knew we would be, on the outskirts, the periphery, lowly nobodies, orbiting and in servitude to the centre of blazing glory, the hive of joviality, of joy and genuine happiness and youth, the nightclub at the centre of town, where the revelling persists till dawn.

So not only all of this, but how we would rather have stayed at home! We were still recovering from the Llandudno ordeal for Heaven’s sake. We wanted to be at rest, to be at home. To experience that centrality of spirit, when your soul feels motionless and at centre, at rest. Not, as when we had to make this awful trip, sent into tail spin and waltzing all over the place. And then to see what we were missing out on. Travelling over on Friday afternoon, I would miss my beloved tennis. Then both of us would have to forgo our Saturday. Though we both stopped working several years ago now, we are both so in tune with the week and come Saturday always feel that relaxed, chilled out, soothing of soul. We love to go to a café, to have coffee and lunch, to sit, relax, read, soak up the atmosphere. All of this we would have to forgo.

So stressed, irritated and tense we drove, the journey characterised by an anger and tension, foreshadowing our up-coming act, in which we would have to put on false faces and pretend to be happy. Feeling insecure and lonely, nervous, not looking forward to arriving at our destination, knowing we had nothing to look forward to till, well, perhaps next Friday and Saturday, which was too far away in the future to give solace; angered, terribly angered to have to play out this farce when we didn’t wish to go and probably they would never miss us; oh so angry to be missing out on our weekend pleasures. Angered and peeved to drive two hundred or so miles into the jaws of loneliness, when we could be relaxed and at ease, and at home, delighted playing tennis, or chilling out, at peace in the café. Oh such annoyance.

So did it go. The journey there, the horror of being caught up in the Friday afternoon rush hour traffic; myself at the wheel, tense and irritated, my wife next to me, irritated, annoyed likewise. Then the check in at the hotel. The sterile, cold procedure of checking in; the white walled, unhomely, dreary hotel room.

The wedding, on the Saturday, was to take place entirely at this very same hotel. The ceremony at twelve noon, the lunch at three, the disco at seven and so on. So at eleven o’clock or so, my wife and I, descended once again, with gloom in our hearts, from our imprisoning hotel room, to the congregation area below. The marathon was about to begin.

I think I’ve mentioned earlier my lack of fashion sense, my slovenly style, the fact that I prefer to dress in drab clothes. Usually that takes the form of trainers, jeans, a grey hikers fleece. And I hate wearing suits. Hate it. I don’t know I just feel uncomfortable, foolish, not in my comfort zone. Here I was forced to wear one. But I deliberately wore an old one. The top and trousers didn’t match: I wore a shabby, old, lilac grey, school master’s corduroy jacket, with old black trousers, that didn’t fit. No, I certainly cut a drab figure, not at ease, shabby, the clothes too baggy, not fitting me, hanging off me disrespectfully. I was acutely aware of my physical insignificance, especially at a time like this, my shortness, my inability to impress, my weak looking figure.

And so we descended, I already irked and out of humour, irritated by my clothes, my nervousness in making an entry into the pack, manifesting itself in an uptight expression on my face, that only made me all the less appealing; my drab wife in tow, following me, annoyingly like a sheep, also uptight and unhappy, also cutting a poor figure, old and over the hill, even her dress sense, usually far superior to mine, failing her here, and extenuating all the drab and dreary aspects of her face, figure and soul.

When we entered the vestibule area, we found it a hive of activity. To the main characters of the show, the happy young groom and his cohort of hung-over, yet relentlessly jovial young men; the family of the bride and groom, the fussing mothers and fathers, the well-fed, healthy looking, hale and hearty younger brothers and sisters; the older of them sassy, young and at ease, the yet younger ones running around playing chasy, in excitement; the rows and rows of beautiful, young ladies, decked out magnificently and looking relaxed and easy; to all these central characters with major parts, a sense of well being and joy seemed to enrapture them; caught up in the buzz, the carnival of excitement and activity, they seemed oblivious of all else. Especially the outsiders.

And the outsiders were numerous. Probably more than half the guests, I would say. The lesser relatives, those on the edges of the family circle. Cousins, aunts, uncles even, friends of the happy couple, just not intimately so. The old as well. Yes, I believe that at any wedding, the majority of guests must feel like this, cut out and lonely, having to submissively grin and tip their hats to the bride, groom and main supporting cast, as they buzz around, in excitement, knowing that this is their day, their moment, that today the camera is on them. The majority of guests though are simply supporting cast. Extras. And Anna and myself were right on the fringes of things, the lowest in the pecking order.

So we presented ourselves. Standing there tensely, nervously, I exhibiting a look of undisguised irritation on my face, my wife more humble and self-deprecating, fumbling around looking nervous. In a room full of strangers, brought so close together, not wanting to be here, tensely wanting to be out of it, having absolutely no desire to get into conversation with people I never met; looking out, seeing people in exactly the same state as ourselves, also tense, also unhappy, also pariahs, reluctantly here, wishing they were elsewhere. Then I, looking out upon the hive of activity, the innocent, stupid joy of the bride and groom, getting myself annoyed by the rows and rows of young ladies, beautiful and amazing, but people I have nothing in common with, simple, hollow and boring most likely. Also seeing the well-fed young men and women, young, at ease, relaxed, perfectly at peace with the world; getting myself annoyed by the screaming children, running around chasing each other. And especially on seeing the young ladies, and the dashing, gorgeous, buxom bride, like a plump hen ripe for plucking, feeling anger and rage, which, when I turned to see the shapeless, dowdy old wife, nervously following me about, turned to a black, black anger and impotence.

In this state of tension and irritation – and I mean for many of the guests, as well as myself – did the day sprawl hopelessly along. Whatever anyone may say about the church, I found it irksome, that the couple chose to have their ceremony here, as if to say they were above all the nonsense of religion. At any rate it would’ve broken the day up, to travel from church to reception venue. Instead everything took place in the same room, so that in between events there was much waiting around in the lobby, many tense stand offs in the vestibule.

The ceremony itself was sham and hollow. It might seem hypocritical, for people like the bride and groom (and myself), who never go to church, to turn up there on their wedding day, but the alternative of dismissing such a ceremony, and holding your own, in the commercial atmosphere of the hotel and under the guidance, not of a priest but of a registrar, seemed wrong to me. There may be no God, religion may have many blotches to its name, but for the young couple to confirm this, and arrogantly dismiss the traditional ceremony, left me feeling hollow in my heart. People are foolish when they think they’re above God. Even just in going to Church on wedding days and funerals, just to sing a few hymns, to feel miserable and bored, yet somehow rejuvenated by the dower building, the words of the pastor, the inherent gloom, the sour smell of the cold building – even this, I say, does good to the human soul. Reminds us of something. Seeing it replaced by the smugness of the corporate wedding registrar, the soulless, dull hotel building, hearing the couple with their ‘personal statements’ – as the registrar thought fit to re-brand the wedding vows – their own thought out words of love, amateurish and trite, replacing the boorish and admittedly equally hollow words of the traditional ceremony – seeing this dispirited me. We need God, even just a little bit. Or at least I do.

Then after the wedding, the farce of being introduced to the bride and groom, as all the guests lined up to bestow their good wishes. My wife and I waiting in line, I growing ever more irritated and tense, having spoken to just about no-one, the scowl on my face growing – I didn’t know what else to do; then the embarrassment of having to be introduced to the bride and groom – people I don’t know and never met, people who on another day I would have absolutely nothing to do with; the torture of having to embrace the glowing, tanned, beautiful, buxom, plump peach of a wife, her cleavage on show and drawing one’s attention; my body language terrible. She glowing, radiant, willing to smile on everyone today, to forgive even shabby individuals like myself; I, awkward, tense, bearing an angry, irritated countenance, a scowl on my brow, menacing like a thunder cloud; humiliated by my physical inferiority, my shabby, loose clothes, dwarfed by the physicality of the bride, her beauty eclipsing my plainness, the fumbling, as we half embrace, a handshake, as if I make it clear we shouldn’t kiss – the knowledge that that is what’s going through her head and mine. Suddenly the two of us brought together, face to face and alone, the intimacy of it, the falseness – I think she knew I can’t possibly in my heart like her. Saw in her eyes that she knows I don’t like her. No, no, it was agony for me. I felt humiliated and foolish, and mainly irritated with myself, for not having the bubbly sort of personality, of say, the small, insignificant man up ahead of me, who with genuine joy and happiness, heedless of all else, stepped up to the stunning bride and said ‘give us a kiss love, you look amazing. I’d love to get my hands on you’ and turning to the husband, the proud, strong, handsome man in a kilt next to her, jested ‘God I envy you son, you’re one lucky boy he-he!’ slapping him on the back as he did so.

So the day dragged on. As it did so I became worse and worse. Whereas my wife, even though she too was sick at heart, was at least willing to try and converse with strangers, to put an act on and make small talk, I decided almost from the first instance, that I couldn’t and wouldn’t go through with this farce, and rather than try and make meaningless conversation with people in the same boat, I would just keep my trap shut and show how I truly felt. Which wasn’t good. And the more taciturn I was, the more it came to pass that I scowled and looked angry, simply by being in the presence of all these strangers. Just the tension of it. Not knowing what to do with myself, looking about. The pain of making eye contact with people again and again and again. People like ourselves standing about tense and unsure. Or the young ladies. The constant fuss and hassle as we walked to the vestibule, then were brought in for lunch; then ordered out again while they cleared the tables; then once more in the vestibule; wandering, aimlessly about, constantly going to and fro; seeing how the other guests mingled, feeling left out. Repeatedly passing a group of girls sat on a sofa, the irritation of making involuntary eye contact yet again; the definite impression that the girls thought me a dour old bore and kill joy, and were sick to their back teeth of my presence; my feeing of self worthlessness, hating myself for not being able to socialise.
Then as the disco started, my wife and I moving nervously back into the dining hall, unsure; a look of irritation on my face, a nervous unsurity on my wife’s; the sheer hell of looking about me and making eye contact for the umpteenth time with that same set of girls; quickly breaking the glance and looking around irritated, not knowing where to go, not in the slightest bit interested in the disco, wishing I could be out of it, and knowing that the group of young girls over there are, if they’re not saying it to each other, then thinking to themselves ‘Oh my God, there’s that miserable little man again, with his miserable, nervous looking wife in tow. God! What have they come to the disco for. I’m sick of the sight of them. I wish they’d go home. We tried to be pleasant to him earlier, we smiled at him, made him feel welcome. He had his chance. And yet not only did he remain sour and unwilling, holding himself back, but instead of just heading off home, he’s remained here all day, the complete misery, spoiling the atmosphere for everyone else.’

Finally getting sick, I left the disco hall and marched off upstairs, to escape to our miserable room. My sheep-wife behind me, following me, annoying me by her bumbling behaviour. As we went I deliberately allowed doors to slam in her face, rather than holding them.

‘Where are you going’ said my wife, dropping into an intimate tone as we found ourselves alone in the hotel corridor, upstairs, a long way from the party.

‘I’m going to our room’ I said with real irritation. ‘Why do you have to follow me around like a lost dog’ I said, ‘can’t you think for yourself?’

My wife, seemingly unsure, nervous and bumbling, transformed, thank God, on hearing my words, into a more aggressive tone.

‘Look!’ she said with real anger as we entered the room, as she now, behind closed doors, dropped her self-deprecating, humble attitude and adopted her truer, angered, intelligent, moody persona.

‘I am sick to death of seeing you act like this! You’ve made no effort to talk to anyone. How dare you be so rude to that man and his wife, they were trying to make conversation with you. I am sick of looking at your scowling, miserable God-awful face! I wish you’d wash that bloody look off, I really bloody well do. And make an effort! Because let me tell you’ continued my wife, breaking into a tone as if to make me listen, as if to share some vital, intimate truth with me and only me, ‘I am absolutely sick and tired as well, I’ve absolutely had enough. But I’m making an effort, because you can’t spoil the happiest day of other people’s lives with your own doom and gloom.’

As she said this, she looked intimately into my eyes, and I saw just how tired she was, how stressed, how all she wanted was to be miles away, in the comfort of her own home, going to bed early for a good night’s sleep.

We descended again, and this time I, calmed, made an effort, and joined my good wife in making small talk with some strangers.

As the disco proceeded, and the young and happy danced the night away, we found ourselves at a table on the periphery with another ageing couple, like ourselves, not part of the family, total outsiders. They seem delighted that my wife ventured to sit down next to them – she had spoken briefly with them earlier – and so save them from the torture and embarrassment, the ignominy of sitting there alone, by themselves, and being on the fringes. We were like two lonely boats meeting in the middle of the night.

Yes, as we approached and my wife asked if it’s alright to sit down, and said gently, smiling, did you meet my husband; and as I saw the lights in the eyes of the lady light up welcomingly, pleasantly, as if she’s happy we’ve come to save them; saw her husband change, and shake my hand generously and with exuberant friendliness, as if to say he’s desperate for a friend, a buddy, a chum; as all of this happened it was clear that they were happy to have our company, simply because it removed them from that awkward, tortuous circumstance of sitting there alone.

And I too was glad of this meeting. Relieved to escape the state of moodiness and irritation that had beset me, after hours of sitting and standing around silently, morosely, eye-balling people, getting annoyed, annoyed with others, annoyed with myself. I was glad by this simple act to have drawn a line under all of that agony, and to have entered into something new. True, to any onlookers, all four of us must have cut pretty contemptuous figures; it must have been obvious to all eyes that we only came together for mutual protection, two isolated and lonely couples both on the fringes of the party, lonely and secluded, willing to do anything to escape the horror of sitting alone. And I myself, after my well documented antisocial misery of the previous six hours, where I was rude to all, must have then presented, as I made an attempt to lighten up, a figure of much ridicule and hatred. But I didn’t care.

They were a pleasant couple, she an ex-school teacher, he an engineer of sorts. He told me about his time in Japan, sensitively, a little light in his eyes. We exchanged stories of our lives, and especially about our children. Of course all of the conversation was, as I knew it would be, totally routine and simply there to keep at bay the loneliness that encroached upon us all. I crave intimacy, I want to get to the heart of the matter, to the root of my problems. I despise meaningless chatter, I want that connection, that true bond, that brotherhood of man. Small talk tires me. I can’t understand how the majority of people can make do with shallow pleasantries, and the usual, boring old tales of children and the like. But this time I kept my mouth shut, and half pleasantly listened to the story of the engineer.

It was evident, to me at least, that they are just as lonely and confused as us. Not just here tonight at the wedding, but I mean with life in general. Old, lonely, their children having flown the nest, they have been, like us, hit for six in recent years, loosing all that surety and conviction that the young bloods around us, partying on the dance floor, possess in abundance. They are just as lost as we.

The night went on, it drew to a close, I felt more relaxed. And thankful of my wife, and reminded that she isn’t just a dowdy old fumbler, following me about like a dog that’s had its day. No, in seeing her, her willingness to socialise though she was in no mood to; in seeing her listen to Dave and Margaret; to watch her genial, friendly, sensitive little face, as she pleasantly acknowledged their words; see how well she listened, occasionally chipping in with her own little thoughts; to see again that look of radiance and gentleness on her face, in her eyes, as she smiled, humbly and self-deprecatingly; in all of this, I was reminded again of the woman I fell in love with.

Two months in the life of miserable old, me: Part 3

2009-04-10T06:10:00.000-07:00

Wednesday 21st January

I’m really dispirited today: my wife has a cold sore. I was actually on such a high. The writing of last night, that self-expression, lifted me. Yet how I’ve been brought down simply by the sight of the cold sore. Really it’s almost knocked the stuffing out of me. It’s really gotten to me, I can’t shake it off. It’s so hideous and unsightly and that is depressing enough in itself. But then when you reflect upon it; know that you shouldn’t judge on appearance; know that I should feel sorry for my poor wife for getting it through no fault of her own; but then realise that these kind sentiments can in no way override my prevailing disgust of it, you only feel the more depressed. It’s a vicious circle. My spirits, like a vulture descending to earth on a thermal, circling lower and lower, until I’m brought to the ground on an all time low.

But it really is hideous, there’s no getting over it. Coming downstairs late for breakfast, I saw her sat at the table eating weetabix. Such a concoction of disgust overcame me. Her tired, worn and miserable face; especially lacklustre in the morning; an anger in her eyes as she, almost with repulsion, slowly chewed over her weetabix slops – that milky, mushy awful filth, a bowl of breakfast excrement. Then I saw the cold sore. A scabby, big, brown lesion on the left side of her lips. Saw her spoon, loaded with weetabix sludge, moving to her mouth, and saw the slops ingested; the cold sore so near, in proximity to the food, the spoon, the eating; somehow becoming more prominent and unable to hide itself as she ate. It must have been painful for her. But the pain of consciousness is presumably more. Coming into the room as I had with a relatively happy expression, I caught my wife’s vacant morning face, gormlessly chomping on her weetabix, directly at me. She must have seen my expression tinge with disgust, as I beheld the cold sore, for she snarled at me almost and looked away.

Ten minutes later, our roles now reversed, I in the hot seat, ploughing morosely through my weetabix – I have to eat it or I’m ill – the sludgy, mushy, half eaten bowl of it in front of me, my wife reentered the kitchen and started talking to me. The sight of it again irritated me. She, curt and unhappy – she so annoys me when she’s like this – on her way out to town – God it must have ruined her whole day – testily decided to tell me about a plumber who might ring and that there was XYZ in the fridge for my lunch; not really being at all resentful or rude really, knowing fine well my disgust with her cold sore; and giving me necessary and useful instructions; but all the same doing it in that unhappy, strained way, like a school-mistress on her period; and when she’s talking like this to me in that unhappy tone that so angers me; when I’m down and dispirited, trying to plough my way through the necessary weetabix, sullen and angry as I always am in the morning at breakfast, and more than ever deflated today after having been kicked in the teeth with the return of, and the knowledge of the hitherto forgotten COLDSORE, the foul, evil, horrific COLDSORE; and when the radio, the stupid, fucking radio is on in the background, so that my wife’s voice is competing with that of the presenters; and when the radio needs to be retuned as well as there’s a buzz to it, it’s slightly off pitch, and the buzz seems to jangle and resonate my nerves; that depression of anger and hate in the pit of my stomach; the electricity in my nerves wishing to rage like lightening from my fingers; when all I want to do is tell my wife to bloody well shut up, and to kick her half-deflated football head with its COLDSORE, till it’s dead.

COLDSORE, COLDSORE, COLDSORE. I cannot lift my spirits from its simple doom. It’s been so long since I or my wife ever had one, that I’d forgotten just how depressing they are. I could think positive things, I could rekindle the mood that I basked in this morning, having enjoyed writing last night. But I just won’t. I want to let myself get deflated, philosophising and getting depressed over the mere existence of cold sores. It would be a lie to get over it. I want to give in to it, its power to destroy the soul, almost like being seduced by an adulteress, I want to yield, let all hope fade, and be consumed, like a sinking ship in its overpowering black waters.

Friday 23rd January

Such a small thing, yet how it can depress, like a harbinger of our doom. It reminds me just how shallow we are, how tenuous is the joy of our life, and prone to think on these gloomy subjects as I am, it didn’t take many steps, for my thoughts to run on to the Elephant man and the tragic fate dished out to that poor unfortunate.

But enough. I feel buoyed today and I know this cold sore business is now at an end. Not because it’s gone away, for it hasn’t. But because my outlook, my perspective is soon to change: tonight its tennis. Though I feel now exactly as I have done for the past few days, moody, irritable and deeply unhappy, experience has taught me that tonight I will return a new man, renewed, refreshed, invigorated. I am not feeling like that now; but I know I will afterwards. And then the cold sore will no longer be a problem for me. This I know. Nothing will change materially. And I know nothing of that good feeling now. But I trust to experience and know that when I return from tennis this evening, I will have utterly no comprehension as to how a cold sore can be upsetting.

Friday 23rd January – later

So I knew my mood would change and truly it has. I am so happy, relieved and renewed, sitting now drinking a coke with lemon, sat next to Harry on my conservatory chair. Yes, this is the greatest of sensations: the serenity, the deep seated warmth, the diffusion of relaxants, tinkling through me, post exercise. What problems do I have now?

The benefits of exercise can never be understated. Be it five-a-side on a cold winter’s evening in the howling wind and rain, tennis like myself, or a run out with the harriers (though personally I say, best to keep it enjoyable and not Machiavellian: i.e. football or tennis), whatever it is it always does the trick.

I joined this club five years ago. For me, never good at socialising, this, this game is for me, this is my way of socialising with others. I am always here, right on time, early in fact, at ten to seven, entering the men’s changing rooms, one of the first to arrive; changing quickly before they get packed, the smell of lint, lingering from times past; and then, excited, raring to go, I make my way out onto the flood lit, all weather courts, perhaps with one other, perhaps by myself; and such a good feeling to get out on court – the freedom of it, of being first on, almost like owning it, possessing it, of being in a dream or fantasy. And then the joy of hitting the ball, the satisfaction of volleying and hearing the drum-like ping; the pleasure of running and chasing, moving and darting, holding an exciting rally.

It lasted, as usual, for about two hours tonight. We split up into pairs, to play doubles, occasionally rotating, sitting a set out to let someone else play, but no-one was on the sidelines for long. It’s exciting as ralleys develop. There are good spirits here, we’re all adults, no one takes it too seriously and spoils it. And it’s my way of bonding. Often sitting in a pub, I am morose and silent, and don’t engage in conversation. Yet here I have a role to play: I engage the others simply by doing that. Tim, Ed, his wife Jane – under normal circumstances, over a dinner for instance, I might say little to them; they would find me annoying. But here out on court we interact. Whether it’s a handslap with Tim after a well taken shot; or discussing tactics with Ed as we change partners; or the simple female laughter of the lovely Jane, as she finally is defeated in a Raleigh, having been given the run around, and having played so well for so long – all of this raises my spirits. And these rallies, all of us engaged so intensely in them, performing, playing up to the (imaginary) crowd, scampering around, trying a trick shot in the most hopeless of situations; the expectancy and concentration on all of our faces; the beam in our eyes as we play; that feeling of being on the verge of laughter as the rally, despite the odds persists; then finally the laughter, the relief, the joy when it ends. Such good times.

Then finally worn out it comes to an end. I always linger in the showers here, the warmth of it, the odour of my luxury body wash, cleansing myself in it. But more than this there seems to be some vague but profound sense of male bonding as we strip down naked and shower together. I have to admit, I do find it liberating, to stand naked and unashamed, showering next to the other men, chatting with one another. Lingering in the heat, the purity; scouring, sousing my body with soap; a black man opposite me with his beige flannel-rag he seems so keen on, lethargically dabs himself all over with it. He, a taciturn outsider like me, is always last to leave, lingering even longer than I. Another man with a brush to scrub his back, stands there naked, revelling in the thrill of back scrubbing. We are all grown men now. We all know now the loneliness of life, the point where we become reasonable and accommodating and forgiving; and look to bond in some way with our piers. That feeling that we’ve been through the run of life, been put through our paces, the bullying, the pettiness, the nonsense of youth is now long gone, and now in common need and sympathy, we just want to be at peace with one another.

Even after lingering in the shower, it takes me a full fifteen minutes to get dressed. But so to the others. We have all come over the hill.

In the social club later, that is affixed to this club, I sit with my well earned coke and packet of cheese and onion crisps. I don’t say anything, as usual, yet I am happy, at peace, just pleased to sit amongst my piers, soaking up the atmosphere, listening to the buzz, the excitement of their voices. They are all good people here; middle aged or retired, middle class, respectable citizens. And like I say reasonable, in the twilight of their days, knowing that pettiness has to be put aside now, that we must be good to one another. The woman too have acquired maturity; no longer anything but supportive and generous and humble (or so it seems on a night like this). Yes gathered here like this there seems a common bond between all of us; a real desire amongst us old timers to get along, to find fellowship. We are at peace. Peace between the men, and peace between the sexes. The women need us, and we need them, and we all need each other. The sun is setting on our lives, the dusk is gathering and it’s getting cooler; it is no time for bitterness. In common fellowship we wish to see out our days.

Sunday 25th January

We live in a converted farm building on the outskirts of Norwich. It’s very picturesque. Reached by way of ever more rural country lanes, as you take the turning to our house, you pass the farm buildings and residence of our farmer landlord, and skirting a scattering of bronzed chickens, pecking about the through road, drive a hundred metres or so, out to our grey stone walled cottage. The rooms in our house are large, lofty, oak laden; we have such things as gables: it is old English somehow. Outside you see the spread of farmer’s fields, but also of copses and grassy meadows. They reach out so far and wide here in flat East Anglia, that one has a sense of freedom, a lightness of being. The blue sky possesses a dominating ninety percent of one’s horizon; the flat land, so beautiful in its humbled, meagre, proportion, a mere ten. The horizon extends a long way; and you can see windmills popping up, dotting the fore and hinterground.

The fresh air is marvellous, and the activity of the farm is uplifting. Often when I’m out walking Harry, I pass by the buildings and I get a buzz just to see the activity. The rusty-red, lofty old sheds and barns, the lowing cattle; the chickens scattered here and there, active, keen and on the look out; the farm cats lolling about, occasionally with rat in mouth. It all seems very quaint and traditional; I feel a bond to it; almost as if, in a former life, I were a farmer.

So we are fortunate enough to live the countryside idyll. And though we do often get lonely, the two of us in the cottage, I for one would never return to our old days in suburbia. Surrounded on all sides by neighbours, I see myself back there now, coming out of my house on a summer day; the man next door mowing his lawn, miserable, taciturn and unhappy; the man on the other side washing his car, also unhappy. The tension of it, the stress of having to force a polite hello, the lack of any true friendship between neighbours, feeling sick and nauseated of having to constantly bump into these people, when all you wish for is that they didn’t exist. No, I don’t miss it, I don’t miss the stress of being hemmed in, on all sides, like sardines in a tin, with people I don’t really know or like.

So the walks here are delightful. My especial favourite, and the one I did today, with my trusted Harry, was to head out the back of our house, in the opposite direction to where the farm lies, and escape into a nearby copse. Even just in leaving our house, in walking away from the activity of the farm; just to hear its noises – the mooing cows, the tractor – receding into the background, I cannot express the immense sense of freedom that overjoyed me. Just to walk out across those expansive fields, away, away, away from everything, everything in my life. Good God! The countryside relieves me! The loneliness, the sheer silence, the peace, the aloneness. To be at rest, at peace, to be alone, away from all the terror, the unceasing noise and activity of the world; oh God, how my nerves feel soothed. Oh so soothed.

When I first did this walk, two summers ago when we moved here I cannot describe the sense of adventure that captivated my heart, as I decided to explore, to discover what lay about me. It is one of my favourite pleasures to follow a path and see where it leads like this. And on that fine day in July, I walked out along the mud strip, swaying barley sheaves either side, and reached the copse. In full leaf then, I entered it, cool and shady, in contrast to the sunshine outside; and so blindly following its winding path, in no hopes of finding anything on the other side except more farmland, eventually, after some mile or so of walking, I perceived a change in scenery up ahead. Advancing further, the density and never ending monotony of the forest ended, my view opened up: ahead of me stretched a deserted football field.

This is the joy of exploration; of discovering new places by accident, unexpectedly. After the monotony of the copse, the football pitch was somehow a mark of civilisation; and in it’s deserted aspect a reminder of times past. It was peaceful, forlorn, so far removed from the drama it normally plays host to; possessing that mystical, peaceful quality that old ruins do. I do in general get so excited to see new places, and this was no different. Following the pitch downwards I realised it was attached to a school; again in its deserted, empty appearance I was overcome by calm and a remembrance of former times. I walked by, peering into the empty classrooms with pupils posters and drawings on the walls. And then finally, following a small, empty lane, I hit upon another exquisite find. Veering to the left, and down some unpromising little steps, I descended through a margin of forest and arrived at a canal.

Such a wondrous sight, that of stealing, solder-like water, melting metallic silver and blue. The activity of canal boats up and down. The yellow cinder track running alongside. The pursuits of people, out walking, in their boats; the path and canal stretching away in both directions. It is the discovery of new worlds like this, that stirs my soul to the depths. Almost as if, having left my house and entered the copse, I am able, after coming out the other end of it, to enter a completely new world, to be transported some place new. The novelty of it, of this canal and walkway, the surprising pleasure of discovering it.

And so we followed that route today. It was crisp, it was pleasant, the January sun shining down sad yet so radiant. Radiant and beaming, but in a sad, cold, reticent way. The cool air, cottages along the wayside, smoking thick and heavily from their chimneys. The lingering peace and quiet of a Sunday afternoon. The calmness of it, of a chilly, bright January day.

So do I like to walk and reflect. I thought awhile today about the notion of charity. I have an inbuilt reluctance to donate money. This week I received a telephone call from a young man working for a charity, asking me to donate just £10 a month, or £20 a month or whatever I could afford. I know it was petit of me and pathetic, but I couldn’t help but vent my spleen on the subject. Although the sensible thing would’ve been to have said no and put the phone down, I instead embarrassed myself by getting into a philosophical debate with this total stranger. Probably I came over as a sad old man with too much time on my hands. Yet although it was pathetic, I’m glad I got it off my chest.

The modern notion of charity seems sterile to me. Back in the Victorian era, when families starved, orphans were a plenty, when you might come across a houseful of poor children, see their dirty little faces and shabby clothes, see their mother scrapping around to put food in their mouths, their coal miner father bed ridden with cholera, no longer able to walk; or blind beggars in the street with nowhere to go, no food, no homes, no hope; a hospital full of sick people, patients coughing, puking, labouring, dying, desperate for medicine, for relief: I think in all of these cases, one must have felt very compelled and indeed gratified to pick some coins out of your pocket and put them in the hands of these poor people. But these days things are so abstract. My brothers and sisters, I know, are big charity givers. Ceaselessly they put their hands in their pockets, a fiver here, a tener there, and so on and so on time and again. And I’m not saying they’re not for worthy causes; the poor in Africa, little children with incurable illnesses, the handicapped, the blind, the afflicted, etcetera, etcetera. Yet it’s just the idea that you’ll never see where the money goes, never meet those who so need it. Each time, you simply put the money in the box, or even worse you transact it, and that’s that. Job done. Meanwhile you look about you; and everyone seems well fed, rich and sated, in no way in need of you or of anyone, miserable and sick of their lives, and cut off in heart and soul from the life-blood of humanity. You won’t get any brotherly love from them, any fellowship. We don’t need each other any longer. Nobody wants these days. No, it seems a spiritless act to me.

And so I said so to this young man, feeling angered to be subtly accused by him of not caring. He has no perspective, he see’s me only as a rich man. He never experienced my poverty, he is from a different age, brought up with money, not appreciative of its value. And the young are often idealistic, but it fades with age. Yes I guess I was a bit rude to him. It’s wrong to knock such people, though I should say I was never like that in my youth, never so naïve. I had a go at him because I knew he was sensitive. At the end of the day, sterile old men like me, wiser and correct, as we may be, won’t change the world. Only youth, naivety and innocence can try and attempt that.

After spending such a time joyed today as I walked, it was only inevitable that after several great hours, and as I fatigued, and as the dusk came quickly upon us at five, that I started to feel tired and under par, ready for a rest. As we traipsed through the dusk, weary and with tired legs, over the final reaches of our walk, only wanting the end to come, the cold in my face and giving me a migraine, as though the pressure in my temples would explode, I wondered if this exceptional cold is due to global warming, and then got stressed out over the fact that if it is, I can’t change anything, can’t stop aeroplanes, industry or commerce, but that I am going to have to worry about it anyway; and as all of these gloomy thoughts and bodily aches came upon me, it was no surprise that I returned to my depressive state. Though being alone did me good at the beginning, now I only felt very lonely.

And in this state of loneliness, feeling low and friendless, disconnected from the world, we happened to pass through a new housing estate. It is very modern, and indeed plush, inside these new homes are no doubt luxurious. But on the outside they are dull and insipid, built one next to the other, crowded, with artificial turf and a token tree added unnaturally between them, as if that is all that is required to provide the country idyll. It is a huge housing estate. It runs on forever. It is teaming with these modern houses, one after the other, all of them the same, clones, undistinguished, monotonous, typical of our age. As I walked through those deserted, empty, dark streets, saw those houses with their cars parked outside, my feelings of emptiness and loneliness were consecrated, I felt the doom of life corner me. The sterility of the place was dreadful. Is this what we have arrived at? A world where everyone is wealthy; and then locks themselves away in one of these houses; living hand in mouth with their neighbours, yet spiritually disconnected from them, tensely living in communion, never going further than a curt hello or good morning; as soon as they arrive home, rushing indoors and shutting the world out. God, I feel depressed to see the world come to this. All these people, rich, successful, middle class, living so, so close to each other; yet what cool ties exist between them. You can feel that air of coolness, of sterility in the night air. The squalour of the Victorian age may have been dreadful, not something we would ever wish to return to; but there must have been some bonhomie in those days, some sense of community, before the Godless, luxurious days of the TV and internet turned us all into robots; imprisoned us indoors, where we absorb ourselves with machines, that need to socialise with our neighbours forever moribund.

No, think of prehistoric man in his camp, as he and all his piers, surround a fire and warm themselves, listening to a story, their minds set in dreams, their souls still young and wonderous. Then think of where we have arrived today. No one is hungry, no one is poor. These houses are luxurious, spacious, a testimony to the economic well being of the western world. In that sense they are to be saluted. But as I walked through these lonely streets, my heart was filled with gloom. We have arrived at a sterile, Godless society, where we all, with miserable, joyless faces, the light having been extinguished from our eyes, lock ourselves up indoors, cut off in spirit and soul from our neighbours, who we seem to be so determined to have surrounding us on all quarters.

Two months in the life of miserable old, me: Part 2

2009-04-10T06:04:00.000-07:00

Tuesday 20th January – later.

I wrote that last entry just now, after having gone to bed after my bath, then hot and bothered and unable to sleep, I got up and came downstairs and wrote.

Insomnia often affects me. Today however I am not so bothered. On other occasions – like the time I spent on holiday with my wife in North Wales (I will describe this in future some time) – it drives me wild. Tonight though thankfully I feel quite positive, and am, unlike in Wales, here in the comfort of my own home, which is a relief. I’m sitting in our conservatory, the star lit night up outside above me. I’m reclining in one of the easy chairs, my writing pad on my lap, and my faithful and best friend of a dog Harry sitting contentedly on the easy chair next to me. He is short and stocky – a Border Terrier – coloured a burnt sienna brown with black charcoal patches. Anna doesn’t like him sitting on these chairs, but she’s not around and so I’ll indulge him. He’s so happy to be sat next to me. For him I presume, the night is also very lonely, locked away downstairs as he habitually is, and he’s so happy to just sit next to me, to be in my presence. He loves me, I love him, the bond between us is simple, special, something unattainable between two human beings. Really, can anything in this world compare to the mutual, unceasing, unconditional love between man and dog?

So I’m feeling quite relaxed and positive, even soothed and at peace as everyone sleeps. It’s really quite easy to write at a time like this, the more so, since my wife is tucked up in bed and out of the way, not casting her displeased eye upon me and my tale. Yes, the conservatory, the night sky; the quiet, the cool, the cushy chair; the happy Harry who I keep stroking to his pleasure under the chin; and a gin and tonic in front of me – this is very nice.

I realise that in writing like this, it would be better if I put my current plight and problems into context by shedding some light on my character and life history.

To begin with, as I guess you already know, I am a rather morose individual. That said I have developed a kind of steadiness to my personality over the years, never allowing myself, or indeed experiencing, the highs of life; at the same time steadily and calmly trying to avoid the lows. People often think me a bit miserable; I am rarely jovial or excessive; but I think in my own way I am likeable. There is an honesty to me that people eventually appreciate. When people get into conversation with me, and understand my character a bit better, I feel a genuine bond sprouts up between us. Thus, at say a wedding, I am hopelessly antisocial and feel as though I spoil the mood; whereas at a funeral, I am somehow more at home. I am a decent listener, but often impatient of others views, especially when they seem wrong or misjudged. I am often blunt and curt with people and if I disagree or am annoyed I say so: I have no time for the good manners of polite society – they just annoy me. I prefer honesty. My brothers, more manly than I are very polite and respectful in conversation. But I, under no illusions about my nobody status, or the fact that I mean nothing to most people, never stand on ceremony and say what I feel. Anyway I speak with candour and always articulate my thoughts, and by and large I feel people warm to this.

I was born in Newcastle, into a somewhat impoverished family, the sixth and final child to my overstrained, overstressed, hard put upon mother. Lagging several years behind the birth of my siblings, it’s pretty certain – though I never heard it said – that I was a mistake (though indeed none of us were really conceived with any forthsight back then). In her heart my mother loved me I believe, but in every day life, in the tedious, daily battles of survival and relative hardship that confronted us, she was a worn down and miserable woman, and love her though I did, I can never fully and completely think of her in the light that some may regard their mothers. She was an intelligent and sensitive woman, fierce, haughty and proud indeed; her marriage and subsequent pregnancies may all in some sense be described as mistakes. She had options, she might have escaped a life of poverty. But she loved my father, and in the end, remained trapped in the cycle of child rearing, poverty and survival, bitter and disillusioned with her lot. When I came along she must have been emotionally run down, sick, tired and fed up, as well as physically over the wayside. Consequently I was the runt of the litter, inheriting non of the good looks and physique bestowed to my older brothers and sisters. Incidentally, my mother recently died after a long suffering illness; and I think it was due a good deal to her somewhat resentful and irritable parenting of myself when a child that allowed me to feel liberated in regards of my duty of care to her. I certainly took a back seat in things, caring for her only intermittently and letting my older brothers and sisters do the leg work.

Always being intelligent at school, I realised the promise and potential talent of my parents, that they, trapped in their cycle of poverty had been unable to. Coming of age in the seventies, in the atmosphere of liberality, economic well-being and education for all that eventually took root in the country after the paucity of the war years, that my parents knew all too well, I was able to get on in life, to escape my humble background, to educate myself and earn money. By the time I was in my late twenties, I had a high level of university education behind me – specialising in engineering, computing and science – and moreover had secured a well-paid job in an expanding company.

Having come from relative rags to relative riches, I certainly appreciate and enjoy my possessions: I’ve always lived in nice houses. Those feelings of being impoverished, dirty and despised when young; as well as that no one seemed to care for me, or my struggling parents – these feelings have remained with and influenced me. So that I make a point of enjoying my wealth, and only sharing it with those who are near and dear to me. I am mean in general, as a legacy of the meanness shown to me I suppose. I rarely give to charity. I despise homeless people, for instance. They don’t deserve handouts, in my opinion. They should earn their living like everyone else has had to.

So for a long time I had a well paid job and a decent home. After thirty years of employment however, I took voluntary redundancy. It was a good deal money wise. Work wise, to be honest I was fairly happy to quit, having become stressed, sick and dissatisfied with the monotony of work. I know some people hide from their misery by working. Yet I was never one to do that. It seemed to me a more honest step to quit working. I would be equally unhappy unemployed, I knew. But it would be a better sort of unhappiness, more profound; I could concentrate more on my problems. I know that sounds a little stupid; and people often tell me that work will provide me with what is lacking in my life. But I know it won’t: it is simply another way of avoiding the core issue.

Anyway I have digressed. To return to my story. Financially then I was in a great position, and I guess it was at this point in my life, that I could finally turn more closely to other aspects of my existence: namely my loneliness and the absence of a woman and a family.

I spent a good few years, a young man out of humour, dispirited. My work-life was great, and within that context I was active and successful. (Though I should stress, not so active: I was never one to consume myself in work or commerce. Though I was often depressed and dispirited, I didn’t, like some of my colleagues, give everything to my work, to compensate for loneliness. No, I always retained that aspect of my personality, considering it more salutary to face an evening of loneliness and sad emotion, than burying myself in work.) So yes, in the evenings, in my social life, then I would feel miserable, lonely and out of humour. Dark, lonely nights depressed me, I felt that it would be my fate to always remain alone, aloof and downcast.

So when Anna came into my life, it was like a transformation. I fell in love. Suddenly I had someone in my life to care for, to love. Suddenly there was meaning. Suddenly when I was at work it didn’t feel so bad. I had her to think of, her to return home to: she was a joy to me.

Both in Newcastle and in London – where I eventually moved, and where I met Anna – I found myself single and lonely. The dark evenings, spent miserable and alone if I was in London, or miserable and in the company of my parents and unmarried sisters, if I were in Newcastle – both of these were dour experiences. Though I got along well enough with my family, always I felt slightly apart; lonely, moody and more complicated than they, they could pass the dark evenings in front of the TV, whilst I, irritated and unhappy, would have to take myself off for a walk in the gloom, lonely, stressed, incomplete and loveless. Eventually, when moving to London to take up a new and better paid job, I was glad to be alone. Though here again, I felt just as rotten on a nighttime, only in a different way. I would spend my time chatting with my friends in a pub, cutting, I imagine, a rather miserable, cynical, morose figure, a soul unhappy at heart. I wasn’t very good at making friends; and this was especially true with women.

When I met Anna then, it was, as I say, such a relief, as though I could finally relax. It was love at first sight. Whatever love may or may not be, whatever may have happened in our marriage since – the gloom, the bickering, the hatred, tension and disgust – still I won’t ever tarnish that first meeting of ours: it was love at first sight.

Entering my local bar to meet up with my friends, my best friend, whom I was walking toward, greeted me, and, in the same instant, stepping to the side, revealed and introduced behind his person, the smiling Anna, sitting on a stool at the bar. I had entered the pub, with my habitual look of brooding discontent; and it was this look that I presented Anna with. She smiled back so warmly and pleasantly, looking at me like no women ever had; she really seemed joyed simply by my presence and looked my whole figure over in her own time and apparently with satisfaction.

I don’t think I smiled or altered my countenance; but within me a flame had been lit: I suddenly felt so, so enthused, so happy, so energised. Here in a lonely, dreary world, a world that I’d almost given up on, I had finally found a woman, I could really, truly like; a woman I could love.

It wasn’t difficult to get talking to Anna. She was so sympathetic, a great listener, warm, friendly, soft and pleasant. She was angelic, shy and sensitive. She warmed to me, listened to me, always conscious and intelligent, responsive to all I said. I talked, showed I was keen and thoughtful, whinged I might say, in my dower but endearing way, telling her my views on life, politics, society. And she listened, sensitively, politely, joyed I think by my intelligence. My excitement, I recall, grew as I talked. I felt she liked my personality. I felt I liked hers. We found ourselves agreeing on things, I liked her attitude and opinions. She was good-looking, cute and comely; yet so mature and disinterested in being cool, hip or fashionable. Her kindness and maturity ruled over her being; she was radiant and had a child-like, sensitive face; but personality and not looks were what counted for her: and she liked my personality, I knew. She was so understanding, considerate and lovely; sympa as the Italians say.

I think we both knew there was a bond between us even half way through that first conversation, even earlier I might say. Just that feeling that steals upon us when we fall in love, of being in the presence of a kindred spirit. I didn’t want it to end. When it did, it was with mutual regret, that we had to part company. We promised to see each other again. As we left, a look of meaning passed directly between our eyes.

In the dark cold air of winter, which greeted my departure from Anna and the pub, I experienced the dizzying ecstasy of being in love. Almost as if that freezing cold air that drew the very breath out of my chest, so that I panted; almost as if it drew it out with intent so that I felt as though I breathed a final, ecstatic breath of joy. Almost as if I hung, for that perfect moment, falling joyously through the open air; taken up into the ether on the wings of love; and there dropped to soar exhilarated through the Heavens.

I walked on through the night. The cold, crisp eventide; the clarity of the Heavens, the brightness of the stars; the quiet, deserted streets, the packed snow crunching underfoot. My soul was sad yet joyous. I was quiet, serene, happy as though satisfied. Quietly on the high of life, at the pinnacle; also at the end. In a twinkling, I had arrived at where I was meant to be, my destiny; the end lay ahead as well.

Well and so it went. I won’t over do it. We met again and many times after, and love followed its course. I should say part of the reason for Anna’s maturity was down to her being a mother: she had already bore a child in a previous relationship. And I think it’s fair to say, that it was also with this child, a seven year old girl named Joanna, that I fell in love with.

Joanna was in every way bright, outgoing, alive and friendly. We struck up an understanding immediately. Normally useless, stiff, and awkward, a fish out of water with children, with Joanna I was instantly witty, charming, confident and at home: just like her mother, she gave me that confidence to be so. Physically like her mother, blond, cherub like and tall and skinny, she was at the same time intelligent, sensitive, so curious and alive, and, I guess on account of having lived without a father, mature. There was also a feral aspect to her nature: she was like a wild animal: untamed, individualistic, a loner. She seemed to take pride in her strangeness, was happy to call herself crazy, and would often play by herself in the nearby woods. She was a bit of a tom-boy; adventurous, playing camps, climbing and getting stuck in the mud. She had been bullied at school, so I found out, because she had no father and was, as the other kids had said ‘a bastard.’ Sensitive, she had hated this epithet yet she was strong enough to fight it, and stood up for other children who were bullied. Like her mother, she had that angelic quality: she would stick up for the weak in life. She didn’t care who they were, they would all get her support.

One day, as a child, she came home crying from the woods: two boys there had bullied and beaten her, and worse of all, proceeded to smear dog dirt in her face. She came to me and her mother, and more so to me especially, tearful and crying, and I saw her sensitive little face besmirched like a miners with the dog excrement; her pretty little upturned nose, tipped in it. She bawled her eyes out, I soothed and cared for her, and I recall the immense love and sympathy in my breast, and my bewilderment that some boys could do this to her, to that little child, that sweet, endearing cherub.

And so I fell in love also, and I dare say more so, with this young girl. We were in tune with each other like no one else. Cold and begrudging with other children as I was, this one I indulged unsparingly, so consistently mature, intelligent and lively was she. Even to the detriment of my relationship with Anna, I would favour her. Few have been the occasions where I sided with her mother and not Joanna in an argument. She and Anna – A and J as I sometimes call them – often found themselves at loggerheads, especially in her teenage years. And usually J could rely on me to side with her. Not because I was a poor parent, ready to satisfy her every whim. On the contrary, J was never that sort of child. But rather because her demands usually seemed reasonable and mature, and I often felt it to be her mother who was being overprotective. Though so alike, J has always had a certain confidence, strength and sense of courage that my wife lacked. Anna, pleasant, sensitive, intelligent could also be annoyingly timorous, uncertain, unconfident, a worrier, a petit bicker and overprotective of her daughter. Whereas Joanna was always more forthright. So you see, when Joanna wished to go off skiing to France with the school aged thirteen, my wife was full of misgiving; would she break her legs, get pregnant, be raped? What if she ran out of clean underwear, skipped breakfast or forgot to brush her teeth? Or if aliens landed and fed her ice cream? My wife was full of bumbling doubt. I, decided, and irritated by her, laid down the law, and told her J would be going. In the little triangle, of Anna, Joanna and myself, the union between myself and Joanna has always been strong, often to the detriment of our relationships with Anna.

Of course those who think, like certain members of my family did, that Anna simply married me so as to acquire the security and support necessary to raise her child, may indeed possess a grain of truth in their deductions. Certainly Anna’s previous boyfriend, the father of Jo was a rough and tough, field-playing rogue; myself the plain and grounded husband material. But I don’t really care. They came as a package, the ties of love were true between us, and I was glad to throw in my lot with them. They provided the happiness and love I needed in my life.
I think I will now describe one particular memory that sticks in my mind: a holiday spent on the west coast of England. Such days, such times, gone forever now, but the likes of which formed the happiest days of my life.

It was the Whitsuntide half term holiday. We set off on the Sunday morning in our car, such a feeling of freedom and adventure possessing our hearts and especially the young Joanna’s. Enthused, bright and innocent, up for some fun, an adventure – how uplifting youth is, to the down trodden and dispirited like myself. J’s joy was infectious, I felt it too, felt those feelings of my childhood rekindled. By evening we were nearly at our destination. We stopped off for dinner at a motorside café, the little chef, beloved of children (and adults) everywhere.

How good it was, on this Sunday evening, this holiday, to relax and unwind in the knowledge that we had a week off, a whole week of liberated amusement up ahead of us. God to be free. Let on the loose for a week. How glorious. Especially so for the young Jo. She studied the menu rapturously, deciding what to have.

‘Are we having a dessert, Bertie’ she asked of me, employing her favourite nickname.

‘No, we’re just here to have a meal dear’ said my wife. ‘You’ll get something sweet later, when we get home to the cottage.’

‘Argh!’ I immediately burst in ‘I had my heart set on cherry and pancakes.’

‘Oh don’t be encouraging her’ said my wife, annoyed that I was playing up. ‘We’ll get something later. It’s so terribly expensive.’

‘Well I won’t have anything then’ I said, deliberately childish. J beamed, her dark, brown eyes lit up, like a little animal with joy.

‘No, me neither’ she said, playing the game.

My wife soon saw it was two against one, and being in a good mood gave in. We got two desserts in the end – J was desperate for a waffle with treacle and cream – and we shared them between the three of us, J and I not liking Anna to miss out, and wishing to sample each others dishes.

Such a simple, genuine thing: swapping desserts with my daughter, her eyes, face and entire soul lit up and beaming. Not wishing Anna to miss out; sharing, so that everyone got a bite; and sharing for sharing’s sake – not each person, keeping their own dish for themselves; but sharing – almost as if to say how much we loved each other. My dear wife, my darling little daughter. How simple, how loving. The joy of it. The happiest part of my life. Where did such days go to, never to return? It almost brings a tear of regret to my eye.

We settled into our holiday cottage that night. J and I had wanted to go camping, but Anna had talked us out of it. Certainly it was a very homely cottage. Joanna enthusiastically went about exploring, looking in the bathroom, the kitchen, delighted with her own bedroom, and the free towels and soap.

The next morning she was up and about exploring; the sprightly waif, beaming and excited, running off to look around the camp. By midday we found ourselves at the seaside. To be honest the weather was awful: gloomy, overcast and raining. As well as this the entire seaside resort was run down and deserted. We went to a fun fair, J determined to go on the waltzers, the roller coaster, the dodgems; her mother horrified, frightened, arguing with her; I stepping in, telling my wife to calm down, that you have to take risks in life, you have to live, and going on all the rides with J.

To be honest, now that I recollect all of this – the miserable, run down fun fair, with its shooting galleries, its rides, its silly prizes; the mindless, depressing amusement arcade, which like the fun fair really belonged and does belong to a bygone era; the miserable and lonely walk we took thereafter along the beach; the cold, windy, wet day, the grey sea flecked with white sea horses; waves crashing in a cataclysm of froth, noise and foaming; the irritation of sand in my feet and in between my toes; the loneliness and isolation we all felt, as we traipsed, unsure what to do with ourselves, through this barren and deserted tourist town, so unwelcoming and unfriendly – when I recall all of this, I see that back then too, even with the ever buoyant J by our side, Anna and I were really very sad and lonely, and our mood infected poor J. Yes, it would be a fallacy to look upon this part of my life with rose tinted glasses and claim it was all so good. No, that was quite a miserable first day we had then; the loneliness, the profound feeling of being unhappy – my wife and I knew it all too well back then.

So we walked along the beach, the energetic J, running ahead, searching for treasures washed up by the sea, or skipping and splashing at the water’s edge. She had a ride on a pony, my wife again objecting on health and safety grounds, I again intervening to make it two against one. After that we all ate some pink candy floss. Later on, in one of her scouting missions J headed off ahead and discovered an object of interest. She stood above it waving and yelling for us to come and see it.

It was a stranded eel I believe. Quite how it had landed in its predicament was hard to tell. But it had been washed ashore somehow, and lay breathing badly, wriggling and in distress on the sand. J, loving all animals – she’d nurtured back to health injured birds, wounded field mice and even an ailing hedgehog previously – was desperate to help. When I caught up and stood over the poor, squirming creature, I cast a cool but interested glance at it.

‘I think it’s an eel’ I said curiously, ‘I don’t know how it’s ended up like this.’

‘Does it need to go back in the sea?’ asked J.

We decided to lift it back to the sea. J, impressively anti-squeamish, picked the thing up, and carried the slimy, squirming creature to the water’s edge. Yet however hard we tried to reintroduce it to the water, the tide, coming inwards, washed it ashore again.

We made several attempts. By now the rain was falling hard: the grey clouds had finally broken, it was chucking it down. The tide drove in, the grey waves rolling and crashing, their leading edge breaking furiously into foam. Having waded in, my jeans were wet at the bottom and stuck to my legs. It felt as though there were fountains at the bottom of my trainers.

We made several efforts, each time venturing further in; but each time the helpless creature being washed up anew. It was like a mini disaster. For all that J and I were wet, soaking and sweating, engaged in our task, we both knew we had to help this creature. It was our mission somehow, an adrenaline hit for both of us.

After several failed efforts, we hatched a new plan. The water where we stood was just too shallow. Nearby however, there was a craggy rock pool that reached far out; by running out along this we might reach deeper water, in which to release the eel.
To my poor wife who observed all of this; saw J and myself enter the water in the first place; and then make a second sortie out onto this rock pool – to my poor wife this must have been some horror show. We heard her screams and her pleading, begging us to cease our ludicrous shenanigans, to stop giving her a heart attack. At the time we just ignored these as we routinely did: she was worrying over nothing, so we thought. Yet in retrospect, my God she had a point! Even the sea itself, in these parts, is notoriously deceptive; mud flats, uneven surfaces, tales of paddlers caught out by incoming tides – we could have easily been swept away simply by entering the sea; but to make an expedition out along that low-lying rock pool, slippy and treacherous with wet and algae as it was, when the tide was coming in, with mist descending and limiting vision and when there wasn’t a lifeguard within miles – good God my wife had every right to be petrified.

J and I ran out across the rock pool with pace, recklessly stepping across the stones. Reaching the periphery we considered throwing it in. However the periphery was not quite the periphery: a ledge on a lower level to that on which we stood protruded yet further; and in order to avoid throwing the eel onto these rocks I decided to lower myself onto this very ledge. The keen J was right on my heels. Telling her to back off and be careful, I lowered myself down the side of the rock pool; hanging at arm’s length, then allowing myself to drop the remainder. Yet I lost my footing as I fell, slipping on the rock.

J screamed. Immediately I was up, my knee and shin stinging with pain. The rain pounded, the foam spewed over, crashing against the rock. To my wife who watched all from ashore, some 60 metres off, and saw J and myself at the precipe of the rock pool; saw the raging sea, battering against the rocks, the white foam spewing over us; saw the white sea mist envelop our distant figures; saw my figure disappear out of sight as I descended the reverse side of the rock pool; heard J scream – dear Lord what must she have thought. In the end, my legs soaked and paining, I nevertheless proceeded with the task; J lowering the wriggling eel down to me, and I taking it in my arms, then turning, bending over the side and lowering it in. In the deep water it swam away.

J helped me clamber back up; and then the two of us, wary all of a sudden of the serious peril we were in as the mist descended, carefully made our way back to Anna, who quite rightly didn’t speak to us all the way home.

Though I see clearly now the danger I allowed myself and my child to get into; and though it could’ve ended disastrously with the two of us stranded or swept out to sea, still, for all that, I would do it all over again, and allow J too as well. There was something in our nature to take risks like that; we loved the adrenaline of it. It was a great kick at the misery of our lives.

We arrived back at the cottage soaked to the skin. We had one of those old-fashioned blazing fires, and we both sat in front of it, soggy, wet and bedraggled, drying out, getting warm, our clothes beginning to itch as we dried and they didn’t. We drank hot chocolate and ate chocolate biscuits. And that moment remains in my head. Of the two of us relieved and renewed after our mission, so glad to be indoors and by the fire and safe again. The grey storm persisting outside, ourselves safe and secure inside. Relaxed and cosy after successfully completing our mission. Both of us happy, reclining, the warmth of the fire in front of us; the cherub J innocently getting chocolate on her face; my wife, now forgiving us, going about making dinner, and ordering us – in an endearing way – to take showers. Then the lovely hot shower, the novelty and simple pleasure of showering in a shower that isn’t your own, the mystery and excitement of complimentary soaps and towels; and then finally J and I, returning with wet hair, dried and dressed in fresh, crisp, clean clothes and sitting at the dining table chatting, my wife preparing dinner in the background; a delectable assortment of cold ham and chicken, fresh, crusty bread, salad and hard boiled eggs, crisps and freshly baked pie. Yes, me with my wet hair and my cold beer, J with her wet hair and her coke, both of us sitting there satisfied and waiting as Anna prepared such a delicious meal for us all. How beautiful.

I could probably enumerate many such fond memories. I have a wealth of little images, small gleanings of our previous happy life. I see Anna and myself sat on stools at our home mini-bar, a miniscule brewery we had in our home; whilst J dashed around at our feet, excited, lively, playing. Or J and I taking a train ride out to an animal sanctuary in the countryside for a school project she was doing. Myself middle aged, bearded, bespectacled, dressed in my fleece; the fresh young teenage girl sitting next to me, needing me, leaning toward me in security as we looked out the window together.

Or beautiful summer evenings on a Friday, when we would open the patio doors, allow the summer night to invade the house and go out in the garden and have a BBQ. I the chef this time, the intoxicating delight of its smell; the delicious hot beef burgers and sausages, the crisps, the salad, the cheese and pickled onion sticks, washed down with orange and coke; the languid summer evening, as we sat in the hazy, smoky air, eating our meal, relaxing, listening as the fountain poured soothingly into the fish pond; the last red beams of day, falling gloriously on the water. So many good memories.

Of course there were many bad ones as well. Shortly after meeting my wife we had our first quarrel, and we’ve been having them ever since. Usually it is because we don’t see eye to eye on something very trifling and petty; and I think I would be justified in accusing my wife of being small minded and over prim. But it’s not really the point. At heart I know it is because we are both deeply unhappy, that we are both sensitive beings in this lonely, Godless world that leads us time and again to argue; we feel low, we feel lonely; and because we have only each other, and no one else; and because we know there is no solution for us, our unhappiness manifests itself in petit bickering, arguments and quarrels. Which is not to say we haven’t had some showdowns, we have. On many occasions we’ve considered separation, divorce – though I think we’ve weathered that stage now. It’s just at the end of the day and in my heart I understand my wife perfectly and it’s pointless to level blame at her.

Joanna grew up. Her teenage years followed in a similar vein to her childhood; as ever she was mature, intelligent and alive. She studied hard and well, though enjoying herself along the way, a rebel against her mother, an ally of myself, clever, witty, strong and independent. Eventually she went off to university.

When she did so – to study as a vet – it didn’t at first hit home to us. Because she was so close at hand and visited regularly, rang regularly, and we went out to see her and sent her packages, we didn’t really notice in the first year. In fact we were somehow under the false illusion that nothing had really changed. Actually we’d been somewhat prepared for it. So when the second year came around, and she had more of her own friends now, visited less and called less, it was something of a hammer blow.

That second autumn and winter was simply dreadful. I had never felt so morose in a long time. My wife and I finally came to see that our little chick had flown the nest. On those dark, dark evenings it was impossible not to get depressed, to feel that sense of loss, the loss of youth, of verve; that terrible sense, creeping sadly upon us, that we were no longer needed anymore. The sad, empty house, the lonely dark evenings. My wife and I dispirited, unable almost to face each other, bored by our persons, irritated and annoyed with ourselves, thinking on our daughter. Feeling deep, deep sadness at her absence, almost crying to think just how fond we had been of her, almost as if she’d died; hoping for the telephone to ring; wanting to break down and cry and ask her to please come home, my dear, to fill the awful void of our lives. Thinking how only eighteen months previously, we’d taken her so for granted, as though she’d always be there, wasting our time in rowing and arguing, door banging, moods and teenage nonsense. My wife and I knew it was the beginning of the end.

Some ten years on, I guess it is easier to handle: we long ago accepted our doom. Anyway she’s a vet these days, is J, still as she was, and like her mother when I met her, caring, independent, a force for good. We see her fairly regularly in fact; but it is never enough. We can’t base our lives around her. She is free, independent, we have to prepare our lives without her. Any solution that my wife and I may try to seek, to improve our situation, must, we now realise, be done under the assumption that she no longer needs us, is independent, and that we are on our own. That part of our life is over.

So that then is something of where I came from, my life story. People sometimes ask me if I regret not having children of my own. The answer to that is a definite no. Morose, depressed and moody, somehow I always knew and was happy that I would be the last of my kind off the production-line. Having children, seems to me, to be a way in which people dodge the real problems of life; stealing off and hiding themselves away in the process of child rearing, no longer thinking or philosophizing, or trying to appreciate the purpose of life; smugly passing on the baton to their children; who in turn, are expected to be infinitely grateful to their parents for their grand sacrifice, and prepared to tax their brains, face the misery and depression of life and to cope with the banality of being alive. No, by avoiding all of that, I feel proud and wise. I haven’t lived a lie. The real business of life, the misery, the desire for something more, the hopes and disappointments of reality – I have looked all this directly in the eye. I haven’t looked to avoid it. And with all my problems, my inherent misery and gloom, how could I ever justify bringing a child into the world; how could I answer its questions honestly? No, I am preserved, just as I ever was, proud of my ability to see through the mirage of life and not be fooled by deceitful illusions. I will live out my days always looking for a solution to my problems, and probably never finding one. I will go to my grave, knowing my death heralds the extinction of my line. And that is good. I feel pleased by the thought of it. What on earth would’ve been the point of creating progeny; of siring a mini-version of myself, replete with angst, anger, misery and gloom? How could I ever have faced such a child? It would’ve been like looking in the mirror. My offspring would only have annoyed me. I was lucky to land up with J; for in her, and her buoyant personality, I found escape from the inherent dismal persuasion of my own. She was great, and I have to say, I was fortunate to inherit her when a child; for the debacle of pregnancy, of raising a baby, the nappy-changing, spoon-feeding, up all hours routine of servicing an incontinent vegetable – that would never have been for me.

And in Anna and J I was given access to the world of women, and with that I was satisfied. It was more than enough for me. Without it, I would’ve missed out. My anger may have turned to aggression; I would’ve always felt an outsider in regards the female sex. But with those two, I felt sated and at peace. Even the company of women, the sound of their voice, their smell, the very difference of their nature, every man, I say, needs this in his life, even if just from time to time. Without it he’ll go insane.

J has had many suitors. She’s had to reject many of them. Sensitive men seem especially attracted to her – men who by and large dislike women in general. Intellects, other vets and doctors, self-made business men. It’s funny that, sensitive girl though she is, she treats most of these suitors fairly harshly. Naturally I see it from the male perspective; but I never go against J or point out to her, her apparent lack of feeling; on the contrary I support her and attempt to understand her viewpoint, agreeing that she was right in her actions. This is one of the ironies of life; on another day, in other circumstances, I could’ve been one of those downcast, upset, heartbroken men, denied access to J’s life, considered weird and strange. Yet with her I’m persona gratis, invited into the very heart of her world. Her mother and herself accepted and loved me – with that I am bought off. Some abstract, general sense of viewing the world, tells me to stick up for my fellow man, to chastise my women; but selfishness prevails, my ego is the thing, the tight knit bonds between myself and J and Anna outweigh, by a million fold, any abstract love of A.N.Others. And so it should be. Ultimately we’re all alone in this world, designed to compete against each other. When I was down and dispirited as a young man, no one stepped in to help me, save Anna and J. In return they get my loyalty. Life is not made up of a general love for all. It is made up of small and meaningful bonds to a handful of individuals; individuals chosen at random, so that one hundred girls may reject you without rhyme or reason and the next one consider you perfect.

I want to finally say something on love. Like I say, I did genuinely fall in love. True love. Yet it is so spliced, cut and laced with other feelings that it is impossible not to consider the notion of love with at least a crumb of contempt. Physical attraction plays its part. I loved Anna’s personality yes; but also she was comely. Would my love for her have been the same if she’d been plainer? And now, looking at how she’s changed, could I really fall in love with that ageing woman? Hasn’t my love for her diminished precisely as her looks have faded? Yet having said all that I am not convinced: love always fades even if looks don’t, and I could never have fallen in love with many a beautiful woman.
Love is I believe, as someone once said, a psychosis that lasts for six months. After that, a lasting bond is formed; but in everyday life, both partners become neutral with one another, accustomed to their presence. Yes, love is magical when it illuminates you: it is a burning flame. And gradually that flame diminishes, as its energy, its heat, is used to cement and form, a stable, boring, yet useful bond. Love is like a volcanic eruption; what follows when it cools is the enduring union and hegemony, the formed, cool and collected mountain range, strong, sturdy and inert.

That love is relative seems true to me. I always felt more at ease when with Anna and J alone; for then I was free to love them and be natural, true to myself. In the presence of others my behaviour was affected. Almost as if it’s a competition, yet it mattered to me, for the world to see me with the lovely Anna and J, and to reconsider my status as a man. Such things were petty I know, and trounced on those purer, nobler feelings of love that befell me. Yet all the same it is how we are programmed: to show off. By the same token, as Anna’s looks faded, I have often found myself in company, often at weddings, feeling dispirited on account of my old and dowdy wife; sad that she can no longer lift my status, but rather only confirm my role as a loser. Such things are trifling and unimportant in theory but irritating and depressing in reality. And in the company of others, especially those you don’t know or like – such as at weddings which I loathe whole heartedly – these feelings arise.

Even my own wedding, I spent in the end feeling gloomy and dispirited. I somehow had to be the centre of attention, the chief male for the day. It wasn’t natural that my brothers say, so much more manly than I, should pretend to play second fiddle for the day, whilst I sat in pole position, captain of the table. The role ill-suited me. No, the genuinely meant, yet patronising back slapping and hand shaking of my brothers, welcoming me into the world of men; the talk of all the women, looking at me with renewed eyes, their opinions of me reassessed, false looks of pretended interest in me thrown my way, the acknowledgement that I had landed a pretty little wife; the view of my family that I was somehow normal now, just like they, thank God; the whole evolutionary, primitive-animal dynamic of the wedding day, with relatives and friends gathered, most of whom you don’t really like, all ogling and judging each other, how pretty, how beautiful, how strong, the feeling that my love for Anna, our love, had to be tainted, corrupted, by the tacky views of onlookers; that sense of hierarchy, of alpha males and lesser males, alpha females and lesser females; all of that taints love, and shows me, I think, that we should look on love with suspicious eyes; and see it cynically, as just another time-worn ritual, heretofore a million-times played out, employed by evolution to keep the species going. For all that though, there is something magical in falling in love, something esoteric. And for he or she who never felt it, I can only express sympathy.

Two months in the life of miserable old, me: Part 1

2009-04-10T06:00:00.000-07:00

Saturday 12th January.

I’m sitting with my wife in the orbit café on what is a very relaxing Saturday afternoon. We finished our coffee a while ago, but she is reading her book, I my newspaper, both of us happily lingering in the genial atmosphere of this café. The bustle of it, the talk of people around us, the music – all of this is very soothing to us, and it’s lovely to come out here and escape from ourselves, our marriage, our loneliness and somehow feel connected to the world.

As well as the ambiance of the café and the buzz of Saturday afternoon, there’s also a mood of freshness in the air, it being the tenth of January. The misery and doom of Christmas and New Year is now over, and really, I have to admit to feeling quite positive and hopeful about life for some reason.

And so I thought I’d take this opportunity to begin writing my ‘story’. I say ‘story’ because I’m not really sure what exactly it’s going to be yet. It may well be a diary. But I don’t know, I just felt like writing something about my life; it was a New Year’s resolution that I promised myself, and feeling unusually energised this afternoon, I thought I’d make a start. I just want to write a bit about my life. Perhaps to try and explain myself, perhaps as a therapeutic device. I’m really not quite sure.

So then my wife and I are sat at our table. To the onlooker, who sees me with my newspaper and her with her book, sitting here ignoring each other, occasionally snappy and short with one another – my wife trying to tell me something, pointing surreptitiously to above her mouth, indicating. I confused, she getting angry. Wondering what on earth she wants, then realising that I obviously have cream on my face and with embarrassment wiping it off – to the onlooker we look like the typical, middles class, ageing, married couple. Frustrated and unhappy with our lives, lonely; yet all the same sensitive and hopeful, come here to the café in the (admittedly vain) hopes of meeting other people, of socialising, of bumping into I don’t know who, who’s going to miraculously wave their magic wand and rescue us, my wife and I, from the treadmill doom of our lives, and give us back that happiness that once seemed, in our youth, our God given right.

My wife and I usually bicker and argue. Today at least out shopping in town, we were both sufficiently happy at heart that it didn’t take a nasty turn. By the time we reached the café, and sat down to have coffee and lunch, our spirits rose and we were able to put aside the quarrel. On other days though it can get really bad. Thankfully not today.

So we came and sat in the café, not saying a single word to each other, ignoring each other, yet somehow eternally bonded, just like the earth and the moon, or the sun and the earth or what you will. We neither of us have many friends, and ironically it is our marriage, our close union, that has led to our profound loneliness. As she reads and I read, we are both secretly hoping that someone else will approach, perhaps a young person, for her a young man, for me a young lady, though I don’t really care, and bowl us over with the spirit of youth; someone positive and radiant, who can listen to all our problems and complaints, listen to our life stories and bring us back into the world of the living. My wife I know………oh what’s this?……She’s asking what on earth I’m doing, scowling at me furtively, as though it’s a crime to write. I think she knows I’m writing some sort of memoir, or analytical thesis of my life, our marriage and our problems. She’s not impressed at all, and scowls, irritated at me, as though to tell me not to embarrass her and the entire world by writing. Anyway as I was saying I know my wife often talks about going to a psychiatrist to talk of her problems. She is, like me, desperately unhappy. She wants more from life, she wants understanding.

Of course in the end, nobody and no solution, miraculously jumps out of the walls of the café, to rescue my wife and I from the misery of our fate. We are alone, in a lonely world, and only have one another. No one will save us, and we are, as someone once said, like two convicts chained together, left on a rudderless dinghy, floating aimlessly through the emptiness of a dark and barren ocean.

Monday 19th January.

I don’t feel like writing at all today but am forcing myself to do it. Ten days have elapsed since I made that last positive entry. Needless to say that positive mood soon deserted me, I felt sick, sad and sulphourous and in no mood to write and so didn’t. Now I’ve decided to force myself, otherwise it’s not going to happen. I have to do something. There has to be some point to life.

All day and as I write now – I’ve been in the house all day! What a mistake! – I have felt infinitely, infinitely doleful: depressed, low and angry. Just dreadful. On a Monday, especially now that I no longer work, I often feel like this. So, so depressed, so that my stomach aches, moody, angry and aggressive. The last thing I want or desire is sympathy. I loathe myself when I’m like this, loathe myself. I am absolutely vile. I feel such pent up anger in my stomach and breast, I feel so low and dispirited….I just can’t explain it.

I am so irritated and could barely sit with my wife through dinner this evening. She served up her favourite, foulest, platter of filth – the starchy, tasteless, disgusting jacket potato and salmon. I wasn’t even hungry in the first place; but to be forced to plough my way through this bland, lumpy, choking food, so hard to swallow that I had to take drink after drink; when a depression, an irritable and bitter anger is rankling within me, chafing the pit of my stomach and making my nerves jangle and tingle with pins and needles like irritation so that I would just love to whack my wife across the face or slaughter her with my knife; to serve me this dry, dry food which is barely swallowable, when she knows, I mean knows, that I detest it and have done for God knows how long; and as I force my way through this gruelling test, struggling to force the filth down me, my spirits sinking – God I was suicidal – oh so, so low – persistently having to stop myself from standing up and screaming bitterly, angrily, pathetically, violently, displaying all my unspoken unhappiness; as I do all this, as I find myself so bile-invested and oven-baked, as a cauldron of sulphur bubbles away in my innards, I find that she is in one of her gormless moods, where she says nothing, where she is withdrawn and anaemic, a ghoul, a corpse, a zombie and so I stare angrily at her, she oblivious, the mirthless, evil look in my eye scouring over her face, her ageing, horrible face, the coarse and fattening skin, the ever more prominent moustache, her dry, stale hair, the sticky out ears – the look of worn out misery makes her face look awful like a half deflated football, you’d like to punch and stamp on; the tarted up face; her make up unable to hide her ageing skin, her dissatisfied spirits; as I see the mankiness of her face and hair, like a dog that’s had its day, recall how her breath is now bad, just like the dog’s, just like my own – when I see and think all this! – God I’d love to kill her. She was actually attractive in her youth. But as she’s gotten older and when she’s unhappy and doesn’t smile; when moods of withdrawal or dissatisfaction infest her, then God she’s an ugly pig.

I’m disgusted with myself for all of this. When I am in one of these moods, there is no positive thought at hand to lift me. Depression in some of its forms may in some ways be healthy. Sometimes its good to feel sad – it shows a sensitive spirit. But when it comes at you like this, mixed up with such pent up rage, hatred, anger and loathing, so that any seine human being can only be yet further depressed by their own inhumanity; when nothing, utterly nothing can lift you, when it is clear as day that there is no God, no meaning, no hope, no nothing; on such a day I don’t know what to do or where to put myself. You just have to ride out the storm, brutal as it may be. Thinking of stabbing my wife through the neck with a knife is not a healthy state of mind to be in; but it is the state that I’m in.

Tuesday 20th January

I’m feeling better today thank God. Perhaps it just being Tuesday has perked me up. Also I went for an early morning walk with my dog; the purity of the morning, the joy of exercise; the sweet smell of the fresh countryside in the morning dew – all of this was so salutary. As well as this my wife has been irritable today, which rather perversely has cheered me up. I don’t know, I guess I just prefer her when she vents her anger on me. I dislike her when she is withdrawn and gormless, I dislike it when she loses all hope that she stops communicating. So it was nice that we argued a bit and she got angry with me: it means she still has hope that her problems can be solved; in complaining about them to me, she is actually showing some far of hope that her life can get better.

This evening lifted yes, but still in a somewhat sombre mood, I spent forty-five minutes looking at myself naked in the full length bathroom mirror (my wife thought I was in the bath). My naked body really depresses me now. I was never like this when young, and never imagined such a shallow thing could affect one like myself, usually so unconcerned about these things. But it is depressing. I guess in the first place I should describe my general appearance. Physically I’m pretty insignificant. I’m small and thin. My looks are plain at best, my skin coarse and porridgey, the legacy of acute acme in my teenage days. I’ve been balding since twenty-one, and my nose is red. My teeth aren’t great either: manky, miscoloured, misshapen. Though I would never have said that my physical appearance ever really perturbed me too much, now as I get older I see that, the morose and uptight, unhappy persuasion that has been mine throughout life, must at least to some extent be attributed to my physical inferiority. I realise this now somewhat. For had I been, like my brothers, taller, stronger and of better physical pedigree, I think I would’ve had a more relaxed and happier approach to life, would’ve been more at home in this world like they. Especially, I acknowledge now, that my small stature, must have had a strong bearing on my moods, my role in life, my character.

But like I say, I feel my looks have indirectly and from a distance been a cause of my moroseness; low and dispirited as I’ve been throughout my life, I never spent ages in front of the mirror, wishing I had better looks as if that were the key to my unhappiness. No, not at all. I always felt that it was simply in my constitution, my genetic make up to be so. I always felt my problems were of the heart, mind and spirit, not of the body.

So never really prone to worry too much about my looks, even now, in clothes I don’t feel overly worried about myself. But the naked human body, the ageing naked body, this is something that profoundly depresses me.

As I stand in front of the mirror I can see my feeble, pathetic, pasty-white insignificant body: the shoulders and chest, so feeble, unmanly, underdeveloped. Why could I not have inherited the broad, beautiful shoulders of my brothers? Mine are so angular, slanting, so weak and puny. So non-existent. My chest also is as if not present. My nipples are there; but the muscle is missing. My chest looks flat and weany. Plus it’s covered in ugly black chest hair which conceals what chest I do have. Worse than this I’m beginning to get deposits of fat in my pecs, so that my chest is getting saggy.

Yet I am even more depressed by my stomach. Had I been a larger, more burly or overweight man, I don’t think it would look so out of place. But on me, on my skinny frame, it is immensely and profoundly demoralising to see my expanding waist. I don’t know, I wouldn’t even say it’s that large. But unsupported by any muscle tension, as I stand in front of the mirror, it sags and bevels to such an alarming degree, almost making me appear, after a meal, pregnant. My body shape is all wrong. On top no shoulders, no chest, no power. And this insipidness of upper body eventually giving way to the unsupported abdomen which bloats out, naturally I have to say, but all the same so unsatisfactorily.

And when I compare my awful body to the fantastic images our society is constantly inundated with, of muscular men with brawny chests and beautiful shoulders tapering down to a slim, toned six pack stomach, the inverse of my body, how can I not feel but depressed? Don’t get me wrong, I know my body is natural. I know my body is the one dished out to the good majority of men. I know the falsity of celebrity image, that behind the façade that these hunks present, their lives are often incredibly miserable, they are just as depressed as me, their bodies are drug-enhanced, and eventually they loose their shape, succumbing to the natural human vices of gourmandizing and slacking off, as well as succumbing to age. It has never bothered me that some brain-dead, infantile Hollywood star with his pecs, abs and macho body should live his life as he does; the facts are there is more to life. I am intelligent and sensitive, in the end the mind and spirit outlasts the body. It is shallow to obsess oneself with one’s looks. Yet for all this I have to confess, at times, and more so as I age, I am profoundly depressed by the state of my body.

The skin gets saggier as well. And mine is so pale and white, so anaemic. It is not pretty. Warts and blotches appear here and there. As I look into the mirror I see my loinal region. It is revolting. My saggy, hanging stomach bevels over the foul coarse hair of my pubis. My small and misshaped penis, hangs over my disproportionally large testicles. My penis looks, and is pathetic. It should be a leader somehow, dominating the testes. Instead the testes appear large and dissatisfied; irritated by the lack of leadership afforded by the feeble penis. My scrotum is saggy. There are some warts on it. Enough.

When I came out of the bathroom, my wife who’d been waiting outside, exchanged a suspicious glance with me. We didn’t say anything but just walked past each other, each of us expressing irritation with the other, in the manner, the close, intimate manner, that has become habitual to us over the past twenty years. I think she knows that I had and have been looking at my body, and that it depresses me, even though we never talk of such things. My wife has not seen my naked body very much over the last ten years. I have only very rarely seen hers in that time. We avoid such things like the plague. As we grow older (and beginning at the point when Joanna, our child, left for university) the mere thought of getting naked with one another, of making love is utterly, utterly nauseous and repulsive. Physically, emotionally and spiritually it would be just unbearable, traumatic. God it would be dreadful. It would open up a Pandora’s box that we are desperate to keep a lid on.

My wife, I know, is incredibly, profoundly depressed by her body. Again she is no shallow person. Not one to be obsessed by celebrity culture. On the contrary she has always been a sensitive, intelligent, decent and kind woman. Yet she is mortified at times over the state of her body. Perhaps as a woman, and perhaps because when younger she was an attractive girl, so that she has been accustomed to linking her looks to her personality – perhaps because of this it is more depressing for her than for me. Certainly in her caring role as a nurse, that she held when younger, her kindness, leadership and the good feeling she infested her charges with, so that the people she cared for were flattered that she cared for them – certainly all of this went hand in glove with her good looks as a young woman. She was something of an angel. And it would’ve been hard to say back then, that that woman could ever be so upset by anything so shallow as her appearance. She seemed so strong and wise you see, and even, in the way she cared for all and sundry, and chose plain old me as her husband, to be disinterested in people’s looks, even to despise good looks. But perhaps that applied to other people and not herself. For herself she liked to be beautiful, it gave her power. It came as something of a surprise to me then, to see that woman so sure of herself, gradually loose her confidence as she aged and lost her looks. As her beauty faded and people thought less of her because of it, she really took it to heart and was acutely aware of her loss of power. And so realising she was less willing to take an interest in other people’s lives, as though she were not wanted anymore; as though it was a bit absurd and embarrassing that an old trout like herself should try and care for other people’s problems. She felt more insignificant, no longer needed. She became more and more withdrawn and deflated, and as a reaction to feeling herself no longer wanted, deliberately huffy with people, uncommunicative. For example, just recently, at a wedding, so many of my family, recalling the spirited, youthful, ever so pleasant Anna of old and seeing the evidence of her physical demise, and feeling sorry for her, made a genuine effort to talk to her. But she answered their questions sparingly and huffily; as though my relatives were just being kind to an old lady. Anyway she is withdrawn and depressed.

And I’ve seen her body. It is, sadly, I have to say, depressing. Her pale skin like mine. The build up of excessive cellulite in the thighs and buttocks. The saggy, bloated stomach; her pear shaped, dumpy body; the old, wrinkling, saggy skin, the coarseness, the warts. The contours of her body tapering hideously around her huge stomach and her huge thighs and finishing at her vagina. The sheer mankiness of the ageing, female genitals, that makes you want to wretch – her pubic area is so misshaped, almost inverted in comparison to that of a fresh, young nymph. Her stomach sags over it from above; her thighs sag onto it from the sides; and the thing itself, surrounded by manky pubic hair, fattened and expanded, saggy and inverted – I cannot express my horror of it.

And in an age of perfect breasts, of unnatural cosmetic breasts, my wife has every reason to feel ashamed and dispirited with hers. Not buxom in youth, it is unclear whether she has any breast left now. Whatever it is that fills her bra, be it fat deposits or breast tissue, lies to the outer edge of each side of her chest; precisely, it is sagging on the west side to her south west, and on the east side to her south east. Two small pockets of breast tissue or fat, miles apart, pointing down and outwards, looking saggy, misshapen and long ago moribund.

This is the fate of most women. It is to indicate that they are past the age of child rearing, to put men off. Go to any of earth’s primitive tribes and you will see women with exactly these breasts. They are utterly natural, but foul and hideous in comparison, with those of a young maiden, and with modern imagery. I do not know what to say. I have seen my wife naked on a few occasions. The feeble saggy breasts, the overhanging stomach, the manky, inverted pubis region – God it is awful. Clothing forms such a profound, profound part of the human condition. Without clothes the human body is by and large dreadful. When I see my naked wife, I think of an ape woman.

Perception and Delusion

2009-04-10T05:20:00.001-07:00

One Sunday at noon, a woman exited a church. It was the first time she’d been in a long while, and she felt pleased by herself as if she’d just taken part in something onerous but worthwhile. The people had been so nice. One man in particular, whom she’d shaken hands with and said ‘peace be with you’ had made a deep impression on her.

‘What a nice man, what a genuinely nice man. It’s people like him who make the church. They’re kind, courteous and respectful, they’re pleasant to all, irrespective of what they are like, what they look like. They take the Christian attitude to heart. They go week in week out to church, and don’t have a bad bone in their bodies. It’s from people like that that I have to learn.’

In her heart however she thought him a bit of a bore. As a woman she could never find that sort of man sexually appealing. His grey beard; his skinny, scrawny looking body; his intellectual looking face, his spectacles and unmanly bearing; his niceness, sensitivity and meekness – none of this attracted her, and she found him, in that sense, contemptible. She liked her men to be men.

However she wanted to make peace with the world. She was getting older now, and was more and more lonely. It wasn’t a time to be petit. You had to open your heart and love everyone, even if you felt disinclined to. Otherwise you couldn’t say you were a good person. That man was exactly the sort of person she’d often been derogative of in the past, the sort she’d bullied at school. But she didn’t want to be nasty anymore. She wanted to be fair to all.

‘He is a really nice man. I mean so what if he isn’t cool, if he doesn’t feel at home in a nightclub or at a party or doesn’t have fun. So what if he prefers staying in the house, reading a book or studying the Bible. So what if he doesn’t know how to dress well, or looks a bit of a misfit. Who cares if he sports a beard like that. At the end of the day it doesn’t matter.’

She genuinely wanted to be kind. If she couldn’t make room in her heart for men like him, she really wouldn’t be happy with herself. He was a million miles away from the world she inhabited, the fashionable, chic, trendy world, the world of partying and having fun. But that wasn’t important.

She headed into town and went and had a coffee. She was so pleased with herself for having gone to church and for having felt good thoughts, that now she felt she deserved a treat. It was time to relax. She pulled out a celebrity gossip magazine and started to read. She was glad to get back to this bright, happy world after the stuffy tedium of church.

Shortly after she had left the church a man had come out. It was the first time he’d been to church in a long while.

‘What a nice woman, what a genuinely nice woman. It’s women like her who make the church what it is. Rain, snow or shine they’re always there. They have such good, pure hearts, they have given themselves up to Christianity entirely. That woman is a bride of Christ. The love of Jesus runs through her heart and soul, it flows through her veins. She thinks of orphans, of the homeless, she helps the hungry, the destitute. She is good, honest and decent. I have to learn from people like her, I have to.’

In his heart however the woman was not quite his cup of tea. Apart from the fact that he found her common, uneducated and anti-intellectual, she was also unattractive, not his idea of a woman at all, not with her corpulent, lumpy body shape or her red hair. And her outfit was drab and dowdy. It clashed with her hair.

Yet he knew he had to learn to like her. He had recently gone through a crisis in his life, felt lonely, unloved and out of sorts. And he’d come to realise that if you expected to get sympathy in this world, you had to be nice to all, to overlook such trivial things like appearance, especially in one such as that woman, who was so good and kind hearted, and who deserved to be loved. If he let his natural feelings run wild, he felt only annoyance and dislike of that undistinguished little woman. She was exactly the sort he had scoffed at and bullied at school. He just felt disinclined to like her, she didn’t appeal. Yet he knew that he had to like her, otherwise he wasn’t a good person.

‘She is a really wonderful woman. I mean so what if she’s a bit common and speaks with an accent, so what if she didn’t go to university or didn’t get an education. So what if she’s unattractive or dresses in such gaudy clothes. It’s her right to dress as she likes. You can’t go around persecuting people just because they’re a bit different. At the end of the day it doesn’t matter. And in any case, what a boring world it would be, if we were all the same.’

He genuinely wanted to be kind. Women like her were a million miles away from the world he inhabited, and she was not the sort he found attractive. His world was the world of intelligence, education, riches. He was a somebody in that world. And the woman whom he found attractive – young, slim, intelligent women – were fond of him and found his intellect a turn on, his beard distinguished. But it wasn’t nice not to give a thought to people like that woman, so clearly unnecessary in this happy little world. She obviously felt left out of it, jealous. There was no place for her in it. So he wanted to be kind to her, to be generous, for he wanted to be good.

He was quite a nasty man at heart, conceited and superior. He was prone to becoming snappy and irritable and rude with people. He was glad to have come out to church for once. It made him feel renewed. But he was glad now it was over, happy to get away. He had work to get on with this afternoon, and not looking forward to this, he resumed his typical, terse, irritable demeanour.

Chinese: Part 2

2009-04-10T05:09:00.000-07:00

‘And so’ pursued Neil, as Andrew and I tucked into a second bowl of fruit salad and the amazing frozen yoghurt, ‘and so I returned two weeks later refreshed after my vacation and looking forward to the new term and keen to meet my new flatmates. But boy was I in for a big surprise.

‘Even as I walked up the road to our halls there was a bad omen: a sports car racing at top speed, lurched around the corner, terrifying me and driving away into town. I wondered who in halls drove a sports car?

‘When I entered reception I found it swarming with Chinese. Some fancy looking girls, dressed up for a night out appeared to be waiting to go off to town. Others gobbled away to the receptionist, enquiring about something. Others spilled out of the bar, loitered in reception, went in and out of the lifts. Everywhere there were Chinese, everywhere there were yellow faces, everywhere was the noise of their ching-chang-chong vernacular. As I waited at reception to sign in, I saw another sports car pull up, driven by some cool Chinese dude. The Chinese women, in high heels and stockings, and with much hauteur and self-importance, went out and got in. This was something new altogether.

‘As I went up in the lift, I was already feeling like an outsider. I was overcome with such a feeling of petulance and pathetic hatred of Chinese people, as if I couldn’t stand to be around them. As I reached my floor and headed to my room, two people walked down the corridor: two Chinese people.

‘I decided to go and check out the kitchen. Hearing the noise of people there, I slowly and with caution entered. The first thing I noticed was that it was an utter tip, as though a bomb had hit it. Dirty dishes lay heaped everywhere, absolutely everywhere, and five or six rice cookers occupied the benches. A tall, muscular Chinese guy in a white vest pulled out a glass from the cupboard, filled it with milk, drank it back, burped, left the dirty glass on the bench top, and made to leave. As he did so he met my person barring the doorway and looking at him. He gazed at me with vacant, contemptuous eyes. I moved aside. He left.

‘Before me at the kitchen table I saw four young men, deep in conversation and eating their dinner. Three were Chinese, one, so I learnt later, a Frenchman. They spoke in English. They were clearly cool young people and considered themselves so, and paid no attention at all to me, the bespectacled philosophy student. I walked around the kitchen a bit and they continued to talk, heedless. It was as if I was an alien, an outsider, in what just two weeks earlier had been my home. And an undeniable, but persistent annoyance bit at me; an annoyance at having to be surrounded on all quarters by yellow faces. I went and spoke to my friend Wan.

‘‘You have returned home and seen the changes’ he said to me in a low, depressive voice, as if he was glad to have my company, to commiserate on the situation. ‘There are no girls, no girls at all. The demographic has changed. We are all men. Not even men really. Mostly they are aged twenty to twenty-three. We are now the oldest. Last year you and I were the youngest. They are so immature these new lot. I have kept my distance. Ten of them are Chinese! The Chinese are everywhere! We have been invaded! They are dirty rats! The curse of my people!’

‘Wan began to tell me of the new wave of Chinese students; and later on I was introduced to some of them. Although none were quite as original as Blake, there were, to be sure, some interesting characters. The first of these was Mathew.

‘Hello’ he said, shaking my hand in the kitchen one day. ‘I am Mathew, but everyone calls me Matt.’ He spoke with a slow, aristocratic English twang. He was a cool cat, always strolling around in his vest and flip-flops, showing of his biceps. He was also on the business management course.

‘Welcome’ he said ‘your name is Neil I understand. Welcome.’ I didn’t know how to react to this. Did he not know that I’d already been here a year? I put on an act of being inferior, self-deprecating. Yet cooler than me though he evidently was, it was strange having to demure to a Chinaman.

‘‘Pierre is my best friend. He lives next door to me. Have you met him? He is French. I used to live in France with him. He will come to China one day. We both love basketball and break dancing. Anyway nice to have met you Neil. I will see you later.’

‘And with that he shook my hand once more and left. It was a confusing position for me to find myself in. This Pierre I had already seen: a more arrogant, contemptuous, hip-hop young French man I had never met. He was blond, toned and sexy and he mooched around the halls in basketball tops, disdaining people. He had already ‘dissed’ lowly old me on several prior occasions. I had no love of him. But I noted that his partner in crime, the equally cool Matt, had at least offered me the hand of friendship. That much seemed his due as a Chinaman. Whereas the smug Pierre, as a westerner, need not condescend to me.

‘So was Matt. I couldn’t really fault his good manners or good intentions, but as a non-academic, as a hip-hopping, beat-boxing break dancer and chump did we really have anything in common? I felt stressed by the thought of keeping up appearances with him.

‘Another was Nathanial. More shy and respectable than Matt, he was equally as handsome in a clean cut, teenage heart throb kind of way. He dressed himself well in designer clothes and always seemed in the process of grooming himself. He would get up early in the morning and stand before the bathroom mirror, ceaselessly styling his hair. And as he did so he would sing, singing in the soft strains of the Chinese male. His tune was like a mating call, he was like a shy, soft little bird calling musically to attract mates. He was so nice as well, always smiling and grinning. But he was intellectually light weight, a dandy, a pretty boy, a feather head, and I foresaw it would be a struggle to get along with him for a whole year.

‘And there were others as well. Harrison the vest-wearing martial arts practitioner, who liked to work out; Steish, the beret wearing Bohemian who wanted to be a film star. As well as these guys there were some more traditional Chinese. Men who were here to study, to study food science, computing, or urban planning, for example. At least with these Chinamen I felt much more at home. We could discuss life or politics, we could discuss anything we liked really without being shackled by what was cool and hip. They were true intellectuals, we held common ground. But make no mistake. They were no losers: Lee, the food scientist owned a fancy car; Luke, a PhD student, was tall, athletic, handsome. Even the bespectacled computer wizards seemed different now. As if they were here on an equal footing. The days of inferiority were gone.

‘And so that was the hall I returned to, a one dominated by yellow Chinese faces, a one where the young, rich, offspring of the Chinese elite, with their designer clothes and sports cars, and with their limited intellectual faculties, were ubiquitous. Besides now feeling alone and isolated in what had once been my home, I also perceived that I was now considered by all and sundry as no more than a geek, a swot and a bore. A nobody. Gone were the days of the liberal intellectual atmosphere of last year, when I was Neil the philosopher, Neil the man people liked to chat to, Neil the interesting. No, those days were gone. To the cool young men in our corridor I was now Neil the nobody. Neil who? Some strange, boring creature that did strange things like studying. Strange.

‘So that was that then. I was surrounded on all sides by Chinamen, most of whom I had nothing in common with, and I soon became sick of the farce of smiling with Blake, Matt and Nathanial, of having to face on a daily basis, crammed in as were like commuters in a tube train, people who I didn’t really want to be around. They would have endless parties in the kitchen, and now it was I, with humble, self-deprecating face, who would have to sneak in and use the freezer, glimpsing the splendid party, the fancy women and food. Blake by the way, despite the introduction of the cooler Matt, the more handsome specimens of Nathanial and Steish, and the more muscular Harrison, Blake was still, in his sluggish, contented way, the king, the chief male. One day I happened to see him.’

‘I was dressed up in some new clothes and a new haircut, that well, frankly weren’t me. Walking along the corridor I passed Blake. I smiled at him. Yet he, seeing my new clothes and makeover, could not help a smirk of derision come over his face. It was there just an instant and quickly realising he should behave with more decorum, he removed it. But it was all that I needed. I felt humiliated, ashamed. I felt angry. I needed an excuse for war and Blake had just given it me.

‘After passing Blake, I entered the kitchen. As I opened up, not only was I greeted by an utter mess, but loud hip-hop music blared out. On the centre of the kitchen floor was Matt, in his vest, break dancing with amazing speed and suppleness, dazzling the spectators, amongst whom I saw the arrogant Pierre, an earring in one ear, a cap back to front on his head. There were some Chinese-dolls watching, and some Chinese dudes in vests drinking beer. Feeling insignificant and annoyed, I went to see my friend Wan.

‘‘Right’ I said, showing my annoyance ‘it’s time my friend that we went to war with the Chinese. I’m sick of every single one of them. Especially Blake, he’s an arrogant son of a whore.’

‘Wan seemed pleased by my anger, as if he had been waiting for me to come and see him like this, to scheme and plot revenge for the chaos that we had both slowly watched unfold on our floor.

‘‘I tell you’ said Wan, angrily, ‘that guy Blake, he must have one big penis. I don’t know what his problem is, but it must be that.’

‘In that one phrase of my Korean friends, I felt he had pin-pointed exactly what Blake’s problem was, as Wan so ironically put it. In the way in which we’d both come together to bitch like this; in the way in which Wan so plaintively bemoaned the fact, emphasising the word big as he spoke; in the way in which the two of us were so at a loss to explain our inferiority to Blake, even though physically he was not so much superior, especially to Wan who was outwardly his match; in all of this, in our peeved, undignified confusion, it seemed the only possible conclusion.

‘‘He must have a big penis’ hummed Wan in his unearthly Korean accent. ‘He must.’

‘And so we sat together and had a good whinge about all the Chinese and what we would do to them. But I tell you, we soon adopted some strange ways of talking. For one thing we now referred to the Chinese as chinks; and in deliberately and cynically employing this sort of racist language, completely unbecoming for two research students, we were utterly pathetic and foolish. We would sit for hours and decry the ‘bloody chinks’ in our impotent way. And just as impotently we would draw up ridiculous revenge schemes – we talked of killing Blake or poisoning the chinks, we talked about taking down the yellow men and re-taking the floor. It was all so ludicrous, this gangster talk, this racist slang, for we only did it out of earshot of everyone.

‘But we weren’t alone in our hatred of the Chinese. There were seven or eight other nationalities on our floor, and if there’s one thing I’ve learnt gentlemen, it’s that all the different races, when brought together here as also-rans, to the United Confederation of British Islands, my God, they loathe and despise each other, they’re like bitches at each other’s throats. I canvassed the opinions of our foreign visitors.

‘‘Vikram my Indian friend’ I said one day in the kitchen. ‘What do you think of the Chinese?’

‘‘The Chinese? They are dirty peoples. You see this kitchen, you see this mess? That is Chinese peoples for you. I am living here since maybe one year, okay. Everywhere, everywhere man, I see Chinese peoples. When I am arriving here I am saying to the taxi man as I looking out the window, is this China or England man, and we are making some joke like this. But seriously man, the Chinese are the new power. They are trying to steal Tibet from India. That is why every morning I am praying God, thanking him that America pushes China back.

‘‘Your thanking him for America?’ I asked puzzled.

‘‘Yes! They are pressurising the Chinese man.’

‘And the Pakistanis? ‘Vishnu my friend, what do you think?’

‘‘The Chinese? I hate the Chinese. They are dirty peoples. The Chinese and the Nigerians they are making this kitchen so dirty. The Chinese have no souls. I have seen one movie about the Chinese. A businessman is going to a brothel to have sex with many women. They have no God. They are robots. In Pakistan we are having lots of religion. It is all bullshit! I am not believing in any of it. There is no science for it; they have no proof. I am hating Pakistan, it is one big chaos. The government is using religion to control the peoples. But when I came here and saw the Chinese I am disgusted’ he said, shaking his head, resigned. ‘They are soulless. There were three Chinese peoples making sex in a car!’

At this point, his Pakistani friend, who stood with his back to us, doing the dishes, turned around to look at me.

‘‘There were three of them’ he said emphatically and with shock, delighted to have the chance to tell me, ‘making sex in a car.’

‘‘And Nigeria, how about you.’

‘‘The Chinese? They are dirty man. They are everywhere and so bloody rich.’ He chuckled to himself and shook his head. ‘Look at the kitchen, look at the toilets. There’s shit all over the place. It’s the Chinese man. And the Pakistanis.’

‘‘Mitsu, you’re Japanese, surely you like the Chinese?’

‘‘During the war the Chinese did experiments on my people. They tried chopping off their arms and legs without medicine, without how you say it, being asleep. For that reason I hate the Chinese. They are the curse of my people. Just like the Koreans.

‘‘And Thailand, what do you think?’

‘‘Oh I hate the Chinese. Look how dirty the kitchen is. The Chinese try to control us, to destroy us. They tried to kill my people. That is why I am loving America, for fighting the Chinese.’

‘‘Scott you’re Australian, you’re a white man, surely you’re above all this petit racism?’

‘‘The Chinese? The motherfuckers are everywhere. It’s the curse of the bloody yellow man, man.’

‘‘Okay Erik, you’re from Taiwan, so you are Chinese right?’

‘‘No I am Taiwanese. The China is trying to say that the Taiwan belong to them. But it belong to the Taiwan peoples. They are trying to steal it for themselves. The Americans will help us.’

‘‘Wei, my Chinese friend. You’re an intelligent person, a research student. Why does everyone hate the Chinese?’

‘‘Oh come on Neil, they don’t hate us. Take the Taiwanese guy Erik. Taiwan belong to China. He is telling lies. Taiwan just want independence.’

‘‘Okay Lee, my Korean friend, you hate the Chinese right.’

‘‘Of course. They are the curse of my people. Them and the Japanese. Why, why are you asking?’

‘‘Well’ I said ‘Wan and I are preparing a little war against the Chinese. We’re going to take back the floor. Do you want to be one of our soldiers?’

‘If you want in’ said Wan in his theatrical Korean twang ‘you must prove your loyalty. We want you to urinate in Blake’s milk!’

‘So we laughed and schemed.

‘And so it went. But I tell you, being at war with the Chinese was just as hard as being at peace. Every time I saw Blake in the kitchen or corridor now, I ignored him or gave him a hacky look. He knew I was not happy with him. I couldn’t help but like the guy for it. He was emotionally sensitive like that, he knew why I hated him. So it was easy to play games with Blake, he indulged me as it were. And I began to see that he was sick to death of having to share the flat like this, tired of all the tension. For example one day, meeting him in the kitchen, I found him on his mobile phone, listening to a girl telling him some story. ‘Get to the point or just shut up!’ he barked out in his dominant way, at the end of his tether. In his terse, moody manner, I recognised that he too was sick of the war.

‘As for the lightweight, airhead, bimbo and singer Nathanial, I treated him like dirt whenever I saw his groomed personage or heard his melodic strains. I gave him acrid looks, slammed doors in his face and yet for all this he always tried to smile at me, to be friendly, to be my friend.

‘But though I could control Nathanial in this way, and though Blake indulged me and allowed me to emotionally target him, the break dancing Matt was a harder person to be nasty to. I could never find it in my heart to ‘go to war’ with him, since he always addressed me ‘Neil’ and talked to me directly. Whenever he spoke to me, I responded submissively and with kindness. With him, I limited myself to the occasional disapproving look, the occasional tut of disgust as I saw him partying with his friends. And backed up by the arrogant Pierre, who as a white man could laugh in my face, out and out war with Matt might have been foolish.

‘So I scowled, huffed and gave dirty looks whenever I could and there were many chances to do so, Chinese people being here, there and everywhere. I would also gossip with the cleaner or the secretary, and full of bigotry, racism and bare faced lies, swap tales and complain about the ‘fucking’ Chinese. And whenever I had the opportunity, I would slam a door in the face of a passing oriental. So it went.

‘But like I say, acting like this was just as tense and unnerving and at heart I really loathed myself for it. What I really needed was to be somewhere else. The most difficult thing about the war though, was my relationship with Cynthia.’

‘Cynthia’ I asked ‘who is she? Your girlfriend?’

‘No, no, no’ responded Neil ‘Cynthia was the name of the prostitute, remember, who I first saw with Blake.

‘After a few weeks here she changed. I think it must have been under the advice of Blake. She seemed suddenly more respectful, more pleasant. In addition she seemed to always go out of her way to be nice to me, to smile at me personally, as if Blake had informed her that I didn’t approve of her.

‘So I began to perceive that she was really a likeable girl, and it was now that I figured out just why she had been dressed that day like a prostitute. You see’ said Neil, looking at us with a glint in his eye as if he’d solved the mystery ‘it’s all to do with the Chinese perception of the west. They take us for a Godless, soulless nation where women go around virtually naked, and where everyone is constantly having sex, bed-hopping without thought or consequence, a cool, liberated, modern place where nobody cares what you get up to. Instead of seeing us for what we are, a sexually repressed, prim and proper nation of prudes and scoutmasters, who scowl, frown and are not amused by the sexual shenanigans of any he, she or it, let alone of Phil and Francesca foreigner. So you see that outfit, that gaudy, overtly sexual way of dressing, that had simply been a reaction on the part of a sensitive, young girl, intimidated by her preconceptions of our liberal culture, trying to impress people and show herself of worth. With all her insecurities, and pressurised by false impressions, she had been trying to ‘adapt’ to our society.

‘But I guess I was not the only one to show her my moral outrage. In any event she had cottoned on and not only did she now dress down and more sensibly, she seemed at pains to placate everyone. Take for example the English security guard. Not comfortable amongst students in any event, that middle-aged, uneducated, unmarried man would often come across the Chinese hosting a party. One day I recall overhearing him, telling the Chinese off for being too noisy. And the response? The kind and soft spoken Cynthia apologised profusely, speaking directly to him, possessing like Blake, that emotionally sensitive faculty that made her aware of the feelings of others. She offered him some food. He refused, but was incredibly taken aback. He wished them a happy Chinese new year. They thanked him graciously. Cynthia especially so, as if it was a big deal, as if his patronisation was important.

‘So did I come to see what Cynthia was like. And every time, every time I promise you, that I saw her, I could count on her to pay me attention, smile at me, look demure. However I responded by looking even more grouchy and irritated. I even recall one day travelling alone in the lift with her. I scowled the entire time, showing her my displeasure. And when she got off the lift, when it stopped at her floor, she simply said ‘sorry’, as if to say there was nothing she could do; she was sorry, sorry that I was a nobody and a bore, a bespectacled philosophy student and couldn’t ever mix in her fashionable world, her sexy world, the world of fun and excitement; ‘sorry’, a sad little sorry, as if she’d done all she could for me, commiserated with me, would change the world if she could, but was sorry she couldn’t, sorry that she was cooler than me, sorry that she was way out of my league, sorry that life was so. Sorry.’

‘I felt bad about my response to her, especially so, as when other Chinese girls happened to come onto our floor, and I showed my displeasure and hatred of them, huffed, scowled and tutted, they simply responded by ignoring me, scoffing at me or treating me as if I was a nobody. At such times I felt impudent and enraged, angered. And when I saw how Cynthia ceaselessly made the effort to play my game, just as Blake did, I felt like such a fool and a child and a loser.

‘So I was sorry for Cynthia, and thought about being pleasant with her. But then I recalled exactly why I had gone to war. I could make nice-nice with Cynthia, be kind to her, show her I forgave her. But the next day, when I saw her having a party with her fashionable friends, or when I saw her entering the odious Pierre’s room to get up to I don’t know what, or again, when I saw her getting into the sportscar of her greasy Greek boyfriend who I so despised, when I saw any of this, I would feel again that resentful, prudish annoyance, that feeling of jealousy and insignificance, that feeling that she belonged to a superior world, a world in which plain old me could never be accepted.

‘And so that gentlemen’ said Neil, seeming to bring things to a conclusion ‘is my tale, a tale of how overnight I became a petit, raging, bitter racist, how I employed racist language, went around talking of killing and wars, how I came to detest the Chinese. A tale of how I wouldn’t live and let live, but how I systematically went about, in my priggish, pathetic way of trying to stamp the joy out of other people’s lives. Forever jealous and feeling left out of the fashionable, hip-hop world of those about me. Playing childish, emotional, psychological games with Blake and Cynthia, being the archetypical English racist, feeling sorry for myself, being in a word a complete pain in the ass.’

‘And that’s your confession’ said Andrew immediately ‘that’s what you wanted to tell us?’

‘Actually’ said Neil ‘it’s not what I had to tell you and it’s not in fact my confession. It would’ve been my confession, it might have been, in another life time, all that I would have done. But things turned out differently. You know, for all the talk of war and revenge, I genuinely never thought anything would come to pass. But in the end there was an incident.

‘Wan and I were often on the lookout to make some mischief, to throw a spanner in the works. One night we stood in my room looking out the window, down to the reception area below. At one point a Chinese girl arrived. She’d obviously been to a nightclub, and had with her an Englishman at her heels. Standing outside, she went about snogging him, like an animal she was all over him.

‘‘Slut!’ I said angrily to Wan. ‘What a fucking slut she is.’ I was so peeved and jealous, so consumed by envy at this sight.

‘‘Has Blake ever had an English woman?’ I inquired nervously of Wan.

‘‘No. I don’t think so. Only the Italian and Finnish.’

‘I felt slightly relieved. ‘Well’ I said in my impotent way ‘if I ever catch him with an English girl, I’ll chop his penis off and stuff it in his mouth.’

‘We stood there awhile brooding and angry. Then a sportscar pulled up.

‘A Chinese guy got out and slowly, with unsteady footing, wandered to some bushes were he was agonizingly sick. Evidently he was drunk. When he was finished he got back into his car. The security guard came out.

‘‘Are you sure you’re in a fit state to drive?’ he asked.

‘The Chinese guy humbly assured him he was. The security guard asked again ‘are you sure?’ He assured him once more, and the security guard, though not truly convinced, went back inside. The Chinaman, ever so cautiously, started to drive off.

‘‘Quick’ I shouted to Wan ‘let’s go!’ and we sprinted off downstairs and outside. When we got there I took out my mobile phone. Wan and I raced around the corner and saw the car slowly driving off. We got the first four letters of the registration. Our plan was to call the police and hopefully have the Chinese guy arrested for drink driving.

‘Yet the moment slipped away. The car drove off into the distance; the police would no doubt take a while to respond; plus we didn’t have the full number plate. I desisted from dialling 999; and ultimately, I think it was because I didn’t really have the heart to go through with it, to shop this guy to the cops.

‘On another occasion, word came back to the hall one night that a Chinese guy, on his way to the supermarket, had been beaten up by local youths. This was a common problem where we lived, the teenage residents roundabout resentful of and simply despising us students, and they would stand and intimidate and insult you as you passed through their lair. Last year a German exchange student had been beaten badly, an event that all of us had taken to heart, and I especially had been vehement in my outrage at the incident. However that had been last year. Things were different now, and I had not failed to notice that the disenchanted youths of these parts had on several occasions cast angered, jealous looks upon the Chinese sports cars, the fashionable women, their wealth, riches, and apparent arrogance. I had not failed to notice this, and in the shifting power circles, I wondered now where my sympathies lay.

‘Anyway one dark night we received this news, and Wan and I stood at our window, looking out over the vacinity of the hall waiting for people to return. The incident had occurred one hundred or so metres away, but shrouded in the darkness of night, we could not see anything. An ambulance had been called by a returning Chinese shopper. We awaited the return of the others with interest, not least because, included in the wave of Chinese students that had gone off to the shops that night, were Blake and Cynthia.

‘‘Oh please God! Let it be Blake!’ preyed Wan cynically as we stood at the window, laughing maliciously.

‘Eventually however, Blake returned, along with Cynthia and the others. We felt annoyed to see his arrogant, supreme person, sauntering back into camp, as if he were an indestructible force, not to be messed with; and when the next day, I discovered which Chinese student had been beaten, I was really angered.

‘Of all the Chinese students they had chosen to target, the youths had not gone for a Blake or a Cynthia, but instead for a small, round, bespectacled, computer wizz, who I might as well call Chen, the most inoffensive man in the world, who had taken his sorry, lonely little person off to the shops alone. This Chen had caused us all in halls to smile with joy, when one day, we happened to see him play table tennis, a game gentlemen, which the majority of us played with a pint in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Not so this Chen, who with consummate professionalism, played in shorts, t shirt and sweat bands. Ah yes Chen, he-he, it had been a wonderful sight. And it was him of all people who had been targeted.

‘A few days later I saw him and his subdued, sad little face, scarred and beaten. I also saw how Cynthia, in her gentle, soft, Chinese voice, asked of him, a man she’d never before met, how he was. I saw how he responded, how he plaintively spoke to her, subdued, on the verge of tears, saw how Cynthia spoke even more softly, in that calming, soft, soft tone of the Chinese, that birdsong of theirs; saw the genuine feeling of support between the two, a camaraderie under this foreign moon, on this foreign soil; saw how gentle Cynthia was, as with womanly affection, she examined the marks, and lovingly, tenderly rubbed them, and touched Chen’s sorry, boyish little person.

‘I felt regretful and sad for all my bad thoughts. This, this should’ve been a warning to me, to end the war and give up all that nonsense. Yet just three weeks later, I was back to my old-self and this time the fire crackers were lit.

‘The Chinese were having a party, a big one. Blake, Cynthia, Nathanial, Matt and Harrison were all going. I saw them as they went about preparing the food and dining room, dressed splendidly in their designer clothes. Other Chinese were coming from other floors. It was a big event. Pierre was there too, as well as a cohort of Grecians, slick, handsome, swarthy men, bronzed and greasy, one of whom was Cynthia’s boyfriend. Some Americans came as well. Yet what most surprised and upset me was to see just who in our hall had been invited.

‘The Australian guy was there, so too the Nigerian, so too the Taiwanese guy, the Japanese, the Thai, and even the Indian. When I happened to pass into the dining room, to get something from the freezer, and saw them there, I felt really annoyed with them, betrayed. To see them currying favour with the Chinese like this, flattered to be invited to their grand party, enjoying themselves eating their cuisine, apparently bought off – well you can imagine how I felt.

‘When I returned next door to the kitchen and found myself alone, I started to see that just about everyone on the floor had been invited to the party, and that I perhaps was the only one who had not been. I felt sorry for myself. Then another thought crossed my mind: I wondered if I would be invited? If not Blake or Cynthia might ask me to come? But then, even they over the last few weeks had at last gotten sick and tired of me and my games. They’d finally had enough.

‘So I went about my cooking, preparing my tasteless pasta and tuna, and popping into the dining room once more, I caught a glimpse of the party, of the fashionable Chinese, the swanky Greeks and Americans, the bought off Taiwanese, Australian, Nigerian and Indians, who, oblivious of my person, ate and chatted happily, pleased that they’d been invited to the party. Then when I returned to the kitchen, hoping to find myself alone so that I might brood and feel sorry for myself and escape everybody, I looked over to my pasta and saw the Italian doctor kissing his Italian girlfriend.

‘They looked irritated by my interruption, and broke off their kissing, as if I’d invaded their privacy. The Italian doctor sighed and turned to stirring his saucepan, whilst the Italian girl smiled at me and with well meant but tired, patronising intonation said ‘hello’.

‘The Italian doctor had moved in recently, and as well as being intelligent, was also tall and handsome. There was a combination of cool and intelligence in his bespectacled, superior face, and he was not unlike Blake. He was so superior, often seemed irritated and tetchy, and was loved by women. I didn’t know how to react to him. Unlike Blake, he was undoubtedly more intelligent than I. He always seemed irritated, busy, important, though occasionally he would condescend to me and say hello.

‘So the three of us stood there at the cooker making our dinner, I feeling like an unwelcome guest, the Italian doctor sighing, irritated, and complaining to his girlfriend in that Italian dialect, that Latin way of whinging that’s such anathema to us Brits. Anyway shortly a Chinese girl entered the kitchen. I recognised her as a PhD student in biochemistry from another floor, who I just couldn’t stand because she was always pretending to be above people like me, to be fashionable, cool and superior, instead of admitting that, as a fellow research student, we probably shared some common ground. She had been invited to the party and to all pretence and purposes was at home with the lightweight, petit-bourgeoisie Chinese. Ignoring me as if I didn’t exist, she excitedly asked the good, comme il faut Doctor and his girlfriend if they wouldn’t like to come to the party. That they’d only met briefly before, and barely even knew each other, didn’t seem to matter. The facts were that they looked cool and so they were invited.

‘And flattered, the good doctor and his girlfriend said they would be delighted to join them, and that they would bring along some of their spaghetti Bolognese.

‘Meanwhile my sorry person stood at the hob, feeling mortified, foolish and ashamed. My body language must have been awful as I tightened up, my face becoming sensitive and expressing my thoughts. I really didn’t know where to look. There was almost a tear in my eye as I avoided looking at those people, tried to bury my head, my person, to pretend I wasn’t listening. But my face gave the game away.

‘I was beset with agony and shame at that moment, full of hatred of these people. I simply wanted the scene to end. Yet I have to confess, I was also terrified of being invited to the party. The thought had crossed my mind: I wondered whether the Chinese girl would turn to me and say kindly ‘and you, do you want to come?’ I imagined sweetly acquiescing, saying okay, and, like the lowest of dogs, tagging along with them. I imagined it, but in truth I didn’t want it, I didn’t want any invitation from these alien people who I hated. I wanted no mitigating circumstances. I wanted all out war.

‘In the end I wasn’t asked. I don’t know whether the Chinese girl tactlessly ignored me. I don’t know whether, as I half suspected, after speaking to the Italians, she turned to look at me, in thought of offering me a respectful – though not cordial – invitation; a consolation, as though she didn’t really want me there, but I could come if I wanted to. I don’t know whether she thought about doing this, but that, in seeing my sensitive face and my hurt-ridden eyes, telling her not to dare humiliate me any further by inviting me – my body language saying ‘don’t you dare!’ – she decided it was best to just leave me alone, this, as I say, I don’t know. In any event I wasn’t invited.

‘Eventually the Italians cleared off to the party and I sat in the kitchen alone eating my miserable food. Wan entered.

‘‘Wan, were you invited to the party.’

‘‘No’

‘‘Good’ I said relieved. ‘I’ve had enough of these Chinese’ I said. ‘Look at this’ I said standing up and showing him a pan of Chinese food. ‘How the fuck can these animals eat chicken’s feet!’

‘‘It’s a delicacy’ explained Wan. ‘Blake I know loves them.’

‘‘Ugh! That is the sickest thing I’ve ever seen.’

‘It really was. A pan of pink, defrosting chicken’s feet, their claws prominent, like nails, had been left on the bench before us. It could not have been more disgusting had it have been a pot of pink, human fingers.’

‘‘The time has come’ I said growing nervous but excited. Wan watched on as I went to one of the Indian’s cupboards and pulled out a tub of salts or additives, I didn’t exactly know which. There were several Chinese dishes on the hob, simmering away, ready to be eaten, the Chinese occasionally popping in to take the food next door.

‘‘Right watch this!’ I said to Wan, and opening up the tub, I poured huge amounts of these additives into the simmering pots, cauldrons and woks that were bubbling and boiling on the hob. I stirred it in and it seemed to dissolve. ‘Let’s see what they think of that!’

‘We sat at the table eating our meals. Fifteen, twenty minutes elapsed, during which time the Chinese took away the various dishes they’d been cooking on the hob. To be honest though, I don’t think either myself or Wan expected anything to happen: we’d grown so accustomed to our impotence. We waited, we waited still. Then a cry went up next door.

‘It was a sort of cry of horror, a Chinese scream, and as soon as I heard it, I was overcome with remorse and angst. I was terrified, my face burned red, and I was suddenly horrified at what I might have done. Within seconds we saw, through the kitchen door, the figures of Blake and Harrison running into the toilets.

‘I looked at Wan, gulped, and said ‘Oh God’ trying to laugh off my guilt. I was full of regret, fear and hatred of myself, as if I’d spoiled all chance of happiness in my life. We got up and went into the bathroom.

‘By this time two more Chinese had entered. However, unable to enter the toilets occupied by Blake and Nathanial, they stood over the basins instead. They were desperately trying to vomit, and contorted and in agony, brought up piles of spew all over the basins. Other Chinese, unaffected, were close at hand trying to help them. Wan approached one of these carer Chinese and asked gently what the matter was, expressing in his voice a sympathy, an Oriental sympathy, that really touched me, and made me feel more guilty, more inhuman. I stood back, full of regret, pretending to be shocked and sympathetic and saying ‘oh dear, oh dear.’

‘Then the bathroom door burst open and Cynthia ran in. Her face was contorted with pain, she was clearly desperate to reach the toilets. They were of course all occupied. Realising this she turned, presumably with the intention of going downstairs to the toilets on her own floor. However it was simply too late. As she headed back out, just as she passed by me, so that the two of us were almost alone together – I with a shocked, alarmed face, totally engrossed in watching her in her agonised fate – just as she passed me, she broke wind loudly and disastrously, and a spattering of diarrhoea charged uncontrollably out of her, spraying through her knickers and miniskirt, falling on her naked legs and on the floor. I watched all this in coldness. The poor girl, ashamed and embarrassed, desperately ran out, where, escorted by her Greek boyfriend, who hadn’t known where she had gone off to, she was taken downstairs to her own toilet.

‘That night I sat alone in my room, cornered by an empty, hollow feeling, a deadness, a coldness, as if I were no longer alive. Eight members of the party had been affected, I later learnt, and had spent the next day in agony, vomiting and having diarrhoea.

‘Later that evening, I went to the kitchen for a glass of milk. The kitchen, as well as the dining room and corridor was dead and deserted. It was like a ghost town. Matt entered the kitchen.

‘‘Did you hear of the troubles Neil’ he said, speaking in his slow, measured, aristocratic voice. ‘It is a very bad day for us. Seven Chinese students and one Nigerian are lying in bed, vomiting and constantly needing the toilet. It is very bad.

‘‘The Chinese’ he continued in his slow, pregnant, unearthly voice ‘are not just dogs to be treated like this. Someone has done this to us, we are sure. Someone who dislikes Chinese people, dislikes us for what we are, and cannot stand to see us happy. Someone who cannot take us for what we are. We are not just dogs to be treated like this. I feel such anger. This is not the way things should be. It is not reasonable now is it? You know in China we have a saying: the rat who gnaws at the cat’s tail invites its own destruction. Do you understand Neil?’

‘I could hear my heart thudding and I blushed in a mixture of shame, fear and self-loathing, unable to decide whether this was a generic speech Matt was giving, or whether he knew I was to blame, and was artfully playing with me. Nervous, guilty, shyly, I pronounced

‘‘Yes’ I do.

‘‘I knew you would Neil, I knew you would. We are not dogs. I like you Neil, you are a good man. Goodnight my friend.’

‘And with that he left the kitchen, and ashamed, I stood there alone.

‘Well aren’t you surprised’ said Neil addressing me after a pause in which he waited for comment.

‘I’m never surprised by anything’ I responded. ‘In any case there were mitigating circumstances. I understand your predicament. You had good reason to feel upset.’

‘But did I?’ persisted Neil, questioningly. ‘I don’t think so. I think I acted like the typical childish, self-pitying Englishman, deliberately huffy and resentful, whatever the Chinese did.

‘Anyway, the next day I sped off to my parents house in London for an emergency holiday. I needed to get away from the halls. When I got to London, I went out to walk the streets, giving myself up to philosophising. And the first thing I remembered happening was that I went and took my downbeat, miserable soul to a coffee house. At the counter, a Chinese girl served me, and smiled kindly into my face. In my dejected, mirthless state I couldn’t find it in my self to smile back at her. Instead, I just observed her acme covered face, her goofy teeth and felt annoyed by her, as if she was a nuisance. And there, you see gentlemen, I saw the error of my ways, what a charlatan I was, that I should be so disgusted by her. I recalled Cynthia. How she was beautiful, elegant, fashionable. How she had tried to be kind to me. How I had hunted her remorselessly like a dog. How her face had been contorted, how she’d been in agony, how she had so unceremoniously discharged her diarrhoea in my presence.

‘What would I have done had I been invited to the party? I would’ve said no. I’d said no twice before, several months earlier. On each occasion I’d simply felt, when a Chinese guy had put his arm around me, and said do you want to join us my friend, that he was just being well-mannered, courteous. It would’ve been awkward to intrude my non-Chinese speaking presence into their happy little party; it would have spoilt it for them, and having nothing in common with them, I would have been ill at ease. But, the facts remain, they had twice already invited me.

‘If a fashionable, wealthy, beautiful Chinese girl happened to be in our halls and ignore me, I hated her and was enraged by her; but if such a woman made, like Cynthia, an effort to be nice to me, I ignored it and was not worthy; there again, if an ordinary Chinese girl, plain, humble and modest happed to step onto our floor, I huffed, puffed and showed her my disdain, equally as if she was a bitch. In all cases they were doomed.

‘I can’t remember why, but for some reason, the case of the Chinese cockle pickers, was at that time, back in the news. Twenty or so Chinese, here illegally and working for gangsters, had been forced into slave labour, and, going out everyday into the treacherous sands of Morecombe bay, had been trapped out at sea, and there drowned. They had died a horrific death, an awful, tortuous, horrible death, compounded, of course, by the knowledge that they were dying a million miles from China, in an unforgiving, foreign sea. One man had telephoned his mother in China, as he found himself drowning. The whole story was tragic.

‘With this in my thoughts, I sauntered along Oxford street, on that icy, dark, December evening. Up ahead there was some commotion.

‘I don’t know why, but some brain-dead, common Londoner had gotten out of his four-wheel drive and aggressively, in cockney, stood swearing at a diminutive looking Chinaman shouting ‘don’t you dare do that again, you hear me’. The Chinaman, a weak, small, frail looking man was dressed badly, and held in his hand a collection of gaudy lights, some yellow, some green, some pink, you know the tacky tourist sort, and was obviously a street peddler of these goods. He was so inoffensive, pathetic and pitiable and I wondered what on earth had caused the ever so angry, common cockney man to be so aggressive toward him. I don’t know what was more demoralising to the Chinaman: the fact that the wife of the cockney, a common and verbose woman, straight from a scene out of Dickens, got out the car, and exactly like her husband, like a pigeon copying her mate, berated the poor Chinaman in an aggressive, cockney harangue. Really it was a scene, the poor Chinaman, like a lesser bird, set upon by those two bigger pigeons, male and female both, and pecked at, head butted, and chased away remorselessly by those two common, despicable, bossy birds; I don’t know whether that was more demoralising or the fact that no passer by bothered to intercede or help out. Everyone simply passed a casual glance at the scene, and presumably unwilling to intervene, and not knowing the full details of what had happened, and assuming the Chinaman must have done something to provoke his aggressors, walked on.

‘So I walked along and saw all this. And as the shabby, wrinkly, worn-down old Chinaman backed away terrified, I could see the indignation in his face, how humiliated and incensed he was. I won’t ever forget his words as he backed off, trying to stand his ground, but inevitably having to concede it.

‘‘Fu o!’ he shouted with such a sense of grievance in his voice. ‘Fu o!’

‘He couldn’t pronounce the words properly you see. Such a sad figure, impoverished, old, what a sorrowful sight he was, here on foreign turf, a million miles away from his home, at the mercy of those cockney pigeons, selling cheap, tacky lights that no one in their right mind could possibly want. Selling them for what must be peanuts, uneducated, dirt-poor, despised and alien in this world, a shabbily dressed peasant with no hopes here, a slave in England, presumably also a slave or a dead man in China, I really don’t know. An alien and a nobody in a dark, ruthless world, at the mercy of those two cockney pigeons who treated him like filth.

‘I saw that scene and nobody stopped to help the poor guy, nobody except two people, who after the guy had backed off, and the pigeons had flown, stepped in to inquire if he was alright.

‘They were two rich, fashionable young Chinese passers by, a Blake and Cynthia. I saw them ask if he was alright, I saw the Blake put his arm around the man, I saw the Cynthia ask what had happened, I saw the old man tell his sorry tale.

‘Deeply affected by the scene, I followed the dejected figure of the man as he now, after separating from his Chinese countrymen, walked off alone. Shortly he met up with a young Chinese girl standing on a street corner, also selling these worthless, kitschy, luminous things. I watched as they had a conversation, saw the sympathy writ expressively along the Chinese girl’s face, as she listened to the older man, saw how in this alien, bleak, lonely world she at least could offer him some comfort. Then spurred on by guilt and determined not to let the moment slip and have the Chinaman believe nobody cared, I stepped up.

‘‘I’m really, really sorry for all that’ I said putting my arm around his shabby, smelly, diminutive figure. Resentful, scared and angered, he removed himself from my grasp. ‘Please’ I said ‘I am really sorry. That man had no right to treat you like that. Please accept our apologies’ And realising that perhaps he couldn’t understand, and that in any case he was full of hate toward the English at that point, I made to go, pulling out a tener from my wallet, putting it into his hand, and with sympathy patting him on the back and saying ‘I’m sorry my friend, take this.’ He looked at me confused. He didn’t understand it was guilt money.’

A Chinese waitress brought us the bill. With it there were some fortune cookies.

The restaurant had by now emptied. A few diners remained; staff went about clearing things up. Neil was silent, waiting. So too I. Andrew though, seemingly as if he hadn’t been listening to Neil, occupied himself in opening up a fortune cookie.

‘Reshape ones foot to try to fit into a new shoe’ he pronounced.

I opened up a cookie, and Neil, seeing that apparently we weren’t listening to him, hid his embarrassment in also opening one up.

‘Better to light a candle than to curse the darkness’ I read.

‘Flowing water never goes bad’ read Neil ‘our door hubs never gather termites.’

There was a silence. ‘So what was your announcement then Neil’ I said after a while.

‘Well I have a new job you see. My miserable two year stint on the dole is soon to be over thank God. And it’s a good job too. A cushy job. A one where I will broaden my horizons. I’m going to teach English in China. They’re crying out for people. I get a good salary, accommodation is provided, I’ll be well taken care of.

‘And in my spare time, which is much thank God, I intend to learn Chinese, and to engross myself in Chinese history, philosophy, Chinese literature, art and culture. Think of it. What a gigantic nation. Yet can you name me one Chinese artist or writer? Hmm? No you can’t. What complete ignorance we’re all steeped in here in England. I intend to immerse myself in Chinese culture and I intend to live and let live. There’s no point staying here, going bad in stagnation, cursing the darkness, I need to open my horizons. I want to go to China, and stop being the smug, conceited, little Englishman I’ve become. I want to be an outsider, to feel the lonely but salutary feeling of being a foreigner, having to scrape and bow to my hosts, I want to be humbled like that. Travel will broaden my outlook. I will only stagnate here. In China I will have to adapt to their culture, to change my preconceptions, to reshape my foot. I intend to aspire to the principle, behave with virtue, abide by benevolence, and immerse myself in the arts. Yes I do.

‘The Chinese are the future, they are coming. In thirty years time, I predict they will dominate politics, business, every major sport. Believe me they are coming. And look what wisdom is contained in these cookies. Look.’

And with this, he intimated to Andrew to open up another cookie, and with the reading of the proverb so prove his point about the Chinese. Two cookies remained. Andrew took up one.

‘Do not employ handsome servants’ he said, in a deliberately confused intonation, as if Neil’s magic trick had gone awry.

Andrew laughed. Neil looked disappointed, despondent. I opened up the last cookie.

‘Well, how about this’ I said encouragingly to Neil. ‘Do not waste your time worrying over past transgressions; concentrate on living well in the present.’

Chinese: Part 1

2009-04-10T05:00:00.000-07:00

‘Experience is a comb which nature gives to men when they are bald.’ Chinese proverb

In the Soho district of London, in the chaotic vicinity of Trafalgar square, one comes across the small but colourful quarter of China town. Resplendent with a Chinese arch and Pagoda, with many Chinese restaurants, housed in buildings with frontages of typical, antiquated, oriental architecture; with Hanzi, the Chinese script, displayed all over shops and restaurants; and with a high concentration of oriental people here, the most characteristic and eye catching of whom are the old men and women, who, with infinitely wearied, worn, yet wizened old faces, sluggishly saunter around the environs looking old, finished and above the typical petit concerns of life, one finds here a miniscule but very picturesque glimpse of the far east.

On my journeys, I found myself here, in a Chinese restaurant one Friday evening with two old friends. All of us thirty-somethings, we were none of us career men: Andrew was a part time computer programmer whose real love was for composing music; Neil, whose interests are wide and varied, had been on the dole for the last year or so. It was he who had arranged this little shindig.

The restaurant was an eat as much as you can buffet, and in conversation, the three of us talking about what we’d been doing, and happy to have one another’s company again, as old friends do, we casually walked around the food counters, past all the mouth-watering dishes, crammed plentifully with stock, looking forward to this meal. Orange and lemon chicken; sweet and sour pork; spring rolls; beef and vegetable dumplings; chicken chow mine, shrimp and noodle soup – piles and piles and never ending piles of it, of this beautiful, hot, delicious food; and as much as you could eat of it as well; what a happy, contented feeling it produced on this Friday evening, in the hearts of all the happy, excited, talkative diners in the restaurant. We filled our plates high and sat down and ate.

And so after a couple of returns to the buffet; and then a sortie amongst the equally mouth-watering and plentiful desert buffet, choc-a-bloc with chocolate, vanilla and strawberry ice cream, with fruit salad, with oranges, with pineapples, bananas and battered apples of which we ate heartily; we found ourselves full, sated and recovering; and drinking red wine, reclining in after dinner conversation.

‘Well’ I said during a lull ‘what was it you wanted to tell us all Neil. I admit I’m in suspense.’

‘Yes me too’ said Andrew. ‘You’re not going to get married are you?’

‘No, no, no, of course not, no.’ Then after a silence he resumed ‘no, no, no, it’s nothing like that.’

He sat there not looking at us, seemingly shy and reluctant to talk. But in his sensitive little face you could see he wanted to tell us something.

‘Well’ he dared to begin, looking nervous as if he’d prepared a speech for us, a story which he’d rehearsed, but now in the actual moment, he faltered to deliver. ‘Well, let me ask you, what do you think of the Chinese?’

‘The food or the people?’ said Andrew instantly, laughing and making a joke. I laughed too. However Neil just looked irritated, annoyed by the both of us and our feeble joke.

‘You know I mean the people’ he said. I could see by the serious look on his face that he wanted to tell us something important. He looked into the distance as if he was displeased by our foolishness. I sobered up, realising that he obviously wanted to enlighten us with some tale of his.

‘I don’t know, I don’t know what I think of the Chinese’ I said honestly. ‘What do you mean?’

‘What’s your impression of them is what I mean. Not in political terms or anything like that. I just mean, take the average Chinese person in Britain, a Chinese student say. What do you see when you see that person?’

‘I don’t know’ said Andrew, ‘I guess the women are pretty attractive. Oriental women make good wives so they say.’

‘You see, there you go’ said Neil immediately, as if he’d proved his point. Andrew and I were somewhat at a loss; we couldn’t see what Neil was getting at.

‘You say the Chinese women are pretty, attractive. Yes? But you wouldn’t say the same about the English or the French or the Italians? Or for any of the women on this planet? They make good wives do they? You know I’ll tell you what you meant, when you said that Chinese women are pretty, what you meant to say is that they’re submissive and can be controlled, that they’re somehow more manageable, more kind, more respectable and decent than western women. And moreover they’re all in need of husbands, strong, tall, dominant husbands just like the good old Englishman, because their own men, God bless them, are shy, obsequious, self-defacing Chinamen, who yes sir, no sir, three bags full sir, can be easily fended off just by laughing at them. That’s what you meant now wasn’t it?’

‘No’ said Andrew annoyed by the suggestion. ‘Don’t be so stupid’ he added, clearly displaying a bit of contempt for Neil, as if he spent too long thinking about things, and that he exaggerated.

‘Well I don’t know’ said Neil ‘but I think a lot of English people hold that mindset. I too admit to once thinking along those lines. I mean take the typical Chinese male student, Wan, Chen or Lee. What has he been over the last twenty or thirty years or so? I’ll tell you. He’s the lone Chinaman. Small, round, and bespectacled, he’s a wizard with computers, is utterly miles ahead of all the western students, studies hard, understands algebra and knows what a lepton is, all of which you might think would make him unpopular. However because he’s so shy, pleasant, meek and inoffensive, because his English is so scratchy, and he’s so child-like, introverted and intimidated by women, because he’s never been to a party and has never taken alcohol, and because one day he turns up to a student party, drinks half a glass of vodka, becomes completely inebriated, and everyone finds it hilarious, and goes home slapping him on the back and shouting ‘he-he Chen/Wan/Lee or whatever the fuck your name is, he-he you’re such a good sport, because of all this he’s really well-loved in a loser, hopeless case, last dog in the window kind of way.’

‘No, come on’ said Andrew, irked by this.

‘But yes it’s true’ said Neil. ’Why do you think so many Englishmen fly out to the Far East? It’s with the smug and presumptuous intention that they’re going to get lots of sex, that the women will roll over for them, in what is, what with all the deficiencies of the Oriental male, a kingdom of unrivalled alpha-male dominance, a land essentially populated only with women. The Chinaman apologising, doffing his cap, excusing his sorry personage as you make hard, passionate love to his wife. Or a Chinese disco. Full of twenty something, bespectacled Chinese geeks, who’ve never partied before. ‘Oh-hokey-cokey-cokey’ they sing. Or the birdie song. It’s like a children’s disco. They all come along, the nerds, dressed in western clothes, imitating our best known pop stars. They get up and do some karaoke. They just want to be as cool as us you see. He-he! Those twenty-five year olds, having a sip of whisky, dressed up like our pop stars, like the Beatles or Elvis, like Madonna or Jacko, partying the night away. Jesus Christ! The nerds! Oh and they’re poor as well. The Chinaman is the poor man. Have to work for the white man. Za goo ole why ma. Zhankyou zir.’

‘Where is all of this going?’ I said frowning, embarrassed.

‘Well you see’ said Neil, resuming a more serious and sensitive, thoughtful demeanour, after his cynical, sarcastic rant. ‘I have a confession to make.’

‘I guess it all took place about four years ago, when I was living in halls at university, the time when I was studying for my doctorate in philosophy.

‘The halls I stayed in were in every way excellent and cheap, comfortable, well-kept and so on, but the flat mates with whom I was housed for the first year were what made it such a good place to live. All of us mature students, both in name and personality, we got along so well, never arguing or bickering, but cooperating, respecting one another’s privacy, keeping the place tidy, and creating such a genial atmosphere. It was all the more fun because the students came from such a multitude of foreign nations: there was a French girl, an Italian, a German and a Swiss; there was an Australian, a South African, and an American; there was an Indian, a Thai, a Korean, a Japanese and a Chinese; and there was a Nigerian and an Ethiopian. There were also four Brits of whom I was one and my British Indian Muslim friend another. We got along like a house on fire; we cooked for each other, sampled each others dishes, had long discussions and debates on politics, history, current affairs and philosophy, we swapped tales of our diverse lives and cultures. We were, as we called ourselves, a sort of mini United Nations.

‘One day Said, the British Indian Muslim and my neighbour, knocked on my door. I was sat down reading a text.

‘Go away!’ I shouted. He entered all the same.

‘What do you want Said?’ I said with a mixture of annoyance and happiness at his childish interruption.

‘Eh voila’ he said, revealing something on a plate.

‘What’s that?’ I asked

‘It’s a pain au chocolat. I made it.’

‘A pain au chocolat? You made it? You’re meant to be writing your dissertation, you lazy fool. What’s all this in aid of. It’s not another pathetic attempt to impress Lysia is it? She’s leaving on Thursday, I don’t know why you’re wasting your time.’

‘And Said began remonstrating in his amusing way about how impressed Lysia would be. He was intelligent and mature, kind and passionate, and he always went around the flat in his slippers, a true pipe and slippers man, always slacking off work and heading to the kitchen for a philosophical discussion. He always pretended to have a thing for the ever good hearted Lysia, a French exchange student, a charming, sensitive, young girl. This baking pain au chocolat idea of his was done half seriously, half in jest; Lysia having bemoaned of him that English men could not cook.

‘I went to the kitchen with Said to try the pain au chocolat. Mullegeta, the Ethiopian, was already there, and game for a laugh and a diversion and something nice to eat, decided to try Hussein’s cooking. I did so too. He gave us each one and we tucked in. It was unbelievably heavy and dense. For a while we both tried to politely eat it; but after a while, realising how dense and difficult to eat it was, we were unable to hide our laughter, and overcome with merriment, we gave it up for hopeless, and coughed it up in the bin. Hussein, in his good natured way, took it all well, saying that it was the thought that counts, and Lysia would respect that. Afterwards, we went off down to the bar.

‘Later, after I left, I took the lift back up to my floor. On floor three it stopped and two people got on, two people who in this middle class student hall of ours seemed utterly out of place and incongruous. They were’ said Neil, looking seriously at us and holding our attention ‘a Chinese prostitute and her pimp. At least that was the only conclusion I could draw. The girl, tall and slim, had a tarted, painted face, heavy with mascara: she bore the mask of a harlot, a geisha. She wore a mini-skirt and knee-length stockings with high heels. I felt really intimidated by her, as I always have done whenever I’ve had any brief encounter with a lady of the night. It wasn’t just her dress, it was her attitude, her demeanour. She seemed tough, aggressive, totally dismissive of me, and she talked ten to the dozen to her pimp in Chinese, bossy, sullen, as if I didn’t even exist. I don’t know what it was in the person of the male that made me think him a pimp: he wore thick rimmed black glasses; he wore a leather jacket. He was tall and sturdy. There just seemed to be a presence about him, an aurora of manly superiority. And speaking on his mobile phone, he loudly and bossily gave out some orders in Chinese, simultaneously haranguing with his harlot. Again he seemed totally oblivious of me.

‘When I got back up to my room I was glad to be on my own again. I opened up my window and stood by it, looking out onto the dark, solemn, moonlit night, watching the sequence of lights land in the distance at Heathrow airport, listening to the strains of music float upwards from the pub. I was sad in my heart as if crushed. Why had that prostitute and pimp been here, of all places? Who were they? I felt sorry, disheartened, I felt they had upset the rhythm of lightness and peace that pervaded the hall; I just felt that, whatever the rights or wrongs of prostitution may be, I didn’t want to have to bump into such characters here, I didn’t want to have to face the issue; I wanted to be cosseted, happy and oblivious.

‘Of course I didn’t really believe they were a pimp and a prostitute, I just couldn’t rid myself of that impression. It was a mystery. I had something to think on. In the meantime, just about all of the people on my floor were set to leave, to return home. We were holding a party to mark this event.

‘Everyone on the floor had cooked some dish of their native country, excepting myself that is, who skillfully avoided the ordeal. When the cooking was done, Said came and knocked on my door, and I went with him down the corridor to the dining room, a bottle of wine in my hand, my contribution to the party. As we walked I saw up ahead of me a Chinese guy enter his room. He had just moved in the other day, replacing the man from South Africa, who unfortunately had had to shoot off before our celebration.

‘‘That new Chinese guy’ I said to Said ‘shouldn’t we invite him along. I mean I know he’s only just got here, but won’t he feel left out, seeing as the entire floor is going to the party?’

‘Oh don’t worry about it’ replied Said ‘It would just be awkward to invite him.’

And so we entered the dining room and began the continental feast. Everyone was in good spirits, we had a good laugh, ate up all the foreign food, swashed back all the wine. The American guy brought a CD player and we listened to some music, the Nigerian and Ethiopian guys showed us how to dance, and Said waltzed with Lysia and made humorous efforts to chat her up. It was all so good natured, the party I mean, a party for adults, conducted so pleasantly and in such good spirits. You could hear our good natured laughter some distance away. At one point however, an uninvited guest appeared.

‘It was the new Chinese guy. He came in, in order to procure some food from the freezer, and just as quickly left. He glanced at the party, obviously intimidated, and there was just a sensitive expression on his face, slightly embarrassed, slightly awkward. He was in and out in a flash.

‘And I realised straight away that it was the pimp. I was thoughtful once again. That was a new light in which I’d seen him.

‘The party eventually ended, and over the next few days the mass exodus of our floor began. Three days later only three of us remained: Said, myself and a Korean Wan. One day I happened to be talking with Said.

‘‘Have you seen the new Chinese guy?’ he said. ‘Everything he wears is designer. I saw him this morning slapping on designer aftershave. It costs a fortune. Everything, all his shirts, jeans, jackets, even his socks and underpants are designer. These Chinese are so flipping rich and arrogant.’

‘I was surprised to hear the normally sanguine Said speak like this, for he was usually so friendly, open, ready to be friends with anyone.

‘What’s wrong with him?’ I asked probing, interested. ‘Surely he’s alright.’

‘Well he might be, but I’m not making friends with him. No’ he said ‘I don’t know what it is about the Chinese, they’re just such robots. Rich robots as well. You know there’s more than a billion of them, a billion! In a few years time every nine out of ten people will be Chinese. They’re the new superpower. Them and India mind you. But Indians are different. Indians have soul, they’re cultured, philosophic. Indian people can think, I mean think for themselves. They’re individuals. Look at our religions, for example. Muslim, Sikh, Hindu, what a richness and diversity we posses there. We have soul. But the Chinese are soulless, they’re like robots. Even Buddhism isn’t really a proper religion; it’s an atheist’s religion. All they care for is power and money. Their government is nominally communist, but at heart they’re just as avaricious as America. They’re even good at sport now. And not just ping-pong and martial arts. Did you see the Olympics? The 110 metres hurdles: a Chinese guy won gold.’

‘A Chinese guy won gold?’ I said puzzled. ‘An African guy, running for China?’ I inquired uncertainly.

‘No!’ said Said with passion ‘a true Chinaman.’

‘He beat all those black guys’ I said perplexed.

‘Yes!’

‘Is he short?’

‘No he’s tall’

‘Oh’ I said taken aback, shocked even. ‘Is he muscular?’

‘No, fairly lightweight’ replied Said ‘like a ballet dancer in physique.’

‘Oh’ I said. I was overcome by surprise.

‘Well if you ask me, he must be on drugs’ piped up Said again, ‘the Chinese are so desperate for success, they’ll drink dog’s blood for it.’

As much as I was in puzzlement and put out, I was also a little annoyed by this comment.

‘On drugs? How do you know that? Just because he’s Chinese, he must be on drugs?’

‘Well he must be’ persisted Said ‘how else could he have won?’

‘My conversation with Said fuelled yet more thought and reflection. I didn’t like his hostile, negative attitude toward the new guy, toward the Chinese. I felt him to be better than that. Plus, I had seen a new side to the pimp, seen that he could be self-deprecating, sensitive. All the same, didn’t I share some of Said’s feelings? I mean if the pimp dressed in designer clothes and expensive aftershave, if he was wealthy, rich and fashionable, were we ever going to get along? However one issue, that of the Chinese gold medalist, really stuck in my thoughts; and I thought back to how Hitler had been so insulted that a black man, Jesse Owens, should win Olympic gold in Nazi Germany.

‘And so with all these conflicting thoughts in my mind I happened to bump into the pimp on several occasions in the flat. And eventually I decided that, somehow or other, I should introduce myself, and get to know him, as I did everyone else who washed up here, as was my custom. It seemed rude not to offer him the hand of friendship.

‘So one day in the kitchen I did exactly that. He could not have been pleasanter, nicer, friendlier, he made such an effort to be deferential, extremely aware that he was on foreign soil, that somehow, I was his host. He was astonishingly fluent in English! Incredibly dexterous in his use of our language, very communicative and fluent, whilst his grasp of grammar was simultaneously supreme. He easily understood all that I said; there was no need to speak down to him. However the most shocking thing about him was his accent. Usually, the oriental will struggle with the European tongue, his pigeon English, though understandable, deficient and holey, devoid of ls and rs. Yet this guy spoke with an English accent, half aristocratic, half cockney-John.

‘‘Imagine that!’ he said laughing good humouredly ‘we went out to the country and spent a night in a castle. Such a typical old English castle. I didn’t know what to expect as we roamed around all those dungeons and courtyards. It was like being in a Shakespeare play! I honestly expected to see the ghost of Hamlet or Macbeth in my dreams, jumping out of the wall to stab me!’

‘And later

‘‘But it’s so quiet here in England. Everywhere shuts down on a night time. We stayed in an hotel up in Brighton one evening and ended up in a nightclub, cos everywhere else seemed so shut down and deserted. The same is true here. Nothing to do on a night time. It’s so depressing in the winter. I come from the south of China, it’s more like Italy than England, with short winters and long summers. But here is so depressing! I mean what are you supposed to do on an evening? I just spend my time indoors, getting depressed, getting fat because I eat so much!’

‘And with this he good humouredly patted his stomach as if he was getting fat and old but also philosophic: it was self-deprecating.

‘Well I have to admit, I never in my whole life met such a peculiar specimen, such a strange, intriguing creature. He really was a find. In terms of his sensitivity and intelligence I couldn’t fault him. Pleasant and self-deprecating, he seemed to empathically understand people, and if he felt like it, be kind to them. His emotional sensitivity was second to none. Intellectually he was bizarre. Speaking brilliant English, and casually referring to Shakespeare, he was for all that enrolled on a business management course, one of those utterly lightweight diplomas, offered by our English universities, that cost excessively high fees, that no English student in their right mind would pay, and that amount to a handful of meaningless lectures per week, a few flimsy essays and exams, and a congregation ceremony, complete with cap, gown and glass of champagne, in the grassy, leafy campuses of aristocratic England.

‘So he wore glasses, both intellectual and fashionable, and his attire, his black leather jacket and white scarf or cravat, his jeans, his boots were all of designer stamp. He wore them with such panache and style. He was tall as well as sturdy, and in the face fairly handsome. Yet there was just a presence about him that made you understand he was the chief male. A total assuredness about the man, a confidence, a superiority complex I might say. Not expressed in arrogance or talk or cockiness. Absolutely not. It was very much the reverse. Silent, calm, supreme, his dominance was unquestionable. You could just sense it, oozing off the man. For instance I would see him, casually dowsing his face with designer aftershave in the morning, and when he saw me watching he would smile genially, self-deprecatingly, and say good morning. I liked him for that. Yet I knew that behind closed doors he was surely something else.

‘So there he was. I was full of confusion toward him. Undeniably he was a genial man, and always, every time I saw him, he would, without fail smile pleasantly and offer some greeting. I couldn’t deny his intelligence. Yet I also saw that he possessed a lot of vulgar trappings, things, ideas, possessions, with which I just could not relate. Designer clothes for one. The suspicion that he was phenomenally rich, for another. The insipid, anti-intellectual course he was taking. He had come to England a year or so hence and improved his English, at some expensive school for a year. Prior to that he had studied at a Chinese university, but the degree he had earned there, being so common and worthless, it had been necessary to come here and gain an extra diploma in order to satisfy the demands of Chinese business, whose echelons he would one day enter. And there I saw him, a silent, cool, suited businessman, bossy and psychopathic when need be, just as I’d first seen him when on the phone, casually sleeping with sexy business women, soulless, oh, so soulless, making easy money. I saw him in expensive clothes, unhappy, headstrong and testosterone fuelled, whilst everyone around him tried to please him, to get in his good books. You see for all the good I’d come to recognise in him, that tough, psychopathic, pimp behaviour remained undeniably intrinsic to him, and I wondered whether I had been wise in making friends with an alien such as he; I wondered whether there wasn’t something two faced in my behaviour, that I was a tad hypocritical.

‘But above and beyond what I thought, and above and beyond our gentile, civilised manners, there was some subtle, archaic understanding between us, that he, and only he was the dominant male. Physically we weren’t, bit by bit, so mismatched. Yet there was an undeniable presence about him, something, something difficult to pin down and point to, but something which informed me that he was the natural stud and bullock around whom all the women should flock; whilst I, and I knew it only too well, was meek, insignificant and flimsy, in no way attractive to the opposite sex. I guess he was sturdy, he was strong. His back was so erect, he was well built. But so are many others. He had something else.

‘And the way in which he had self-deprecatingly felt his stomach and told me he was getting fat, spoke volumes, I felt, for how he truly regarded me. I had detected a false note in his words when he had said that. Not that he was supercilious, his intention had been completely sincere. However I felt that his words had sprung from out of his superiority complex, in the way in which a slim girl, full of well meaning but false smugness, will, when she comes into contact with a fatter woman, pretend that she too is getting heavier and oh my gosh aren’t we all in the same boat! I sensed how he felt then, that he considered himself superior to me, and to be honest, I couldn’t really refute that. He was superior.

‘And if his sexually charged presence and persona were not sufficient enough to inform me of his superiority, he spelled things out in universal language, by decorating himself in women. And I don’t just mean Chinese women.

‘There were plenty of Oriental pearls mind you, but there were others besides, notably a Finnish girl and an Italian’ said Neil, looking at us keenly. ‘And it was easy to see why they liked him. Women seem to find his type so appealing. Intelligent, calm, a good listener, he was also clearly able to manipulate and mentally dominate them; hold their emotions subject to his will. Physically as well, I guess he was attractive, although here he was no athlete or sports hunk. And you know I don’t know whether you’ve noticed, but women I think prefer his lazy, indolent, sleepy type, men who are happy just to eat and get fat and not concerned about their figure; corpulent, easy and well fed, an arrogant, lazy, superiority, languidly draped about his person – women I think prefer his type to the fit, toned, energetic, sporty type, who keeps in shape and is worried about being so. No, that satisfaction and comfort that he manifested in his lazy, superior, fat cat way – women I promise you love that. And always well dressed and well groomed. They loved, they utterly loved, to have dinner with him. That seemed his only pastime almost, to sit and have dinner with a girl, he quite and somnolent, she talkative and appealing to him.

‘So he was then. I think I should tell you his name, it was so typical of this unclassifiable, enigmatic man. For her was no Lee or Wan or Chen. No. He took an English name: Blake. Imagine that. We were gratified by the presence of Blake.

‘So like I say, I went and made nice-nice with Blake, and though I did so with good intentions, I later came to regret it since in my heart, I felt I couldn’t ever really like him, and moreover the idea of being his inferior, I mean inferior to a Chinaman in my own land, was a bizarre notion to me. Whenever I saw him though we were always affable, always smiling and being good mannered. But there was a tension in the air. And it was soon exacerbated.

‘For instance one night, I awoke at two o’clock to a commotion outside. I opened my window and looked down to the hall’s entrance beneath me. It was the usual scenario: students coming home drunk from a nightclub, getting out of a noisy cab. I’d gotten used to such incidents as soon as I’d moved here, but this time, seeing it was a posse of Chinese, amongst whom was Blake, I allowed my anger at being woken up to rankle me, as if this wasn’t suitable behaviour for our Oriental guests.

‘Then one evening, exiting the kitchen, I witnessed something completely novel. A Finnish girl came out of Blake’s room. Before they became aware of my presence, I saw them embrace, as if to say goodbye and thanks for the sex. I saw them do one final kiss, and then as the Finnish girl exited the corridor, she turned one more time, looked intimately at Blake, and, raising her finger to her mouth, ‘popped it’ in a coquettish way. Blake responded by popping his own finger, as if it were a secret message between lovers. By this time he’d become aware of my presence. I put my head down, acting as if I hadn’t noticed, and he made his usual self-deprecating smile. I just smiled back and walked on.

‘But the chief cause of tension with Blake remained his Chinese whore girl. I would come into the kitchen often and find them both seated over dinner; and though Blake ceaselessly made an effort to be gracious, the prostitute did not. She would just sit there, gabbling ten to the dozen in Chinese, looking beautiful, completely indifferent of me as if I didn’t exist, in the kitchen of what was my floor, and what had been my floor for over a year, in the kitchen where I had spent so many happy hours with my now departed ex-flat mates. Anyway there was tension there, and I felt perhaps it would’ve been better never to have made friends with Blake. However for the moment we both put on friendly faces.

‘And I didn’t too much care either for I was going on holiday now for two weeks. The night before I left I went to see my Korean friend Wan. Said had by this time left, so we were the two remaining survivors from our previous year.

‘‘Our new flatmates will be here by the time I return’ I said to him happily. ‘I can’t wait to see who we’re going to get.’

‘‘Maybe some nice girls!’ he said breaking into laughter. We both knew what was on our minds: we recalled the lovely French, Italian, Swiss and German girls of last year.

‘He-he! Last year there were four girls, this year I’ve heard at least half the floor will be female – that means nine!’

‘Oh Good! Good! Lots of girls for you and I.’

He opened up his top drawer, took out a bottle of Martini, and two small shot glasses.

‘Cheers!’ we said clinking our glasses, ‘here’s to lots of new foreign girls!’ I said. And we spent the night chatting and relaxing. Finally, at around twelve, I left.

‘Now, I had to go downstairs, onto the girl’s floor, to quickly say goodbye to one of my female friends. However, just as I got into the corridor, I saw someone up ahead: it was Blake. He came out of one of the girl’s rooms, knotting up his cravat as if redressing, with a young Italian girl in tow: she was small, slim and lithe, she was dark-haired and wore glasses that made her look very intelligent. I held myself back hoping he wouldn’t see me. He didn’t. And so thinking himself alone, I watched him exit with the Italian girl; and turning their backs on me, I saw them walk down the corridor. And there and then I was given a glimpse into the secret personality of this man. For as they walked, the petit Italian girl walking submissively ahead of him, he – the supreme, the dominant – casually and with smut raised his hand and slapped her backside satisfactorily; her peachy, slightly flabby backside, he slapped with such satisfaction. She didn’t turn around to face him as he did so, she just walked straight on, submissive, controlled, at his will; whilst he walked erect and dominant, slapping her butt with supremacy. As I saw this, it was as if I had caught a glimpse of a male and female gorilla stealing through the forest, the strong male, the submissive female.

‘And mind you’ said Neil excitedly, ‘this was just two days after he’d introduced Miss Finland to the delights of chicken chow mine. No it was some sight that, I seemed to see it almost in slow motion. That dominant male slapping the Italian girl on the backside, as though she were his slave, his chattel. Never have I seen a more dominant, comfortable man. I went off for my holiday the next day.’