#I finished drawing this with a horrible headache after a long two hour car ride to meet my younger cousins who live in a different province

[emily-mooon]

Jonathan in my Itakiss AU:

[dimensionhoppingrose]

In My Veins (11/?)

Title: In My Veins Rating: K+ Pairing: Ten/Rose, human AU Summary: –Telepathic bond soulmate AU– Everyone kept saying kids couldn’t develop telepathic bonds, that it was completely impossible. John Smith and Rose Tyler defied the impossible.

Notes: Well I finally managed to hash out a soulmate AU enough to be happy with writing it. All the blame for this entire story goes to @lastbluetardis​, who not only encouraged it, but also allowed me to yell at her about it until I was happy enough to start writing it. Blame her entirely.

Read it on A03

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Warning For: Eating disorder, body image issues

John: 18; Rose: 16

Stop thinking.

John rolled over, burying his face in his pillow. I’m trying.

You’re not doing a very good job.

She was right. He was doing his best, but he was also freaking out. He was getting ready to go to university. Who wouldn’t be anxious about that?

I’m sorry, he said quietly. I can go, if you want.

No! Rose said quickly. I… I don’t want you to go. Please.

She hadn’t tried to block John out since they had reconciled, and John was grateful for that. It had been so lonely without her. He didn’t want to go through that again.

It was clear John wasn’t sleeping, so instead he turned on his bedside lamp and grabbed his sketchbook, drawing mindlessly. It was the fastest way to calm himself when he was thinking too much.

He felt Rose in the back of his head, relaxing a bit as he began drawing. Her presence was a warm, comforting glow, and he was so happy to have it back.

Are you mad at me? Rose asked quietly after a moment. John hesitated, pencil pausing. He couldn’t lie. Rose would know. One of the downsides of having her in his head. And it was hard to deny that things had been… awkward between them since Rose had begun talking to him again. It was unavoidable.

I’m… I’m not mad. That was the truth. I… don’t really know how to explain how I feel, honestly. There were a lot of feelings. He couldn’t put them all into words.

I know I was horrible to you, Rose said. You didn’t deserve that.

I am sorry I broke our promise, John replied. But I didn’t have a choice, Rose. You were killing yourself.

I know. Which didn’t stop the slight flare of annoyance that ran through Rose. I know. I just… I hate being here so much.

I know you do. But you need to be.

Rose was quiet for a moment. We’re not talking about me, she said finally, quietly. I asked about you.

John sighed. I’m just… it hurt, Rose. A lot. When you weren’t talking to me. And I don’t just mean physically. Although the headaches had been brutal.

I know being angry isn’t an excuse, Rose said, and John felt a wave of sadness. You didn’t deserve that. And I am sorry. I honestly am.

I know you are. She couldn’t lie, after all.

And even if she could, John would have believed her anyways.

* * * * * * * *

“I see you’ve been doing much better with eating,” Rose’s therapist said, and Rose ducked her head, staring at the floor.

“Yeah,” she mumbled. It was still hard — her brain was still trying to count the calories in every single thing she ate, and ignoring it was hard. But she was trying. And she was eating.

And that was something.

“Why the sudden change?” It wasn’t exactly a secret that Rose had been… resistant to any and all treatment in the hospital. She’d ate because the alternative was ending up with an IV in her arm (and needles terrified her), but it had been the bare minimum and even then it had been unwilling.

Having John back was… helping, though. It was far from a cure, but John… made her feel better. And made her want to be better.

“I don’t know.” She didn’t want to talk about John. She had more or less avoided it up to this point — it wasn’t a door she wanted to open — and if she could get out of this place without ever mentioning John’s name, then great. John had told her about his experience at the doctor’s, and that wasn’t something she wanted to deal with until she absolutely had to.

And she knew she would have to eventually.

I’m back, Rose said quietly as she left the therapist’s office. John tried really hard not to pay attention during therapy, recognizing that it was Rose’s time. He didn’t know how to fully block her out the way Rose had done to him, and honestly Rose was glad about that. She never wanted to go through that kind of separation again.

It had been too much.

You alright? John asked at once. Rose believed he really did his best not to listen. But it was hard.

Yeah… I’ll live. I just want to get out of here.

I know you do.

Rose went back to her room, sighing as she collapsed into bed. Her parents’ were definitely getting their money’s worth this place. But it was still a hospital, and Rose was still trapped here.

And she wanted to go home.

Rose? John asked quietly. Why did you stop eating?

He had never asked. Rose had honestly assumed he knew. But then again, knowing and understanding were two very different things.

I… I was scared, she mumbled, curling up tight in bed. I mean, I’m not really that pretty, and if I’m fat too, then…

What are you talking about? John asked in disbelief. You’re beautiful!

A small, sad smile pulled at Rose’s lips. No I’m not. But thanks.

Of course you are, John insisted.

You’ve only seen the stupid pictures in magazines. Rose spent hours being made to look pretty for those.

That’s not true. You sent me pictures, remember? I love them. You’re my backgound on my phone.

… Rose didn’t know what to say to that. She had completely forgotten about the stupid selfies she and John had sent each other. Really?

Of course.

Tears filled Rose’s eyes, and she wiped them quickly. If it had been anyone else, she would have assumed they were lying just to make her feel better.

But it was John, and he couldn’t lie to her. She could feel the absolute sincerity in his words, could hear the slight awe in his voice as he insisted on how beautiful she was.

He couldn’t lie to her. She would know if he tried.

You really think so? She asked all the same. After all, he had pretty girls practically falling over him all the time. It seemed impossible to think that he really believed she was pretty.

Of course I do.

He wasn’t lying.

* * * * * * * *

It was another two months — making it seven months total — before Rose was finally released from the hospital. She still had to go back once a week for therapy, and she had to have regular doctor’s appointments to monitor her health, but for the most part she could return to her regular life.

She couldn’t wait.

John had been busy most of the morning, which disappointed Rose, but she understood, of course. He had a life.

Jackie and Pete finished up all the paperwork, Rose packed her belongings, and they headed out. Rose was bouncing, thrilled to finally be able to leave. She couldn’t wait to go home, or even to see her brother again. How could she be so happy to see Tony? That didn’t seem possible.

Hey, look to your left.

Rose paused as she walked out of the hospital with her parents, the request understandably baffling. But after a moment she complied.

And her heart jumped.

There was John. Standing in front of a bench, his hands in his pockets, watching her anxiously. Rose’s mouth fell open, and for a moment she stared at John, completely stunned.

What’re you…

Just wanted to see you.

That snapped Rose out of her stupor, and she bolted toward John, throwing her arms around him. John caught her and practically lived her off the ground in his exuberance, laughing.

He gave really good hugs.

* * * * * * * *

Rose was rightfully suspicious when Jackie and Pete offered John a ride home. Not that her parents were horrible or anything, but there was something off about the offer.

As it turned out, Rose’s suspicions were one-hundred percent correct.

“Is your aunt home?” Pete asked John as they pulled up in front of John’s house. It was cute. Rose would’ve loved living in a place like this.

“Yeah…” John said slowly, realizing he probably should’ve just taken the bus.

“Could we meet her?”

Oh boy. John sighed inwardly, and he could feel Rose’s distrust in the back of his head. She didn’t like this, either. “Sure,” John said all the same, climbing out of the car. Rose frowned as she followed suit, reaching to take John’s hand. He smiled a bit, intertwining their fingers.

“Aunt Sarah?” He called nervously as he led Rose and her parents inside.

“Upstairs,” Sarah Jane called back.

“Um, could you come here? Please?”

“That doesn’t sound good.” There was a pause, then Sarah Jane came downstairs, pausing when she saw their company. “Um…”

“Pete Tyler.” Pete introduced himself with a smile, stepping forward to shake Sarah Jane’s hand. “This is my wife, Jackie, and our daughter, Rose. I’m sorry for just dropping in like this, but we were in the neighborhood.”

Sarah Jane gave John a look, eyes flitting to his and Rose’s intertwined fingers. “Sarah Jane Smith, and not a problem at all. A meeting is probably overdue anyways, considering how long our kids have known each other.”

Rose and John both blushed, ducking their heads. “Why don’t you two go upstairs so we can talk?” Sarah Jane suggested. “We’ll talk in the kitchen.”

“Sounds good,” John said quickly, pulling Rose to the stairs. He wanted to be away from her parents for a while. They were intimidating.

“This is my room,” John said with a flourish as he led Rose into his bedroom. It was a mess, as usual. He hadn’t really been expecting company. Rose flopped down on the bed, looking around.

“It’s nice,” she said honestly, and John snorted.

“Well it’s not quite a mansion…”

“I’d rather live here,” Rose said. The mansion was huge — way too big for only four of them. There was nothing personal or home-y about it. This, on the other hand, was a proper home.

John hurried to his desk, pulling out the binder he’d kept for Rose’s birthday drawings. “Now seems like a good time to give you these,” he said, a bit shyly, as he went to sit beside Rose, handing her the binder. Rose’s eyes lit up.

“Is this for me?”

“Is your name Rose?” John teased. She giggled as she opened it, and her eyes widened.

“Oh John…”

“That one isn’t that good,” John said quickly, turning the page. “They get better.”

“They’re all amazing,” Rose insisted. “How’d you know what I looked like before you saw a picture of me?” The early ones were amazingly accurate.

“I’m not sure,” John admitted. “I just sort of… knew. Like I knew you had blonde hair, and I knew your eyes were brown. Stuff like that.”

“That’s weird,” Rose said thoughtfully. “I wonder if it has something to do with the bond.”

“I don’t know. That’s what I thought too.”

Rose went through the entire binder twice, drinking in the details of every drawing. It was amazing. John was so talented.

“What do you think they’re talking about?” John asked after a moment, looking out his door and toward the stairs.

“Who knows.” Rose shook her head. She had no idea how her parents felt about the bond. They could have been talking about anything.

“Want to find out?”

Rose looked at John, and after a moment they both grinned before creeping toward the stairs.

“…Just don’t think it’s a good idea—”

“With all due respect, Mr. Tyler,” Sarah Jane interrupted Pete evenly. “I don’t think it really matters what you think. You can’t make this bond go away.”

“I’m just not sure it’s healthy,” Pete insisted. “Rose is extremely fragile—”

“She’s a human being, she’s not made of glass, and this bond has existed for years. It’s not like it’s something new.”

“So you approve of this?” Jackie demanded.

“I don’t think my thoughts on the situation particularly matter,” Sarah Jane pointed out. “Am I happy they hid it for years? Of course not. But that’s in the past, and getting huffy about it now isn’t going to do any good. You can’t just throw money at it and make it go away. They have a telepathic bond, and you can’t break that.”

“I’m not saying I want to break the bond,” Pete replied with a hint of impatience. “But I don’t think it should necessarily determine their entire future. People can have soulmate bonds and not end up with the people they’re bonded with. I did.”

Rose blinked, biting her lip to keep herself from making a surprised noise. She hadn’t known that.

“I think that’s up to them, not you,” Sarah Jane pointed out.

“Do they know that, though? They deserve to have options. Rose has never even gone on a date. Has John?”

“Does that matter?”

“Yes, it does. If they’ve already decided they want to be together without exploring their options—”

“Then that’s their choice, not yours.”

“As long as they know it’s a choice and not an obligation.”

Rose and John exchanged looks, frowning. They had never really talking about their relationship, or what they wanted for the future. It had never come up.

But they had a feeling they wouldn’t be able to avoid it for much longer.

“They’re not children anymore,” Sarah Jane said. “They’re perfectly aware they have free will, and that’s a discussion they need to have their own. I’m not going to force them to do anything. Are you?”

“I’m not going to force Rose to do anything,” Pete said. “I just want her to be happy, and it’s clear that she hasn’t been for a long time.”

“That is not John’s fault.”

“You know,” Rose said loudly, and John jumped. “If you were going to try and figure out our future for us, you could’ve let us know. Or should we just go away until you’re done planning everything out?”

“Rose—” John started to say, but Rose pushed herself up before he could stop her, hurrying downstairs and out the front door. John sighed as he stood and went downstairs, peeking into the kitchen.

“Should’ve known you’d be listening,” Sarah Jane said dryly.

“You were talking about us,” John pointed out. “I think we deserve to know what you’re saying.”

He didn’t look at Rose’s parents as he turned to go find Rose. What they’d said had bothered him. He loved Rose, he knew he did. He would have fallen in love with her no matter how they’d met.

They just had more time together this way.

Rose hadn’t gone far, at least. She was sitting on the sidewalk outside the house, staring blankly at the ground. “They’re always doing that,” she mumbled as John sat with her. “They’re always trying to plan out my life for me and acting like I don’t know what’s best for myself.”

John wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and she curled into him, letting out a long breath. “Sometimes I wish we were just regular people,” she mumbled. “If we weren’t rich they wouldn’t act this way.”

“They’re just worried,” John said despite himself. He hated playing Devil’s advocate considering how unhappy he was with the conversation they’d heard. But he didn’t want Rose to hate her parents either.

“I don’t need them to worry, I need them to support me.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes before Rose’s parents came out, clearly intending to search for her themselves. They paused when they saw her sitting right outside the house.

“Rose?” Jackie called. “We’re leaving.”

Rose curled tighter into John before sighing and pushing herself up. “Fine,” she mumbled. Talk later?

Absolutely.

She made her way silently to the car. John stayed outside and watched the car pull away.

* * * * * * * *

“We’re just worried about you, Rose—”

“Why? Because I have someone who cares about me?” Rose asked fiercely. “And I’m not fragile.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Pete insisted.

“Yes, you did.”

“Rose,” Jackie cut in quietly. “Do you love John?”

The question brought Rose up short. Did she love John? He made her feel good, she missed him when she wasn’t around, and she loved having this bond with him and being able to talk to him whenever she wanted. The months she hadn’t been talking to him had killed her, and she never wanted to go through that again.

But she also knew there was no right way to answer that question. Either she said yes, and her parents insisted she didn’t know what she was talking about. Or she said no, and her parents used it against her.

She wasn’t going to win.

“John’s important to me,” is what she finally settled for.

“And we’re not saying there’s anything wrong with that,” Pete replied. “But don’t you think you need more people in your life besides him?”

“Like who? No one wants to be friends with me because I’m your daughter. Or they do want to be friends with me because I’m your daughter.” She didn’t mean to sound so scathing — or maybe she did. This had been building up for a long time. “John wants me. What’s wrong with that?”

“We’re not saying it’s wrong. We just don’t want you to feel like you have to settle—”

Rose stood up abruptly, storming out of the room. She had known it was going to come to that sooner or later. John was beneath Rose. That was the problem at the end of the day. Her parents could act like it was concern for her all they wanted, but the only thing they were worried about was their status and how it would look to the public if she dated a commoner.

I don’t think that’s entirely it, John spoke up quietly. I do think they’re worried about you.

Maybe, Rose huffed as she threw herself into bed, curling up tight. It was nice, at least, to be back in her own bed. I don’t need them to worry about me.

You’re hard not to worry about sometimes, John said. Rose sighed, burying her face in her pillow.

Yeah. I guess.

[davidastbury]

August 2017

Don Coming up to forty Don knew he was at the top of his game – he was the best salesman of advertising space in the organisation, and his commission earnings were huge.  One afternoon, riding on his conceit, there was a flare up with the boss, which had been fermenting for a long time, and Don told him where to stick his job. This wasn’t altogether unplanned; his life was about to go into a new phase.  He had fallen in love with a colleague in the London office – a very beautiful woman who made him feel young again – being half his age – and she had suggested that he move in with her.  He could not believe how lucky he was. It must have been difficult telling his wife.  They went back a long way; she had been his girlfriend at seventeen; at eighteen she was pregnant and at nineteen they were married.  Maybe she had seen it coming – who knows?  Two days later he waited in the car-park for his daughter to finish work.  He put his face forward for a kiss and she hit him as hard as she could. Don settled into his new life with his new girlfriend.  Everything was very lovely.  But he hadn’t realised how hard she worked, or the extent of her ambition.  She worked long hours and would come home tired but still energetic – still buzzing with the atmosphere of her job and London life.  During the weekdays she never dropped her ‘work’ personality – he never had her to himself.  She never felt the need to relax, she would chatter about her day and the people with whom she worked (names that meant nothing to him) -  and she would get changed and want to eat out – they seemed to be always eating out. He quickly discovered that the job offers would not coming flooding to him.  People in the ad business, while showing pleasure at hearing from him, did not call him back.  So he would get up late and prowl around the flat.  Everything about the place was light and a bit girlish – even when she made a mess it was unmistakably a woman’s mess.  He began to feel a bit crude and heavily masculine – it began to annoy him.  So he started to visit the local pubs at lunchtime, and then back to the flat to sleep it off. I am sorry that I cannot give an ending because I have no contact with anyone who might know Don.  I am curious about the regret he must have felt – leaving his wife like that –  dumping her – just as she was about to start her cancer treatments.

Natasha Adorable little girl actress – surrounded by doting, important men; a child star  upstaging Orson Wells!  At six years old she was the earner in the family; all she had to do was learn her stuff and be adorable and the money poured in.  She said - ‘Mom told me to pose and smile and the cameraman was going to make me famous or something. I believed everything my mother told me.’  Her mom controlled everything. In her mid-teens she was brutally raped by a famous film actor.  Her mother prevented her calling the police, reasoning that the man would probably beat the charge and the outcome would be the end of the girl’s career. She married her dreamboat and appeared to be very happy – until one night she returned home unexpectedly and found him having sex with another man.  They were divorced.  Years later they met again and decided that they still loved each other and remarried. Her career was faltering.  She had an impeccable history of giving top value; she was the ultimate professional.  She was utterly reliable, but she was missing out, and that must have been hard to take. Maybe years of being subservient to the bosses; of jumping to do what they wanted; of the oppression of third-rate people, of unsatisfactory men and cloying parents, of having her real name taken away and never believing that she fitted with the new one, of being manipulated, of bumping into her rapist at events, of the lethal hypocrasy of some of her friends, of the searing headaches after too much alcohol, of the weirdness of her psychiatrist’s ‘treatments, of the insinuations of her husband’s friend, of the three of them in the boat together.  And that dark night in the bay when she drowned in black water.

Sunshine Today! A man and a little girl and a large dog – passing the house, heading towards the carnival up the road in the village.  The little girl is trotting, needing two or three steps to each of the man’s, and the dog is pulling.  Even though out of breath she is talking excitedly.   She’s looking up at him and explaining something; it’s as if she wants him to see her face, or he might miss the point.   He’s quite happy letting the dog pull, and he’s probably very happy for his daughter to chatter away – he’s happy that she knows all about whatever-it-is, and that she wishes to share it with him. I can hear a band in the distance, getting louder – trumpets and drums, and the man and the little girl and the dog head towards the music.

A Flighty Woman She let you down – big time!  Not to put too fine a point on it, she dumped on you from a great height.  I understand how you feel and I am very sorry. I will walk away with a head full of unspoken words. -  ‘Didn’t you have two fabulous years with her?  Didn’t you rush to throw your heart and soul at her, as if that would guarantee her loyalty?  Did she ever ask for all that you gave her? Didn’t you ever feel that you were corrupting her; turning her into something that became shameful to her?   Did you never understand that only the first lie is difficult, after that they just flow. ‘Why don’t you simply let her melt into the past.  You had good times – why not be grateful and see that knowing her was better than not knowing her.  People change and they go their ways –  loyalties realign, children grow up, parents die – be glad of all the happiness you can and don’t try to fix it, don’t press it with hateful permanence, like a butterfly impaled with a pin.’

The Ghosts of Oxford Street …  #1 It is said that if you walk the length of The Strand you will pass at least two murderers and one international spy.  Today, if you walk Oxford Street, preferably on a hot afternoon, it is likely you will meet the ghost of Dr. Stephen Ward. Ward loved Oxford Street for two reasons – it had lots of coffee bars; usually with low tables, bamboo screening, and uniformed girls serving foaming coffee in shallow glass cups – and outside, passing along the pavements, was a parade of the prettiest women in London.  He was well known in these coffee bars, always at a window seat, always primly dressed in suit and white shirt, chain-smoking his beloved Player’s Navy Cut cigarettes, sometimes alone and sketching, sometimes talking with a friend, but always, always with an eye on the young women passing by. He told his journalist friend Warwick Charlton that sitting and watching this display of loveliness was all he wanted out of life.  Women were essential to him – he could do without men, but never women.   He could talk about endlessly about ‘classifications of beauty’ or how beauty was perceived in different cultures.  His own preferences may not have matched the aesthetic of Lord Clark at the National Gallery, although who knows?  Perhaps Lord Clark also enthused at the new innovation of very short skirts (later to be called the ‘miniskirt) which was actually invented at a shop on Oxford Street. He never meant harm to anyone, but what can you do when an angry boyfriend shouts in the street and fires a gun?  Everything fell apart.  Bill disowned him. The web closed in on Christine, the press attacked him every day, his drawings were secretly bought by a representative of Buckingham Palace. Stephen Ward knew it was all over, and he chose the avoid the horror of prison – on the night of 30th July 1963 he wrote and few letters and then took the pills.

Restaurant Me:  ‘And what’s the soup of the day – today?’ Waitress:   ‘Ragwort and Laburnum – it’s very nice.’ Me:   ‘Yum.’ (Her sense of humour matches mine)

On the Train Dreadfully rude woman in the waiting room – the woman next to her was getting up and trying to squeeze past her.  The poor woman’s face was tight with pain and she had two arm crutches.  The rude woman finally, and with a sigh, moved back in her seat to let her through. A few minutes later the woman limped back and struggled to get back to her seat.  Again the rude woman made heavy weather of letting her resume her place.  Much muttering and ceiling gazing.  I felt like saying something to her, but before I could the two started chatting.  They were together – in fact, looking closely I’d guess they were sisters!

One Day One day my garden will be ripped up and totally destroyed.  A new owner will take the opportunity to extend the house or even build an additional one on land which is now the garden.  People don’t want gardens anymore. The trees will be cleared along with everything else – including the sleeping place for fifty years of our cats and dogs - and other loved creatures.  It will all be dug up - pipes will be laid, cabling, concrete foundations. The descendants of the magpies that cackled at me this morning will one day look down and say – ‘It was nice here once; when the man with white hair had it.’

Piccadilly Station … Manchester Beautiful black woman – slim as a pencil.  Superb backward tilt of her elliptical shaped head – neck like Nefertiti.  She walks like a dancer leaving the stage. Following her like a shadow is her daughter – a four-year-old copy of herself, trotting weightlessly, long legs flickering - reaching up for her mother’s hand.

Manchester 3rd July 2017 I have seen a reincarnation of John Christie – you know the one – the multiple murderer of Rillington Place –every bit as realistic as his wax dummy in Madame Tussauds.  To be honest it shocked me – a monster from the bleak austerity of the 1950s – (London was horrible in those days before Dulux paint was invented). This man had the same frightening shabbiness – the same opaque gaze of the true pervert – that insinuating half sneer –that presumption of knowing something about you – that repulsive intimacy – that sly trickle of friendliness – that undertaker’s smile!   Well – the old bastard is back and I’ve seen him – giving out religious leaflets and saving souls on Market St. Manchester.   South Manchester Grand Victorian villas obscured by vast trees.  I am walking to synagogue – an Orthodox synagogue!  Walking quickly as the tradition teaches – you walk quickly to a place of worship but walk slowly when leaving.  I’m all smiles on this sunny morning – I’m a guest – and guests smile. Everything is so lovely – men in suits, ladies dressed up, children darting about –  I enter the iron gates  – and the sun bursts through the leaves and I’m ready to praise the God of dappled things and furtively touch the warm Didsbury bricks.

On the Train Had to stand all the way, no seats available.  No one got up to offer me their place – that’s fairly rare – in fact only Asian young people do that now.   I’m not complaining; I’m glad to be fit enough to swing from a greasy strap for half an hour – but I do draw the line at young executives expecting to pass in front of me when getting off.

Mary Notnice – some background information I don’t suppose any of us really knew Mary very well because, despite her conceit,  she didn’t talk much about herself -  but it’s possible to get a certain picture by putting lots of bits together. I knew she was working in the office because of her catastrophic exam results, and yet she considered herself far too important for the job and looked down on the other girls. It was clear that she didn’t have a normal sense of humour – instead she found amusement in peoples mistakes and embarrassments. We knew that she treated her numerous boyfriends very badly; none of whom survived more than a few dates. We knew she didn’t get along with her mother and was irritated when she called during working hours to see her. We knew that she had been brought up by her mother; her father walked out when Mary was tiny and there had been hardly any contact since.  Dad remarried but she had never met her step-brothers and step-sisters. Once when smoking grass, she told someone – (who told me) – that she couldn’t cry.

Department Store I was standing waiting for the lift for the sixth floor when I noticed something.  People stepping off the escalator had to turn right and pass a cosmetics display stand.  Prominent in the stand was a huge ornately framed mirror – it was like something out of Madame Pompadour’s bedroom.  I watched the shoppers, male and female, approach the mirror, each with the self conscious expression look we all have when we are about to face our own image. But it was a cheat – there was no mirror; the picture frame was hollow and simply gave a view of the interior of the make-up cubicle.  So the passersby passed by – each quickly changing their expressions from one of seriousness, self-adoration, coquettish-ness, fake irritation, agony, drop-dead coolness – back to their ‘normal’ faces. Something quite deep here too – expecting to see your own image and finding nothing there.

Stolen Kisses End of term and some sort of garden party – quite a strong memory.  My friend Russell was having his picture taken with our form-teacher; the two of them standing with the arch and the driveway in the background.  He’s got his arm around Russell’s shoulders, something he often did, but no one bothered.  Of course today he’d be sacked and locked up for five years, and then banned for life from the company of young people.  Anyway, he was a nice man and perhaps viewed Russell as the son he never had - and all that crap. There was a crush of people, chattering, holding glasses, standing on the freshly cut grass – sunshine, the trees rustling in the breeze, a buzz of happiness at the approaching freedom – the weeks of holiday!  I could see Russell’s gorgeous mother talking to a parent.  She was wearing a thin dress and flat shoes and the man with her couldn’t take his eyes away. But I was looking for Russell’s sister – I knew she was there somewhere, it was just a matter of finding her.  The elation of the afternoon had caught me – I was part of it -  I was ready to be reckless and convinced that I would succeed.   Older friends had given me advice – I was only twelve – and all I had to do was approach her and somehow survive the scorching heat of her loveliness – get close to her and say: -  ‘I love you’. But first I had to find her.

Natural Selection She sat in the car and watched as her father went to keep his appointment with the Warden.  The Warden would have an active involvement with the selection panel -  or at least he had influence.  She had attended her interview and had not been accepted. The visitor was shown all the courtesy of a respected member of the college alumni. After the pleasantries the Warden, standing at the window and speaking in a voice as soft at butter, got to the point. ‘It is mildly disagreeable to have to explain our decisions knowing that our reasoning does not always entirely satisfy.  You see, we have to match a broad approach to our own – dare I say – parochial one.  We have many presssures - education generally is a wide and contentious subject – and the question is not whether we ought to turn infants into educated adults, but rather what sort of education we give to whom.   ‘Oxford can only provide a small part of the answer.  By the time children reach the age at which they apply to Oxford, they have either acquired or have failed to acquire most of what they need in the way of knowledge, ambition, intellectual curiosity and the capacity for learning more.  What we face every year during the admissions process is a little under five times as many applicants as we have room for, almost all them with near perfect records at school – and very few of them significantly much better, or significantly worse than the rest. ‘I ask you to consider our difficulties………’ And so it went on.   Later, as they drove home in silence, all the girls’ thoughts were about her boyfriend.  She was seeing him later – she couldn’t wait.

Mrs Asquith When you are ten years old you see everything – you are all eyes!  And my eyes must have lit up when I saw Mrs Asquith cross the road and stand near me in the bus queue.  She looked like no other woman I had ever seen – nothing like my mother’s friends or the female teachers at school.  Mrs Asquith was like a fim star.  I would stare at her high heels and belted raincoat – her froth of scarves - her casually careful hair-do, her red lips. On one of these occasions she turned to face me, as if feeling the unfocused heat of my gaze, and winked at me.  From that moment on, she was my dearest, most exciting and most secret friend. She lived in a farm cottage – down a narrow and usually muddy footpath (there was a way for vehicles to access it, but that was a long route) – through fields and hedgerows, and set near the edge of a lake.  It was very familiar to me and my pals because those meadows and woodlands were the places where we went for our adventures – in fact we sometimes put up a tent and slept near the lake.  I loved looking at her cottage when it was going dark – the windows lit – the chimney making a lot of smoke – long shadows of the huge water barrels used for collecting rainwater (the cottage didn’t have a water supply) – the cries from the cattle sheds where the animals had been put up for the night – and the crimson reflection on the surface of the lake as the sun drowned.   There was a Mr Asquith – but I never saw him, and there was a son roughly my age, but he was at some school or other, as a boarder.  Mrs Asquith used to go out in the evenings and she would walk the half mile to the main road.  When she reached the end of the lane I once saw her take off her muddy boots and put on her heeled shoes – the boots were put in a bag and then hidden in the long grass.  Every time I went down the lane, usually walking my dog, I would check to see if the bag was there – if it was, it meant that she was ‘out’ somewhere. I was with a friend one night, at this same spot, when we saw that a car had pulled in and was parked ‘off’ the path.  It was dark but I could see two people in the car.  The casually careful hair-do was down into her face and she was looking up to see what the man had seen.  I pulled my friend’s arm we rushed away. Sometimes I’d hear women talking to my mother about Mrs Asquith – insinuating remarks – utter poison.  They voiced their suspicions but I never spoke a word …I never spoke a word against Mrs Asquith.

Every twelve months or so I visit an audiologist and she does her best to keep my one decent ear in good working order, or as well as that is possible.  She is very skilful and I always leave her clinic with sharper hearing – people’s voices are clearer -  traffic noise sounds louder etc. At the end of the session she clicks away on the keyboard updating her notes and we drift into general conversation.  I am always curious at the way the professional manner recedes and her own very sensitive personality comes through.  From my first appointment I knew that she was the best type of medical practitioner because her skill was mixed with natural empathy and kindness.   We were talking generally about the difficulties of coping with deafness and she said that because she has a problem herself, she knows how her patients feel.  She told me that whenever she is upset she goes deaf.  I asked about the nature of the upset and she said it wasn’t the ‘crying’ type, it was more about strong conflict situations.  She feels it building up and then she totally loses her hearing for a while.  Of course she had every sort of test but nothing was learned. ‘So, you see - it’s a mystery!’ – she said. ‘No it isn’t’ –  I thought.  ‘Your deafness is caused by your priceless, precious protective control systems – all shutting down and keeping you from harm.  

Manchester Royal Infirmary 2nd August 2017 I was ushered into a bay and asked to sit on a strange looking chair – it had a 1930s dentistry look about it – but quite comfortable – in a sinister sort of way.  A male nurse then appeared and told me to hold out my arm so that he could insert a cannula into a cooperative vein – which I did –  making a fist as instructed (‘up the revolution’ and all that).  Half way through the procedure he said; ‘Excuse me, I’ll be back a minute’ and rushed off.  ‘Back in a minute!’- where had he gone – to the lavatory?’ - I hoped he would wash his hands before resuming my own non-cosmetic body piercing. And then I noticed that he hadn’t properly drawn the curtain, and that someone was peering in at me.  Ancient watery eyes.  An old man in a wheelchair; probably waiting his turn to be cannulised. I decided to put on a show for him.  First of all I did my ‘watching-the-shower-scene in Psycho, face.  A medley of horrified contortions ending with me slumping lifeless on my dentist’s chair.  He was really laughing, silently, but I could see him shaking. The male nurse made his bumptious entrance, muttering;  ‘Sorry about that’ and resumed his efforts the get at my vein. When I was finally sorted out and the curtain was tugged back, I expected to see the old man, but he had gone – he must have been wheeled off somewhere.  

Pret a Manger   #37 I’ve seen them before, but not this close.  She’s quite bossy – obviously a student, probably a star student if such a title exists.  He is different – open faced and friendly – and is clearly a bit overawed by her.  Perhaps he doesn’t feel her equal; perhaps he’s afraid someone at the university, someone as clever as she is, will take her away. I wish I could reassure him.  I wish I could tell him that women don’t want a clever bastard who knows everything and always has his nose buried in books.  Women want a man who says what he means and can use a power-drill.

This morning – the market Among the swirl of people was a mother and daughter -  Pat went over to them and asked if they were Iranian.  The daughter smiled and replied that they were often mistaken for Iranians, but they were Kurdish.    We said that we knew a lot of Kurdish families in the area.  The daughter’s face lit up when Pat mentioned names – people she knew too – events which we had attended and the places that Pat has visited in Kurdistan. And she chatted about herself – she is going to be a pharmacist – Inshallah – and she was very happy to meet us – and her voice was as sharp and clear as a bell, wrapping up her personality in a Lancashire accent as strong as my mother’s.

Ian Ian S. had a bout of mental illness – which wasn’t a wise thing to do in the 1960s.  He was ashamed and none of us knew what to say to him, so we didn’t say anything. Much later – after not seeing each other for about three years – he never returned to the firm where we had both worked – we met on Cross Street and went for a few drinks together. He was a different person.  There was a tremendous seriousness as if every word he spoke was a rock chiselled from his heart.  Nothing to be discussed; it was the truth and that was that. He said;  ‘I have been to hell and hell is about being alone, totally alone.  No one can help - it isn’t possible for anyone to help – but you don’t know that at the time.  You think people can and you go to them for help – and they make you worse – the ones who say they can help make you really ill.’ I said something silly like; ‘…people doing their jobs as best they can’  and ‘…I suppose every case is different’ and so on. He glared at me and said;  ‘You haven’t been listening – the ones who say they can help are the ones who make you really ill.’

Jacqueline She was in her second year at medical school and had already decided to be an ophthalmologist.  She used to sit in the library studying a book called ‘The Eye and Orbit’ and other titles dealing with surgery of the eye.  She was called Jackie and she was the girlfriend of my friend Kevin Cassidy. Kevin kept her very much to himself – we only saw him when he was alone.  I once commented on this and he said that Jackie didn’t like being in a crowd; she was shy and very quiet.  But around that time there was some sort of incident on Oxford Road – very near to the medical library.  A man was lying on the pavement and people bunched up around him.  Someone had phoned for help but it wasn’t clear  what had happened – a woman said that he had fallen over in a fit – another said that a man had come up and hit him, and then ran away.  He wasn’t fully conscious.   Jackie, apparently untroubled by shyness, loudly announced that she was a medical student and that everyone must stand back and let her through.  She knelt beside him and did the things that doctors do in such situations – but – all the time that she was working on the man, her face was very close to his – very close – nearly touching. Kevin had seen all this – he had watched her kneeling astride the stranger, with her face over his, and it puzzled him. I thought of her fascination with eyes, but I said nothing – I left him to work it out for himself.

1964…..A Fine Romance She: She used to sit on her boss’s knee and flick his tie – she took part in beauty contests and had been on TV – she was stalked by a footballer – she was assaulted by a dentist – she went to the Lucy Clayton school of modelling – she liked pubs and would order pints of beer and leave them – she couldn’t cook – she enjoyed dancing by herself – she didn’t mind men ‘trying it on’ – she loved her German shepherd dog and she wanted to visit New York. He: He wanted her for himself.

R He has two ex-wives - I knew them both – and two furious mothers-in-law, one of whom physically attacked him in the street.  There are lots of stories about his unstable business activities – repossessions, liquidations, courts and so on – but he always bounces back and somehow obtains credit to start up again. I see him sometimes with his new wife. They have a little girl and it all looks very nice and settled.  But, given the opportunity, he asks me, in a nonchalant matter-of-fact sort of way, if I ever hear anything about J, his first wife.

On the Train The cruelty of the young – not something talked about very much, as if a curtain of indulgence is pulled across and a quick change of subject.  They are, after all, young and selfish. Here’s something I saw in the waiting room.  Two young people;  in a relationship (as the questionnaire puts it).  He exercising his freedom to come and go whilst she would willingly give up hers.  He warbles about his plans – which appear not to include her – and takes at face value her murmured encouragements.   She is perfectly wrong-footed – how can she protest at his enthusiasm and ambition?  How can she ask about her own position without sounding pathetic, as if she is a draw-back to his burgeoning progress? So she will worry about his barnstorming ideas, and adjust as needed.  She will get used to what he is going to do – and then, without being consulted he will have changed his mind and have found something ‘better’ – and so on. He perhaps will have a good future – people like him do – but at some point, in twenty years or so, he will feel a regret at the way he treated this girl – in forty years he will experience serious guilt. Such as I say…the cruel. l