#every time i sketch john his hair is different i CANNOT settle

[international-repeater-station]

it aint much but its honest work

[shade-without-color]

Fruits Basket Discord Contest: A quiet soliloquy (Victorian AU)

Note: So this is my entry for the Fruits Basket contest which I am working on the theme of Blossom. So I am interpreting it on both ways, one on the physical garden and another, on how Tohru tried to get Kyo somehow (I dunno why I just thought of John Keats in Bright Star LOL), it was a little idea which is out of my comfort zone as I have to research on the Crimean War and the effects. I thank @stormcrowthegrey for the additional idea!

I am a part of all that I have met; Yet all experience is an arch wherethro' Gleams that untravell'd world whose margin fades For ever and forever when I move. (Ulysses by Alfred Lord Tennyson)

Tohru slowly skipped the stairs as she looked over the faces of the Sohmas, there is that strangeness in their faces, and at most, they hold themselves to a certain hunger. She particularly looked at that portrait of one of the family members which he took a masque as an ancient god. She somehow makes fantasies what he would be, in that guise of time.

However, the smell of fried mutton nearly tempted her, which she glanced at the sidelines on Kyo gazing to the celling of the triumphs of Gods and Goddesses in unison. He nearly gave a satirical chuckle. She shivered slightly at his ramrod gaze. She swallowed quietly at that thought. “Ohhh good morning.”

He did not reply much. In contrary, she saw Yuki descending down the stairs, and as usual, he seems composed in his actions. “Good morning Miss Honda...” his hands somehow curled to the maps of the countries. “Should we move on with breakfast....” it seems like a deep contrast from Kyo’s sullenness.

“Hmmm...”

Meanwhile, Shigure came down the stairs lazily, his face seems flushed as his hand gripped to the papers of the work “Oh good morning miss Honda.”

“Morning...”

Soon she saw a ginger-haired girl, wearing a simple eggplant dress and patent leather shoes “Good morning Lady Kisa.” She did not reply as she was rendered silent, her eyes gazing over a small modelli of Rinaldo walking over the enchanted gardens of an enchanted sorceress.

Shigure somehow squeezed Kyo’s shoulder. “Come, do not sulk, we should have breakfast together...” Kyo mumbled quietly “There is no need...” as his hands reached out for the nearest book. “I bet Yuki will say that I am a failure for the family, even more, when I laid there..." He only gave the company goodbye.  "Do not let this affect you, Miss Honda. Kyo is always upset…I just cannot get through his head since he charged in front of the house…"Shigure nearly glanced at Kyo storming out of the corridors “So be it, Yuki, I wonder what did they prepare this I hope it is devilled kidneys…”

During the breakfast brought by the servants, Tohru grew uneasy than before, she heard about the plight of the soldiers of that war, and the horrendous conditions that they lived, but she has never seen someone who has been shaken by the war by Kyo. For that moment he seems to be like a caged tiger, waiting to lash at anyone. She somehow traced her fork against the French omelette, thinking what is that side which he is afraid of.

“Tohru…your tea seems cold…”

Tohru blinked her eyes slightly, as she gazed at a young maid trying to fill up the pots with hot water to keep the ham warm.

“Sorry…I have something in mind…”

“Yes…I just need some fresh air Shigure…” Tohru mumbled slightly, as she gazed at Shigure smiling quietly as he enjoyed his favourite dish of devilled kidneys. “…I feel that my digestion is…”

“You are excused…” Shigure simpered quietly. “Just do not take too long…"

“…Thank you, Shigure…." Tohru curtsey Shigure quietly. Somehow Tohru could breathe easy as she left the dining room, leaving the door ajar as Yuki showed Shigure his plans of expansion, which he observed her trying to hold back the tears in her eyes.

He somehow knew that Tohru is going to their family gardens to look for him.

“It seems that Miss Honda is off, should I bring her to the…”

Shigure held his hand slightly to Yuki “There is no need, a woman must figure her own path, well about Singapore, how it is like. Heard from friends that is balmy.”

Tohru quietly searched over that young man in the gardens, which the gardeners barely recognise that stranger. And soon she found Kyo, he was different from the meeting in the courts. He seems settled with a simple shirt and breeches. He seems to be sheltered with the shade of the leaves. A scene of tranquillity and at most she could hear him speak.

"For heaven's sake, let us sit upon the ground. And tell sad stories of the death of kings,. How some have been deposed, some slain in war.”

There is a slight tremble in his voice, as Kyo focused himself to be that illicit king, a mulberry flower slowly landed on his shoulder.

"Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed…."

"Some poisoned by their wives, some sleeping killed, All murdered. For within the hollow crown…” And finally, he stood up to himself, watching the sun rays bathing in the lands “...That rounds the mortal temples of a king.” She was moved by those words, perhaps he has to wrestle with his demons, alone, and yet frightened. At that moment, Tohru nearly tripped her skirts and found herself falling down on the patch, causing a thud.

Kyo glanced at her slightly, and soon Tohru ran off from that hedge. And Kyo scratched his head slightly, only resigned himself to follow along with the speech again.

Quietly Tohru assembled herself a small palette of watercolours and papers when she noticed Kyo sitting down quietly amidst the nestled mulberry leaves, with his hands trembled from reading a poem from Shakespeare. He somehow possessed a quiet spirit which is much different from his more violent nature. She could not tell the trembling of his hands, as he flipped through every page. Amidst the soft light, she could see the pricks around his hand, swallowing lyrical wisdom of characters that came back and forth in mind. Shigure seems to walk by with ease, as he leans by the wall "Ahhh, as usual like Keats, in deep melancholy, he tried to be awake from the biting reality, and yet he is not..."

"Why do you said that..."

'I know faces like him, who came back from uncharted lands... And this war, though as a  way to gain lands, are executed rather poorly." Shigure closed his eyes slightly "They are once boys, now they become the hollow men of the world..." Tohru paused slightly, maybe that is why, at times, he could hear him scream at times, as he was forced to be awakened by the demons that encapsulated his mind. Somehow Shigure helped himself to take a piece of bread, and quietly chomped it "I somehow pitied him, I know that Yuki could have been in the same position as him, fighting against those power hungry Russians.

"Lack of clean water, cold winters which you have a blanket to wrap your hungry body, and the usual diseases, cholera, and if you are wounded. Your arm or leg could be chopped off, though in an untactful manner. "

Quietly Shigure looked over the framed pictures of the relatives who have passed on. “Yuki has shown promise on expanding our business, that itself, a big ticket to escape the clutches of war.” He took a deep breath, as he glanced at one standing proudly in military uniform  “And of course we have to give a scapegoat to the persons in charge, and you probably know who...” Tohru could easily fill in the blanks in her mind. She made a slight frown, as she watched him more growing agitated at dinners which Yuki shared his dreams with the older members of the family. Maybe that is why he has a sinking feeling in his heart. “Oh…” Shigure smiled quietly, watching the clock tick by. “I suppose you should be making your way to the drawing room. A certain little lady is waiting for you…”

Somehow Tohru's eyes widened slightly, as she quickly grabbed the papers and paints “Uhmmm..uhmmm…I am sorry if I took your time Master Shigure!, I should have to keep track! I am sorry! I am sorry!” And before long, Shigure gave a small smile. He thought to himself, there is no way that a kind person like Tohru could break through Kyo’s defences.

Shigure quietly slipped himself another piece of bread left on the plate, and slick some butter on top. "You know after, that walk by the garden, I notice that Kyo came back to eat, but always in silence..." His voice seems to be grave about this matter. "I think you must have an effect on him..."

"I have never seen him smile since he came back to the house. It seems that not all hope is lost."

Meanwhile, Tohru curtseyed to the small lady, clutching her skirts slightly “How are you doing Lady Kisa.” She, of course, rendered silent as she looked over the window, and seeing the oak trees swayed in the breeze. Quietly she set up the easel, alongside with the papers and paints. Toru quietly gripped her hand “Come…let’s paint this landscape which you can see from this window…”

Tohru took the lead and started to sketch out the trees and the sunlight bathing in the leaves. Subconsciously she started to sketch a small figure hidden amidst the trees. Kisa hesitantly took up the brushes and started to paint the landscape with her own paper. She somehow cracked a small smile, as she glazed over the leaves. Toru grinned quietly “Well that seems lovely…”

However, Tohru was left with that lingering thought in her mind. What seems to go on with his mind. She wished to be at his side. He seems to be a kind man who dived himself to the crevices of poetry to quell the demons in his mind. Suddenly she heard a quiet mummer from Kisa “Lady Tohru...” Tohru looked at her quietly “...you must be worried about Master Kyo...”

How did a child know?

Tohru looked over at Kisa’s piece, her brushstrokes convey a delicacy, as if spring has come to the dull rooms. She yearned to be closer to him. Maybe what Shigure said is true, there are demons which she could not resolve for him. He has started his match He could smell the gunpowder amidst the mulberry trees, the roasted meats which she ate at nights, haunted his mind, and even the merriment of Shigure discussing the recent developments of his new bunch of friends made him all sullen. Even at nights, he would do nothing but to sit by the porch, and watch the moon glaze by, maybe it was comforting from the cramped tents, only lit by gaslight.

Tohru clutched her skirts slightly, there is got to be a side which he is afraid to show. Kiss tried to cheer her up, by showing off the new piece. “Miss...” Tohru looked at her quietly “I think master Kyo will one day, will see you as you are.”

Tohru found her eyes welled up in tears and soon held her by the shoulders, and before long she heard him speak. It was different from the jealous tones, he seems to show his vulnerability in these trees, and maybe that is what strikes her to paint him hidden. A man lost in the forest, never able to return home.

Kisa broke out her miasma as she clutched her hand. “I am sure, I have been thinking of Master Hiro, I wonder..I wonder what would he think of me.."

Tohru smiles quietly as she wiped a tear from her eye. She, will one day reach her hand to him. She knew someday will be the sweetest day ever.

“I do not know, but we will figure it out…” Tohru thought of something else to keep Kisa busy. Maybe she could brush up some French.

“Now the works are dry..maybe some light French conversation…” That thought of reaching out to him will come by someday, as she took that dusty book out from the shelf. Kisa nodded quietly "Allons-nous commencer?”

“Oui"

[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