A small collection...

A small collection of things found. Stumbled across on various outings.

An old collection now I'm afraid. A collection from when my mind wasn't so full of the grey and worrisome mundane of it all, and there was a new possibility in everything I saw.

Not that long ago, but long ago enough for me to need reminding. A couple of picked pink beach shells, a few stones - some from sea and some from field - a tiny piece of Caribbean coral, a smooth glass wish found in the road below the castle, and a tiny fragment of glass that glinted so much in the sunshine that it called me to pick it up in case it was a diamond.

It wasn't, but it was.

I need to get back to this. Unleash that magic again. But just how do I do it?

Scarecrow, getting on with it and one for me…

Here’s one for me. I’ll keep it brief.

Two years today I drove back from Scarborough a different person. Yes, two years and I’m still trying to define who that different person is. I can hardly believe it. Of course not finding a proper job has been a disappointment. It’s hard to accept that after so much nobody really wants you. I’ve come close, very close, but no cigar - maybe it’s time to give up smoking. I’ve tried lots of things, hoping to bring back whoever I was or find whoever I am, but none of them have quite worked and I’m running out of ideas. Sometimes it’s like my identity has been stolen, it’s like I have lost my soul, become a shadow. Sometimes it’s like time passes but without me really involved in its passing like a scarecrow in a field; a not quite person passing for a person. I don’t like it. Sometimes (often) I don’t like myself. Sometimes everything seem increasingly pointless, I feel unable to make a difference. Instead, I just get on with it. A plain man, in a plain world, just getting on with it. I stick to my routines, find refuge where I can, take solace in the simple. I Sleep. I Eat. I Drink. All the things us scarecrows do.

It’ll change one day I expect.

There, one for me.

Mr Shouty loses his glasses…

Remember Mr Shouty? That purely fictitious person who bears no resemblance to anybody living or dead. Well, he's back and today he seems to have lost his glasses. Poor Mr Shouty, the whole world is against him...

HAVE YOU SEEN MY GLASSES WOMAN? THEY WERE HERE A MOMENT AGO. WHAT DO YOU MEAN NO? DAMN AND BLAST IT WOMAN, YOU MUST HAVE. THEY WERE RIGHT HERE ON THE TABLE. THINGS JUST DON’T WALK.

Mr Shouty searches the table, flinging the papers that are on it here and there; sending his letters of complaint high up into the air, snatching at them, throwing them - until it looks like he’s standing in a paper snowstorm.

YOU MUST HAVE MOVED THEM. TELL ME WHERE YOU’VE PUT THEM. YOU DON’T KNOW? WELL THINK! I’M SORRY, BUT YOU MUST KNOW WHERE YOU PUT THEM WOMAN. I CAN’T HAVE A THING AROUND HERE WITHOUT YOU MOVING IT. WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU HAVEN’T SEEN THEM? ARE YOU CALLING ME A LIAR? THEY WERE DEFINITELY HERE ON THE TABLE. DO YOU THINK I’M STUPID OR SOMETHING? MAYBE YOU TOOK THEM INTO THE LIVING ROOM.

Mr Shouty storms out of the kitchen and into the living room. All Mrs Shouty can hear are drawers being opened and cupboard doors slamming. Something breaks - she hopes it isn’t her china.

BLAAAAAAAAAASSTTTT! NOW LOOK WHAT YOU’VE DONE WOMAN, I CAN’T BELIEVE THAT YOU CAN’T REMEMBER WHAT YOU DID WITH MY GLASSES.

Mrs Shouty says that she hasn’t even seen them.

WHAT? WELL YOU MUST HAVE. I’M TELLING YOU THAT I DIDN’T MOVE THEM SO IT MUST BE YOU. NOW WHERE HAVE YOU MOVED THEM TOO… THINK WOMAN, THINK!

Mrs Shouty says that she never touched them.

I’M SORRY! WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU HAVEN’T TOUCHED THEM? I’M NOT MAD YOU KNOW, THEY WERE HERE A MOMENT AGO AND I DIDN’T MOVE THEM, SO IT MUST BE YOU. YOU’RE A BIGGER LIAR THAN TOM PEPPER.

Mr Shouty rushes into the bathroom. Mrs Shouty can hear him going through the cupboards, throwing pills and soap and smashing bottles. She looks around. The house is wrecked, papers and broken things are scattered everywhere. Inside the bathroom all goes quiet and Mr Shouty emerges…

I’VE FOUND THEM. YOU MUST HAVE MOVED THEM INTO THE BATHROOM. WHY YOU CAN’T REMEMBER WHAT YOU’RE DOING IS BEYOND ME WOMAN - AND LOOK AT THE MESS YOU’VE MADE. NOW GET IT CLEANED UP, I’VE GOT IMPORTANT LETTERS OF COMPLAINT TO WRITE ON MY COMPUTER.

Mrs Shouty starts picking up the papers. She knows that Mr Shouty’s glasses were on his head all along but she didn’t tell him – it wasn’t worth the argument.

Doctor's appointment...

I can’t complain; I had a good run. But after two years of dodging the Doctor he eventually pulled rank and refused to reissue my medication if I didn’t go for a check. Just a blood pressure thing, I’ve had it for twenty years. Four tablets a day, six monthly checks - the last few times with the nurse rather than the Doc himself. So why all this fuss? After all, it's not like he really wants to see me.

He gave me fair warning; a couple of notes and a signed letter, but still I didn’t go. Well, I’d kind of got out of the habit, besides it’s all a bit of a faff this going to the Doctors business - and you never know what they are going to put you through.

I had to go today though; I’m nearly out of tablets. Not that I remember to take them every day, and when I do I don’t take always take them all. Yeah, I’m really bonkers, dancing with death the way I do.

Anyway off to the docs I toddled this morning for my early appointment. First thing I noticed was that the once quite comfortable waiting room was now laid out in military style. Gone were the coffee tables and magazines, the children’s play area; all replaced with rows of grey chairs back to back like something out of sixties Russia.

I waited to be attended to and when nobody came after five minutes I rang the bell. A voice to my left, which appeared to be coming out of a television set, asked me what I wanted. I told them I had an appointment and the voice told me to touch the screen. A question appeared: ‘Are you male of female?’ I touched the male icon. ‘What month were you born?’ I pressed Mar. ‘What day?’ I entered the correct numerals. ‘Dr MacDonut has been informed you are here’ appeared upon the screen.

I sat on one of the grey military chairs. They certainly weren’t made for comfort and glanced at the posters on the wall. ‘Forgetting where you parked your car is okay. But forgetting what colour it is could mean that you have a problem.’ Nothing to be worried about here then - my car was black… or was it graphite… grey maybe? A buzzer sounded, making me jump. Black, definitely black; glancing up I noticed that above my head a computerised running banner informed me that Dr. D would see me in room 2.

I knocked on the door and entered room 2. There was Dr. D, just the same, no military uniform or Stalin moustache, a couple of years older but looking just the same as the last time I saw him. Then straight in without niceties – yes, same old Dr. D.

“Why have you missed your last two year’s appointments?”

“I’ve been ill.” I replied.

“You’ve put on a lot of weight.”

“Well so would you if you ate loads of rich food and drank as much wine as I do.” I responded.

“What exercise are you doing?”

“I lift myself out of the bath almost daily and I write about sport quite a lot.” I replied.

A short lecture on health followed, then he launched into how the government were robbing him whilst taking thirty percent of his salary as pension contributions and how he found it very hard to pay the school fees.

He said that I should do some exercise, like swimming or swimming or maybe even swimming... He said that I should see the nurse about helping me to lose some weight. (I thought that seeing the nurse won’t stop me eating and drinking, and that’s what is needed if I wanted to lose weight - not that I do.)... He said that  I could go and that he'd see me again in three months as my blood pressure had gone up a little.

I smiled, thanked him for his valuable time and left closing the door quietly behind me - I didn't want him calling me back. Phew! That was a breeze - no urine sample, no blood test, and no need to cough. I wonder how long I can not see him before the next letter arrives?

Doppelganger...

My brother in law had a strange experience last week. Mind you he is Australian, and that might account for it. Joking aside, here in his own words is what happened to him.

Walking to work along City Walk in Canberra this morning I thought I saw my double. A man approaching me from the left, he had a shaved head; that first caught my eye. As he was walking across in front of me I noticed he had a build similar to me and was around my height; OK then, he was fairly short!! Next to become even weirder was that he was wearing black shoes; black trousers and a black/grey shirt. Strange because I was wearing exactly the same clothes. As he was walking away from me it became even stranger, in his right hand he was carrying a black plastic bag from Myer, I too was carrying a black plastic bag from Myer in my right hand. Not a mirror or shop window nearby, I just wish I'd taken a photo to verify the strangeness of it all!

Mmmm…sounds like a Doppelganger to me.

His message reminded me of the time I drove past myself on the way back from Scarborough. There I was on the A64 heading towards York when, on the other side of the road, there was I driving along in a grey Vauxhall Insignia just like the one I was driving. I looked closely at the driver and he looked at me - same grey hair, same dark blue suit, same light blue open necked shirt, same flat expression. I’m sure that I saw myself smile as I passed myself. Then I was gone; disappearing in the rear view mirror of the distance as the two of me drew away from each other.

Doppelganger: a ghostly double of a living person that haunts its living counterpart. I often see him in the mirror.

The neighbourhood thrush...

I’d seen him before in the yew tree at the end of the road. He’s usually too high up for me to get a decent look, but I often hear him singing and it always brings a small flutter off a smile to my lips.

Today though, he was sitting just above me in the lower branches as I passed. I stopped to look. What a magnificent bird, so proud looking, his beak thrust out and his chest puffed. He hopped onto a lower branch and as he did, the light caught his spotted breast. It reminded me of a leopard’s skin with that tawny-gold sheen and deep brown speckledness. It reminded me of a spotted dick pudding, rich sponge and darkest currants. It reminded me of tie I once had – what happened to that I wonder?

I stood looking up for a minute or so and then he began to sing. A small flutter of a smile and a strange compunction to applaud came upon me. Of course I didn’t, what a picture that would have painted – an aging, smiling, man standing on the pavement, looking into the air and clapping. Perhaps they’d have carted me off to the funny farm.

Anyway, I listened for a while and then, noticing me with his shiny black eyes, he flew off startled. Perhaps I looked madder that I thought.

Speaking ill of the dead...

“Death creates a prejudice in favour of the deceased ... I should like to find someone who knew Elizabeth Barnard and who does not know that she is dead! Then, perhaps, I should hear what is useful to me - the truth.”

Hercule Poirot - The ABC Murders

They say that you shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. I don’t know why. If you were a shit whilst you were alive then just being dead isn’t going to change that. Or do the dead have a special pass, a kind of ‘Get out of truth’ free card?

Of course this speaking ill of the dead thing isn’t about respect at all. It’s superstition. A hangover from times when people believed the deceased would come back to get you if you said a bad thing about them. Well, I haven’t seen Jimmy Saville’s ghost to date, or Mr. Hitler’s (whoops, there I go mentioning him again). What was said at Dr. Shipman’s funeral I wonder? Maybe they said that he was "a committed doctor, one of the very few who still made house calls."

It seems that regardless of how disliked or embarrassing somebody has been in life, no matter what outrages they caused, or what crimes they committed, the minute they shuffle off, popping their clogs on their way to the great beyond, a rosy-tinted nostalgia filter falls into place causing the deceased to be remembered as being better than they really were. For a lot of people, the reason for this is that the dead person isn’t there to defend themselves. Others might feel that it’s best to let the past be past and remember only good things - “Um... Yes, he really liked digging.”

Of course, if you stand to get a lot of money when Uncle Harley passes it’s probably a good idea to mumble nice things about the dearly departed at the funeral. Besides, there might be some anti-negative comment clause written into the will. Well… Uncle Harley was like that – nasty, abusive, mistrusting, penny-pinching, vindictive, cheat of a liar that he was.

Why say that a person had strong convictions when you really mean that they were an argumentative, arrogant, bigot? Should you really describe somebody as having interesting ideas when they were actually as crazy as a loon? Does death wipe away all your personality flaws, covering them with an artificial gloss like an undertaker painting a corpse’s face to hide the decay? Of course most people have many good things to be said about them, so many that it would hardly be worth mentioning that they poisoned cats when they came into their garden.

I hope at my funeral that there’s somebody there who tells the truth about me, and doesn’t wrap me up in a few sugary-coated observations. I say hope, because I don’t think that there will be many there who really know me. In fact I don’t think that there will be many there at all. Perhaps I’ll record my own eulogy and have it played through the sound system.