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

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.