Further Bewilderment: Episode 7

Monday:

As I go out to get my newspaper, I see Eugene and Sandy loading up their car with suitcases. I wish them a good morning and Eugene tells me that they are off to a gig in Newcastle.  Sandy looks petulant.

‘The last time we played there, some arsehole ran off with my fez,’ Sandy says.

On my way to the minimarket,  I speculate as to what might be involved in their “speciality dancing”.

After a fairly frugal supper, I listen to a concert on Radio Three.  It’s Beethoven’s violin concerto which is sublime. I’m reminded of an occasion when I did a recording session for which I had written an arrangement for strings.  The musicians, about ten in number, were led by a haughty woman violinist of ample proportions. She insisted that I conduct them, even though the piece was very simple. I agreed, but having no baton, I used a roller-ball pen.   I quickly got into the spirit of things, flourishing the pen and imagining that I was conducting a symphony orchestra at the Albert Hall. After a couple of takes, during which the musicians hardly gave me a second glance, one of their number pointed to the haughty violinist.

‘You seem to have broken out in a serious rash, Daphne,’ he said.

Indeed she had. She was covered in black spots, all over her face and arms and her dress.  The pen had leaked of course and while I was pretending to be Simon Rattle,  I had been decorating her. She was not amused.

Tuesday:

I watch a television documentary about the benefits of fasting.  Apparently, if one restricts calorie intake to around six hundred on alternate days, then this not only leads to weight loss, but also the generation of new brain cells . I’m having trouble coping with the cells that I’ve already got, which seem to fire off in all sorts of random directions. On a good day, I can feel like  a titan and on others like a slug. Also, even a modest bottle of Merlot is around six hundred calories. To forego this small pleasure is a step too far. I think I’ll settle for fewer brain cells and the occasional Ryvita,  as a nod to abstention. Who wants to be a brainy stick insect anyway?

Wednesday:

I’m awoken by a telephone call from somebody trying to sell me double glazing. I ask them if they’ve found God yet. The line goes dead.  Pity, I was going to continue with a discussion of how crime, banditry and perplexity could be avoided.

Thursday:

I’m puzzled by why so many men these days have shaven heads. I imagine that some of them are perhaps prematurely bald and think that they might just as well remove what little hair remains. Whatever the reason, to me, it makes them look threatening and aggressive.  Maybe that’s their intention.

In the days when a shaven head was a rarity, an old friend of mine, Dougo, had his head shaved to raise money for charity and he collected a sizeable sum from those who would never have dreamt of such a drastic and noble gesture. One evening, his infant son was in the bath. Dougo’s wife asked him to look after him while she prepared dinner. Dougo spotted a new toy floating in the bath. It was a little plastic monkey on a stick. At the base of the stick was a suction cap. Dougo stuck it to the side of the bath and tweaked the stick. The monkey ascended the stick and then juddered back to the base, it’s mouth rapidly opening and closing, like a ventriloquist’s dummy.  His son was delighted and, encouraged by this success, Dougo, with some difficulty, removed the stick from the side of the bath and stuck it to his shaven head. Every time he shook his head, the monkey went through its routine, much to the amusement of his son. Bath time over, Dougo attempted to remove the toy from his head. He couldn’t. No amount of tugging by him and his wife, or the application of washing up liquid and cooking oil would budge it.

When they arrived at the casualty department of the local hospital, it was fairly crowded. Dougo tried his best to maintain some dignity as he sat with his wife and son, but every time he turned his head, the monkey would ascend and descend the stick with a mocking clacking of its jaws, much to the amusement of those waiting to be seen.  To compound his embarrassment, the duty doctor, hardly able to stifle his mirth, paged some of his colleagues to witness the spectacle. Their merriment was shared by a gaggle of giggling nurses who had been similarly alerted. Eventually, the suction cap was incised with a scalpel and Dougo was parted from the monkey.

He was left with a purple lump on his bald head. It was roughly the size of a duck’s egg and took some weeks to shrink. During this time, old ladies on buses offered him their seats, enemies were conciliatory and policemen halted the traffic to let him cross the road. They all presumably thought that with no hair and an outsize purple lump on his head, he was undergoing chemotherapy for a brain tumour.

Friday:

I spend some time catching up with dirty dishes. I really should wash up once a day at least, rather than waiting until I’ve run out of clean pans, plates and cutlery. Some of the plates and pans that I’ve used earlier in the week seem to have developed a culture. A bit like the contents of Alexander Fleming’s petri dish when he discovered penicillin. This has me thinking.

If, as we’re told, time is relative, then what to us might be only a week could be eons to the microbes developing in my washing-up bowl. At a microscopic level they could have gone through their own versions of the Bronze and Iron Ages, had an Industrial Revolution, built great cities, founded empires and dynasties and fought pointless wars. They might also have spawned Messiahs and false prophets, philosophers, playwrights, poets, musicians and great scientists.

As I finish the washing up and flush out the sink, I begin to wonder if  I might indiscriminately have exterminated the microbial counterparts of  Genghis Kahn, Einstein, Galileo, Mother Teresa, Mozart, or Little Richard. And who’s to say that some indolent slouch like me in another universe or dimension won’t flush us all down the plughole someday? It’s a bizarre thought, but then as one of my wives once said to me,

‘You think too much.’

Saturday:

The usual crap in the mail. Touting estate agents, funeral plans, insurance, mobile phone offers and kitchen refurbishment. The insurance offer has a pre-paid reply envelope, so I stuff the all other guff, plus a couple of menus from the local tandoori and wood-fired pizza joint into it and post it off on my way to the shops. I don’t expect that this small of act of rebellion will lead to the downfall of capitalism, but if we all did the same, it might deter these pests and save a few trees.

Sunday:

A domestic day, wherein I start out with great resolve to sort out the flat. I can never remember the correct order of play. Does one dust first, then hoover?  I decide to start on the ceiling cobwebs and work downwards to floor level.  Then I’ll unleash the hoover to mop up all the crap.  It’s some time since I’ve done this and  I begin to notice that the tops of doors are covered in dust and dead flies.  The louvred doors to the kitchen, probably considered stylish in the Sixties, are a particular worry as the slats seem to have an obstinate combination of dust and a patina of grease.  I soldier on doing the best I can.  A pretty moth takes flight from behind a radiator and flutters out of the balcony window. At least it won’t be eating my clothing. On the other hand, it might just have been resting after a prolonged and frenzied period of copulation and its progeny are already nibbling their way through my wardrobe.

 Finally, I plug in the hoover. It sounds a bit wheezy and picks up next to nothing. I’ve reached this point so many times in my life with other appliances, cars, computers, official forms, people, relationships and self-assemble furniture   I feel myself losing it, wanting just to give up, but I persevere. I open up the hoover and examine the bag that collects all the detritus. It’s completely full.

 I can play the saxophone quite well, write scores for a whole orchestra, speak passable French and quote from Shakespeare and Chaucer. I attended a prestigious music academy, have an honours degree in history and I can sometimes complete The Times crossword, yet this bag of shite confounds me and almost sends me into catatonic despair. I can’t see how to remove it and I’m not sure if I have a replacement. After several tugs I manage to disengage it and chuck it in the waste bin. I check in the broom cupboard for the original box that the hoover came in and luckily it contains a spare bag. I spend the next hour trying to figure out how to fit it.

Sometimes, I think I need looking after. Maybe some independently wealthy woman with Marigolds, a tool kit, an engineering diploma and her own dishwasher. An appreciation for irony would be a bonus.

AGE OF BEWILDERMENT is now available as a book at  www.bwildr.net or from Amazon/Kindle

© David Sherrington 2012  Davidsherrington@aol.com   www.bwildr.net

Further Bewilderment: Episode 6

Monday:

Over breakfast, I read an article in the newspaper about the Church of Scientology. I’m amazed that any rational person could swallow all this nonsense. Its founder, L. Ron Hubbard, was a second rate science fiction writer who concocted the whole caboodle. He is reputed to have said,  “You don't get rich writing science fiction. If you want to get rich, you start a religion.”  L. Ron did just that, but  I’ll say no more about him, for fear of men in dark suits Tom Cruising past my home in Humvees with tinted windows.

 I am however, fascinated by weird sects and conspiracy theories. The crackpot  ideas associated with many of these are amusing in themselves, but what interests me is the suspension of healthy disbelief and rational thought that gives them oxygen and allows them to flourish.  We might have the internet, space travel, sat-nav, quantum theory, smart phones and ever more complex technologies, but there remains a sizeable portion of the human race who are as credulous as their Neanderthal forbears and the Salem witch hunters.

In the last decade of the Eighteenth Century, a domestic servant from Devon, called Joanna Southcott, began to claim that she had received divine revelations about the future of mankind. She found a ready audience among those displaced or reduced to mere ”hands” by the engines of the Industrial Revolution. At one point her followers reached almost one hundred thousand.  She did not make all her revelations public and she placed those that were most profound in a sealed box.  Before her death in 1814, she left instructions that this box could only be opened in the presence of all the bishops of the Church of England. Once opened, the contents would apparently reveal the way in which mankind could escape from the clutches of Mammon, redeems itself and enter into a new millennium of peace and harmony. The bishops at the time were unpersuaded and have remained so, but I recall that in the 1960s and 70s,  advertisements regularly appeared in the national press proclaiming that:

CRIME, BANDITRY AND PERPLEXITY

Will increase until the Bishops open Joanna Southcott’s Box

So, over a century and a half  later, Joanna still had some supporters.

In 1927, a sealed box was opened in the presence of the Bishop of Grantham and was found to contain a rusty pistol and a long out of date lottery ticket. The authenticity of this box has been disputed by the true believers, who, remarkably, still exist and have a website no less. They claim to have the real box held in a secret location.  If this is indeed the original Southcott box, perhaps they should consider having it opened not by bishops, but bank grandees, hedge fund managers and sundry spivs, who might then abandon crime and banditry. I live in hope.

My own penetrating philosophy on life, the universe and everything, honed through the horrid ghosts of childhood, decades of over-indulgence,  hopeless relationships and  being educated beyond my intelligence, is deceptively simple.  The trouble is that I’m buggered if I can remember any of it when I’m sober.

Tuesday:

It might seem whimsical, but  I’ve been wondering why no one seems to have thought of organising mobility scooter races. Whenever I go into town, I seem always to be dodging out of the way of these machines as they pootle along the pavements. Aside from the obviously infirm, they are frequently piloted by extremely obese individuals. There have been a few occasions when I’ve had to skip out of the way of one of these mobile blobs.

 These scooters make virtually no sound, which makes them potentially lethal, particularly for hard of hearing pedestrians. I’m sure that I’ve read somewhere that by law electric cars, although noiseless, have to be fitted with a device that mimics the sound of a normal engine. I see no reason why this shouldn’t apply to these scooters. Perhaps users could be offered a choice of sounds. Standard car,  Formula One, Sherman tank, Tiger Moth, sewing machine, or Reliant Robin. Then at least one might be alerted to their approach.

An annual race might raise some money for worthy causes and perhaps come to rival more prestigious events like the Tour de France or the Grand Prix. The town centre could be closed for a few hours. Bales of straw would be placed on difficult bends and there might also be a chicane or two to test the mettle of the scooterists. The start could be at the top of one of the very steep hills that surround the town, so as to give the riders some extra momentum.Some of the more adventurous and competitive might actually freewheel down before engaging their motors. The finish line could be a short  jetty by the river, where the possibility of scooterists plummeting into the water might add to thrill of the race and the carnival atmosphere.

Alternatively, the event could be organised along the lines of a savage demolition derby, where competitors with colourful names like The Elephant Man,  No Legs,  The Lardball  Kid and Killer Gran  fight to the death, smashing into each other and driving their rivals into ditches and through plate glass shop windows as they speed toward the jetty and an uncertain future.

However, I know that none of this will ever take place. The most adventurous thing the local council has ever done was to construct a floral clock in one of the parks. It was quickly vandalised.  So cosmonauts, passing balloonists and aviators have had to resort to other means of ascertaining the time. Which is relative anyway.

Wednesday:

A “barn egg” for breakfast. I have long since ceased to wonder what this term means. I understand the cynical marketing intention behind it being so named – a cosy image of contented hens roosting in a quaint barn somewhere in a rural Shangri-La – but I can’t summon the energy to get annoyed by it today.  

Thursday:

This morning, I idle away half an hour trying to put a new cover on my duvet.  I remember reading somewhere that the trick is to turn the cover inside out, lay the duvet on it and then reverse the process. It might work for a domestic goddess, or an origami expert,  but  I end up nearly chucking the whole lot over the balcony in my frustration. Eventually, I manage to cram the duvet into the cover, after which I console myself with a sausage sandwich, which looks remarkably like my bed cover. Lumpy in places.

Friday:

And so to the residents  meeting. As it’s a fine evening, this is held on the lawn rather than in Reg’s flat where it was scheduled to take place. This is a relief as we might otherwise have been subjected to some unspeakable cowboy music. I vaguely know most of those present: Action Man and The Basilisk, Kryten and The Mouse, The Bellowing Brat’s parents and of course the odious Reg. In addition, there are two men that I haven’t seen before and a woman of about fifty, who is quite attractive, but looks needy.

Charles Sparrow, the clerk to the management committee is in attendance and he introduces himself and calls the meeting to order.

‘Thank you all for coming ladies and gentlemen. I believe that is the first residents meeting that has been held for some considerable time. I think, therefore, it might be a good idea for each of you to introduce yourselves.’

Sparrow is middle-aged and looks as though he might have wielded a quill pen at some time, perhaps in a counting house, or working in the offices of Dombey and Son. 

We each go through the ritual of self-introduction. The fifty-ish woman tells us that she’s called Pru and works as a counsellor. The two men introduce themselves as Eugene and Sandy.

‘We’re speciality dancers,’ says Sandy. ‘But we also do a bit of acting on the side.’

‘Oh, are you famous?’ asks The Mouse.

‘Well, I once played a coma patient in an episode of Holby City. Money for old rope. No dialogue.  I was moribund, but I did manage to sneak in an unscripted death rattle.’ Sandy tells her.

The introductions continue. Kryten proudly tells us that he’s a police officer.

‘Ooh, show us your truncheon, shiny boots,’ says Sandy.’ Give us a blow on your whistle’

Kryten is not amused. Sparrow calls us to order and drones on about wheelie bins and general maintenance.  I’m eagerly awaiting the condor moment and I’m not disappointed. Sparrow clears his throat and assumes a grave expression.

‘We come now to the question of dangerous or unusual pets. If you examine your resident’s agreement you will see that keeping such animals is strictly forbidden. However, we have reason to believe that one resident is keeping a South American bird of prey in his flat.’

‘I think I can clear this matter up,’ I tell him. ‘Just give me a minute.’

I leave the meeting and go up to my flat. I perch Owl on my arm like a falcon and return to the lawn.

‘I regret that my quirky sense of humour got the better of me. It’s not a real…’

I’m interrupted by a piercing scream from The Basilisk.

‘Take it away! Take it away. It’s staring at me.’

I try to explain that it’s only a wooden owl, but she flees from the lawn in some distress. Christ, this is the best fifteen quid I’ve ever spent. It’s seen off a yappy dog and a malevolent serpent.

‘Very droll, I’m sure. Perhaps we can move on to other business,’ says Sparrow.

‘Does it have a name?’ Pru asks me.

‘No, I just call it Owl. I think it might resent anthropomorphism.’

‘You what ism?’ queries Kryten, furrowing his brow.

‘Ascribing human characteristics to animals, like with Bambi, King Kong, or Wind in the Willows,’ Sandy tells him. ‘I played Toad once in panto at Skegness. I had to wear this green plastic head with bulging eyes and big rubbery lips. Sometimes, the head would get out of alignment and I couldn’t  see properly. During a matinee performance, I crashed off the stage into the front row. Badger, Ratty and Mole ad-libbed like mad while I tried to extricate myself from the kiddies and people with learning difficulties. Badger, with whom I was in a relationship at the time, saved the day by saying that my nosedive into the audience was all part of a plot by the dastardly weasels. When the panto closed, he ran off with Mole. They run a B and B in Brighton these days.’

‘I think we’re rather straying from the point,’ says Sparrow with some irritation.. ‘You need to elect a chairperson for the coming year.’

Eugene, who until now has said very little, proposes Owl. This is seconded by me, Sandy and Pru, but Reg, the caretaker, is elected and in a pompous little speech promises to look after our collective interests and even suggests an entertainment programme.  A Stalinist Redcoat.  I can hardly wait.

Saturday:

Owl is back in position. The doves coo from a safe and less annoying distance. No sign of Reg’s yappy dog, or The Basilisk. I fear that I might have made an enemy of the latter and will have to make sure that I avoid her deadly gaze.

I dine on a “be good to yourself” organic chicken breast which is depressingly tasteless. Maybe they should have been kinder to the bird before its dispatch. A few days out at the seaside perhaps, or a karaoke night in Peckham,

Sunday:

A morning visitation from the Jehovah’s Witnesses. Two dowdy old frumps try to engage me in a doorstep discussion about Armageddon.  I tell them that I’m a committed Southcottian. I believe that’s called thinking out of the box.

AGE OF BEWILDERMENT is now available as a book at  www.bwildr.net or from Amazon/Kindle

© David Sherrington 2012  Davidsherrington@aol.com   www.bwildr.net