Bits of Bounce

BITS OF BOUNCE

Bounce Cover

Chapter I

Dear all

I am so very, very sorry. If I honestly thought that I had any other option I would take it, but I can think of nothing. As time has gone on it becomes more and more apparent that my life is pretty much pointless. I have tried hard to succeed, but failure has followed disaster hot on the heels of complete cock up. In my psyche there is a dead camel surrounded by vast quantities of straw. Having constantly thought of ways to make my life mean anything, I have ran out of ideas. I have no hope, no ambition, no aspiration, no motivation, no vision, no view of a happy future and no courage anymore; I am completely empty.

I thought that I was doing the right thing staying with my parents, that I was of some use. Now I learn that my family views me with contempt because I am a scrounger and a wastrel.

Now all the future holds is inane day after another with things only ever going to get worse. Every day is numb with banality and the thought of living like for years terrifies me. Death will be a relief from the terror of living on and on in my uselessness. I am like a pink bunny whose battery has finally run out. I am not happy, I am not unhappy, just nothing.

I know there are those of you who genuinely love me, something that will always astound me. For you the words to express my sorrow do not exist. Please do not feel guilty about anything. This is completely my fault. I have not talked to you about this because there is nothing to say. I hope you will remember me for all the laughter we have shared and not this act of betrayal and cowardice. Unfortunately, amusing a lovely person for a couple of hours every now and then is no longer a weapon against the void of my despair. Do know that I love you back and you did grace my life with the joy that you are.

Please try to forgive me, as I forgive all those who have wronged me, as I hope to be forgiven wherever it is I am going.

I am so sorry, but I cannot live like this any more, in a stupid and selfish world where I do not belong.

Forgive me.

* * *

Who would have thought that suicide would be a lesson in trial and error? Not me. There was no plan B. I was supposed to die. I would like to say that when I woke up in hospital and realized, I uttered something highly erudite and meaningful; but I did not. Oh fuck! I thought. A while later I had another opportunity to curse my Catholic upbringing, my mother is from Dublin, when I looked around the grimly utilitarian ward shower-room and pondered, Is this Purgatory?

A fun exercise with friends has been thinking up euphemisms for what I did. A cousin, Craig, came up with, Your flying lesson! which is rather good. Others include: my Icarus impression; an audition for Led Zeppelin artwork and the Severely Under-funded Kemp Town Space Program. You have heard of unmanned rockets? I was an unrocketed man. Briefly.

A month or so after I was released from prison, sorry hospital, there was a story in the news about a fire in a hotel in Cornwall. A man jumped from a second storey window and died. It is probably a dreadful thing to say but my initial reaction was, Jammy bastard. That is only about forty-five feet. It took me quite a while before I decided that being so useless that I could not even kill myself properly was a good thing. Probably.

Peoples reactions have been strange in their sweetness. I had had the crutches for about a week when I was invited to Pauls fortieth birthday do. I lost count of the number of people who came up to me with a big smile and said, Jude. Its great to see you. You look really well. before realizing they had not a clue what to say next. Utterly genuine.

What is odd is that not one person has asked me why. In fact Jon even told me he was not surprised when he heard the news. It was some weeks before I asked him what he meant. We all knew how much shit you were going through. He has a point. The best thing of all though, is that no-one has given me a hard time or criticized my leap into faith. I am exceptionally lucky in so many ways.

The two months and three weeks I spent at the mercy of angels is very patchy in my memory, which has to be a good thing. I took the plunge in February, the Eighth of February, Thursday the Eighth of February (about tea-time), but as far as I am concerned I woke up in the middle of April. Although I was not in a coma, or so I am told, I have no recollection whatsoever of the intervening time, which is quite embarrassing when people insist that they did visit me. That is where all the books came from. What is good to know, is that I was very entertaining during this period. Many a time, apparently, I would be talking to someone, both legs in plaster and a plate of spaghetti coming out of my arm, and they would say, Lovely to see you. Ill be off now. to which I would reply, I shall come with you. starting to manoeuvre myself from the bed, which prompted a squadron of nurses to descend uttering such platitudes as, Now, now Julian. Youre not going anywhere. I did that to my brother Henry, Jann and Catherine. I need another word for apparently.

I am told that the likes of Andy, Nick and Shaun would decide that the pub was a bit dull and head to the hospital in search of surreal entertainment at my bedside. Andy told me some rather funny stories just recently. The three were very shocked at the news of my foolish cliff elevator scheme but decided to visit me anyway. It would have been around Valentines Day, strangely. They needed some Dutch courage before braving the hospital warren but were pleasantly surprised to see me not completely wrecked. I would come out with all sorts of things. They are really kind here; I can stay whenever I want. My jacket has been stolen in Spain with all my credit cards. It is great. I am being paid time off work and everything. And the favourite, Guys, guys, you have to get me out of here. I have got my bags packed and I am ready to go, but I think the nurses are a bit suspicious. I told them I have to go to my cousins funeral, but I do not think they believed me. Wait until they are distracted. Andy and Nick made a card for me with a computer, a picture of Beachy Head with the caption, Next time… I wish I remembered it. I wish I still had it. That is very funny. Bastards.

According to Nick, There was one time we came and you were talking, well, nonsense. Utter fooking shyte. Someone mentioned rugby and something inside you switched. For the next five minutes you gave a lucid and complete assessment of the England team. How Johnny Wilkinson is prone to injury because he tackles so hard; how Mike Tindle is one dimensional but brilliant at it; how Andrew Sheridan has played in all sorts of positions but is now arguably the best prop in the world and so on. You gave a thorough breakdown of the whole squad. Then you switched again and went back to talking bollocks. It was fooking weird.

Another source of general amusement was the bizarre phone calls I would make. I am in a speedboat and we are going very fast, but I cannot find my keys. is often quoted as a classic. How I got hold of a phone, or peoples numbers, is completely beyond me but I am sure they are not lying. At the end of the day, avoiding clichés like the plague, I am simply glad that I make people laugh even when I am totally swamped by hospital drugs.

I do feel that the only way to view what happened is with humour. There are only two important things about my past: it is over and I survived. Anything else really does not matter. Some chap in the hospital told me that I should see this as a new start which is what I am doing. It is funny though. When I first left school and home, within the group of friends I knocked around with, I was known as Tigger. Twenty years later I throw myself off a cliff and fucking bounce.

I made the decision on a Tuesday night, suitably smashed on rouge and skunk. I knew that I had to get away from my situation but the logistics of doing so were becoming very hard work. I asked myself the honest question, Why bother being alive anyway? No answer was either immediate or forthcoming. At thirty-seven I had no dependants, no significant relationship, no prospects, no future, no aspiration, no ambition, no hope really that life would have anything to offer except the horror I was living becoming worse. I did realize that there were people who genuinely loved me, silly sods, and what my actions would mean to them did weigh very heavily upon my soul. Even so, to be blunt, amusing people for a bit now and again does not amount to much of a rationale. The word that kept cropping up in my thoughts was pointless. My life was utterly pointless; I was a waste of fresh air. The image I could not escape from was my psyche as a barren desert containing a camel with a broken back, surrounded by straw.

When sober on Wednesday I reviewed my thoughts and could find nothing to disagree with. I once explained to a friend, Reece, that with problems, I think about them straight, then drunk, then stoned, then straight again. Then you get all spontaneous. he quipped. It is a method that has served me badly for years, but it is the only method I have. I decided that the following Thursday should be Leapday. Not for any significant reason other than it was a Giro day and I could leave the money for some friends. For the next ten days I almost skipped through life. All my problems would soon be gone. It was rather reminiscent of the days approaching holidays at that gulag of a school to which I was sent. When my father informed me that the Aga was going to be serviced on the Seventeenth, I almost burst out, I do not care. I shall be dead by then. I managed to resist the temptation. The verbal abuse and criticism from my brothers and interested parties continued as normal but I was blissfully complacent as I went about the daily business of caring for the folks and descending into drug-induced Never Never Land once they were safely tucked up. The more I thought about dying the more brilliant a plan it seemed.

Nothing at all happened during my last days as a walking human to change my mind. No-one even called which was strange but reassuring. Everyone is so busy these days and each moment of careless nothing spent with me had to be fought for and negotiated. Poor people. It is amazing the amount of time they spent visiting me in hospital. Apparently.

The day itself dawned suitably ordinary and noncommittal. My plans were formed and ready to be acted upon. I had written three different notes: one for Jann and Amber; one for Andy and Shaun; one for the world in general that I would leave on my pillow, probably to be discovered on the Friday. Strange as it may sound I wanted to cause as little fuss and trauma as possible. I was going to dive onto the Undercliff Walk, which would be cleaned by the next high tide. No shocked train or car drivers, no delays or inconvenience for the Great British Public. I certainly did not want anyone worrying about me until the next day. The thought of costing people sleep was an anathema to me. I probably ate some toast or something; an ornate last meal would have been plain silly. I cashed my chip and pin card, thank you Gordon, and returned home, sorting that money with some that I had managed to save anyway. Say what you like about the supermarkets and their grip on whatever, they make alcoholism all too affordable. I put the best of my Cds, DVDs and books into a box, with an envelope containing the note and £190, and labeled it for Andy and Shaun. In my rucksack went a cushion, a thick jumper, two bottles of Blossom Hill and a nice, fat prince harry.

Opinions vary on whether I had to be drunk and stoned before diving, or whether it was merely that I wanted a bottle and a spliff before leaving this life. Like most things in life it is probably a combination of the two. I also packed my letter to Jann with another £190 in an envelope, and a Jamesons miniature; one should always be prepared. I know that I made a point of saying goodbye to both of my parents which was not as difficult as I thought it might be. I do not know why and there is little point delving into that one too deeply. It is in the past. I took a taxi to the pub to leave Andy and Shauns box. Simon looked bemused but being the been there, seen it professional that he is, there was no more than an arched eyebrow in response to my strange request. I was determined not to say, See you later. but I think I did. After that I went to the sea front and waited for the bus.

The sun had come out and was fitfully glinting across the waves. Brighton is a very beautiful town and I am very lucky to have been born here. The bus arrived and we rattled our way to Rottingdean while I eyed up other places I could dive from but they would all have caused upset. We arrived in Rottingdean and I ambled my way to the pub. The Coach and Horses? The White Horse? Something to do with horses. I ordered a pint of Harveys, sat at the bar and thought.

I did let my mind wander to what my funeral might be like. What songs would I prefer. Who I would like to say a few words and what they might say about me. I considered how many people would be feeling guilty and those who damn well should feel guilty as mortal sin. How many people would come? How tearful would it be? My brother Dorian made the point, some years ago, that you had to die young otherwise who would come to the funeral? If it were a small turnout you would die of embarrassment but such thoughts did not last long. I decided that funerals are like weddings. They are not for the people concerned but for the guests. I am not sure what other thoughts occupied my mind in the time it took me to drink three, probably four pints of Harveys, but I never wavered in my intent. In fact, as the time marched on towards four o clock and their closing time, (why? This is the twenty-first century you luddites), I became more and more happy. Probably due to childhood pleasures being so few and anticipated for so long, I was fine simply waiting for the time to go forever to come of its own accord. There was no hurry.

I left the pub with a cheery, Thank you. trudged through the car park and came to the fence by the cliff itself. It was at this point that my phone rang. I glanced at the display and was rather annoyed that it was my younger brother, Dorian. I cannot remember the conversation accurately but he was shouting at me as per normal. It became apparent that he must have gone into my room, wanting something or other, and found the note. WHAT THE FUCK DYOU THINK YOURE FUCKING DOING? was the gist. For some bizarre reason I did not swear back. It would not have mattered at this point but I did not want to. Instead I asked reasonably, Just leave me alone. and cut the call. He rang again. I switched the thing off. It must have been about half past four in the afternoon by this point and the sun was starting to set. It was really rather stunning and I felt a deep sense of pantheism. There was a lightness in my step as I negotiated the undulating cliff top, keeping close to the fence and in sight of the lackadaisical sea. At some juncture I switched my phone back on, I am not sure why. The beer was starting to make me feel pleasantly pleasant, the sun was warmish and spectacular, the air was fresh and brisk with a sprinkling of salt and I was enjoying my last ever walk.

The phone rang again. I sighed at the interruption but it was not Dorian, in fact it said, private call. Intrigued I answered. It was a policeman. Amazing. He seemed to know that I was intending to kill myself; I can only assume that Dorian had told a boy in blue. Being a professional criminal he knows lots of policemen. The officer was very concerned and rather sweet, recommending that I talk to someone qualified and understanding before doing anything stupid. I thanked him for his kindness but assured him that there was nothing to talk about and I was quite happy with what I was doing. I resisted suggesting that he should leave me alone and try to catch some criminals. It would not have been appropriate. I suddenly realized that he was keeping me talking and I accused him of doing this deliberately whilst tracking my phone a la Spooks. He laughed and wished that such technology was available to him but I was not convinced and swiftly, but politely, ended the call. It is funny the way that people only start caring when it is way too late.

Soon enough I arrived at the bench I had selected the week before when I had done a walk through. I gazed at the sea, reckoned that I must be high enough as there were seagulls flying below me, sat down on the bench and unpacked. Pooh jumper, comfortable cushion, bottle of wine, corkscrew, glass and big joint. All set.

I really cannot be doing with religion but I do have a very strong faith. There must be some sort of divinity, I reasoned. Not only is there so much beauty in the world but we have the innate ability to appreciate that beauty. There is no evolutionary reason for that. We are spiritual beings having a corporeal experience and my death would only be the end of my pitiful, but not pitiable, go on this planet or whatever. I had not the faintest idea of what was going to happen next, I simply believed that it would be something. Looking back, I had lived a decent sort of life, especially in recent years. Plenty of altruism, selfless sacrifice, that sort of thing. I had even saved a life or two ironically enough. In my feeling the colours of the sea breeze frame of mind I decided that as long as people forgave me for ending my life unilaterally I would be fine. Thus I went through my phone, texting anyone suitable. Not the Surgery or my brothers, obviously, but people whom I knew did care. Something like; I am so sorry. Please forgive me. It made sense at the time.

The time passed, the wine was drunk, the spliff toked, no-one else had called and the moment was fast approaching. I tidied everything into the rucksack, I was not going to leave a mess up here as well, and climbed over the fence. Sitting on the edge, feet dangling, I found the Jamesons miniature in my pocket, poured it into the glass and lit my last cigarette as the sun began seething into the sea. This was when Catherine rang. I cannot really recall what was said other than her being angry and me trying not to laugh. Suddenly three or four cars, one of them an SUV/4x4/Chelsea Tractor, lights blazing, came off the road and starting heading for me. In whatever order I cut the phone, discarded the cigarette and threw my rucksack over the edge as a sighter for myself. I would like to have shouted something suitable like, You shall never take me alive! but I did not. The last thing I remember is my left boot on the edge of the cliff as I dove.

* * *

Two and a half months later I became aware of myself again and swore at the ceiling. Even then I was still losing days. I do remember asking a nurse, very politely, what day it was, convinced that yesterday had been Saturday. Wednesday Julian. she replied, bemused. Bugger! I thought. I would love to say that during this period I had heavenly visions with soft voices calling me towards the light, but I did not. I should have. They tell me I nearly died twice. There was even a night when the ward someone or other rang my family and friends masquerading as relatives, saying something like, Youd best come and see him tonight because he probably wont be here tomorrow. All very mellow dramatic. So what was I doing amidst this wailing and gnashing of teeth? I was having the weirdest dreams. Weird in their banality.

There was one Saturday morning when the ward was full of child patients, except for me of course. The nurse numbers were down for some reason and there were two volunteer male nurses from a charity, I think. One of these chaps looked very groovy and child orientated with his shorts and whistle and soon was down with the kids. All sorts of excited whoops bubbled around me as I looked on with cynical eyes. The other chap looked a bit of a geek, is I believe the modern parlance, and completely out of place. Pity mixed with indifference and the sinking realization that we were going to be stuck with one another.

Hi. he opened, Im James Curry from Patients Visitors. thrusting some ID at me, And Im here to look after you today.

Marvellous. I feigned, What do you have in mind?

Well, when was the last time you went outside?

I have no idea.

Right then, lets go.

His enthusiasm was as touching as it was irritating but even he had to realize that such paltry matters as taking me for a shit and so on had to be routined before we could explore the world with panting huskies gamboling at our heels. He was quite happy to help with the seamier side of crippledom and soon we were off, him pushing my chair with wheels on the bottom. To call it a wheelchair would be overstating the case but it worked.

It was an amusing time as we both relaxed with each other and made the most of our brief time together. I am fairly sure that he used an old fashioned weighing machine to see how much of me was left. Six stone, or a small, unwell rock. He pushed me to Level 5, which has an outdoor bit for guilt laden, nicotine craving nurses to sigh in harmony. He also took me to the little café at the West corner of Queens Park. It was here that our conversation became very harmonious and funny, talking about irony, football and the modern cult of celebrity.

I simply do not understand, I sighed, Why stupid, ignorant people who have not even read a book in their lives are so lauded by the young merely for being famous. I certainly do not understand anyone wanting to be famous in the first place. I would much rather be well read than having the paparazzi stalking my every move.

I know what you mean. he agreed. I wouldnt want to be a celebrity.

It was then that I noticed that he was really Frank Skinner, so I gave him a hard look. The conversation burbled on for quite a while until Frank insisted that he had to go, he was already running late. I awoke the next morning to something of a flap. Frank Skinner had been seen in the area but escaped by helicopter before being noticed. In the local newspaper there was some coverage about him visiting a friend of his in the locale and there being a joke of some description written on the underside of his helicopter. Wordplay of a witty variety. For some reason I had to get back to the café in Queens Park to head off my mother who had completely misunderstood the situation. Fortunately I got there in time, only to be met by one of the nurses, it might have been Pat, who had taken her nursing training in South African prison camps. At least she gave the impression of thinly veiled sadism. She had been sent to get me but when I suggested we should go she looked at her watch and informed me that she was being paid for another four hours anyway, so we should stay where we were for at least another three. So there we stayed, Pat busying herself with the puzzles from a pile of trashy Sunday magazines she produced from a voluminous Gladstone bag. All I could do was drink water, no coffee allowed, and ponder lifes immutable contradictions. If one is going to have opium fuelled fantasies whilst being surrounded by inconsolable loved ones, they should be a damn more exciting than this.

Then, of course, there was Rachel Stevens. The really gorgeous one from Sclub and now a solo artiste. I learnt the truth. She is, in fact, identical twins who work for Mossad, neither of whom is called Rachel. Both names are anagrams of an ancient Hebrew word for God but not Yahweh. That is as much as I remember about her name. As with the cliché with identical twins there was a good one and a not so good. Fortunately I met the good one and we embarked on a series of adventures in the name of world peace and harmony. I was Snowy to her Tintin. One would have thought that a fantasy with such a delectable creature should have involved Karma Sutra inspired, Olympic lovemaking, but no. There was one night, holed up in a dubious hotel in an even more dubious city, when we simply held each other close and she told me about her childhood and all the reasons why she must do this dangerous work for Mossad. It brings a tear to my eyes even now.

I did meet the not so good one who, of course, pretended to be her sister but I saw through her ruse. Something to do with a birthmark I think. She did demand passionate lovemaking but I declined. I always was an unmitigated fool. On one of my last nights in hospital, when I thought that I was back to reality, I dreamed I saw the lovely one in a busy bus terminal. She saw me, smiled her melting smile, and waved me goodbye with a sad look. I still miss her in a way.

There were many other dreams that were much more plausible. Quite often I would be in the Barley Mow drinking merrily with like-livered friends. Then David the nurse, I think, would appear measuring out large numbers of pills using a very old fashioned looking wooden thing. I would swallow the pills, washed down with Adnams Broadside and continue to tell jokes. For some reason I was always standing up which is odd. Mind you, I have dreamed of still being able to walk since the flying lesson, You must remember the plane next time sir.

There was an ongoing theme involving some old friends of mine. Well, I say friends but they are not really. The Thorpe family lived three doors up when I was young and I was in the same school and class as Edward. The parents, David and Jessica, were very kind to me for a number of years as I was growing up but I have not seen them in years despite annual, expensive-looking Christmas cards. Looking back it is only too clear that, in reality, Edward was a complete little shit and probably still is. There was also a daughter, Elizabeth who was, and is I would think, eight years our junior. She started writing to me out of the blue, or Roedean to be more exact, when I was in my early twenties and she an inmate. Prison Cell Block R was how she referred to that particular hallowed establishment. We were pen pals for about three years, I think, before something inadvertent happened which was a shame. She was very funny.

They moved to a Victorian pile in the country in the early Eighties, which was where I last saw David and Jessica eight years prior to occupying my hospital bed. I had been invited to a wedding at a church in their village and, after some communication, I was invited to stay at Castle Trompe DOueil the preceding night. For whatever reasons Edward and Elizabeth were unable to make dinner that evening but David, Jessica and I had a terrific evening liberally fuelled by vintage rouge and unadulterated bullshit. It was wonderful and we talked much about the terrible novel that I had just written, which was published but a complete failure. They had made the house a no-smoking zone so I had to sleep in the conservatory, normally the domain of their two Tibetan Mountain Dogs; small, yappy type things called Norman and Tracey. Obviously. I slept on a chaise longue and had a series of dreams about falling. At about three am I awoke to find Norman lying across my ankles wearing his best Ils ne passerent pas face. I kicked him across the conservatory before resuming slumbers but that was years ago.

In my hospital drug dreams things were very different. In the intervening years their profitable business was starting not to be and David had saved the situation by nicking all of my ideas and publishing a very successful book. In fact I was gate crashing the launch party of his next novel at Castle Trompe DOueil. For some reason there were lions involved and I got past the first line of security by pretending to be a lion tamer. As you do. Unfortunately the second line of security was all of the ward nurses who spotted I was still wearing my pyjamas, cunning fiends. I was allowed to wait in an ante room but not allowed to drink or smoke. The nurse Ray, a surly fellow, shut his ears to my arguments that the family did know me and would not mind my being there at all. In my periphery vision I could see what looked like a stack of Marlboro Lights cartons. I asked politely, I asked fervently, I might have even been a little rude, doubting the validity of Rays parents marriage at his conception but he was unmoved. They can be like that, nurses. I had to cuddle the brandy and coke that I had blagged from somewhere, whilst growling at Ray when he suggested removing it from my possession, and wait until we all went home. Except I did not. Somehow I met a meditation guru who had helped the Thorpes through their darkest hours. Interesting chap. He explained to me that the cartons of Marlboro Lights were, in fact, boxes of security items. Edward had diverted the business into being experts in security for large houses like the Castle and the party was also wooing potential investors. The guru and I shared a tent in the grounds that night and he took the opportunity to try and guru me. This involved all sorts of tales. The origins of the piss bottle were during the Second World War with the French Resistance fighters. It doubled as an off the cuff grenade. Apparently. He told me that I should always refer to such a receptacle as a bouteille. I confused nurses for days with that one. For some reason he insisted upon showing me how to circumcise oneself with the right thumb nail. I was not convinced. He imparted suitably wise words to me before we switched off the Calour Gas stove. I woke up in hospital. Still.

It must have been around this time that, back in reality, my brother Dorian made, to him, a memorable visit. In fact Dorian visited me a lot. He is one of the few people whom I do remember. As he tells it, he arrived at the ward reception to be informed that I was doing much better. With joy in his heart he walked into the ward itself and saw me watching Eastenders, utterly engrossed. Knowing how much I abhor that particular piece of modern culture he walked out in disgust commenting, No he fucking isnt. to the good staff. I know nothing.

Another theme of my mental wanderings during others angst was going clubbing in my PJs and being caught my overzealous nurses. No-one in particular; they took it in turns. One night I had been throwing shapes in a gay club on the sea front. A chap called Ian accosted me with the threat of being sectioned. I might have been a hint brusque, informing him that he could do no such thing in a busy night-spot. He smiled victoriously and led me to a wall upon which was a plaque. It was commemorating the site of Brightons first mental institution in 1879. Its like churches, he insisted. Once medical grounds, always medical grounds, and I have the right to section you and take you back to the hospital. I might have replied, I see the sense of humour and personality double bypass was a roaring success. but I did not.

That Ian was a strange chap. I do remember him popping up from time to time to assess my memory, or lack of it. Of course I took him seriously for about three seconds. There he would be, all of a sudden, at my bedside asking fatuous questions.

What day is it?

Tuesday.

Saturday.

Oh.

Month?

March.

April. Your name?

Julian.

My name?

You have got me there.

I seem to recall that he was studying the relationship between alcohol, head trauma and memory. Or something like that. When he visited on my last day I was engulfed in sympathy and played along, remembering his name and everything. He wanted to know how I would deal with drink being available again.

I do realize Ian, I said at my most sincere, That I had painted myself into a corner with my own selfish actions but now I am starting again and do not need alcohol or any drugs. He looked crestfallen.

Oh well then, he stuttered, Good luck. Anything I can do to help, please get in touch. With that he disappeared, not leaving any way of getting in touch with him. I still have no idea what that was all about.

I sometimes think about going back to that ward to see what it is like now, it might have shrunk, and to say thank you to everyone. This normally happens when I am sitting in the car park of the hospital after an appointment with a registrar or someone; my consultant seems very shy. From that little wall I can see the window of the last ward room I was in. Inconsequential Corner as it became known. I used to stare out of that window and pine. I did study how securely it was locked at the time but there was no way of getting out and down that way, even if I could walk that far; at least four feet. Someone must have thought about potential suicides, curse them. I would like to ask the nurses if my attitude suddenly went from whatever to very polite but with an underlying vibe of, GET ME OUT OF HERE! That would have been when I woke up.

Day to day ward life was utterly dull with highlights such as the early morning choice of tea or coffee from the trolley, pushed by a very nice chap from behind the erstwhile Iron Curtain. I always chose hot chocolate because I am like that. Biscuits too, if he had any. Other than that it was waiting for someone in scrubs to come and practice their condescension. I realized that the best thing to do was to be on my best behaviour and while away the time. I have seen Colditz, Porridge et cetera. It became clear that most of the staff responded best to exaggerated politeness that bordered on sarcasm. Some pain killers would be marvelous at this juncture, if at all possible. Most of the time I simply stared into the middle distance and tried to come to terms with still being alive. Beyond Why me? and Great big, dangly, elephant ones., I never managed to make sense of it all.

I had decided long ago that any human culture, or subculture, tend to be very similar, containing delightful people, utter shits and everything in between. Hospital staff are no exception. A few embodied altruistic vocation, must strove to overcome innate indifference and a couple should have had S for sadist stamped on their foreheads. It must be like being taken hostage by benign terrorists. They are fine as long as you play along but I would rather be anywhere else.

When I did eventually come to I was surrounded by books, there was a picture of myself and Dorian which I had never seen before and the digital radio I had given to the folks for Christmas, with the aerial very bent. Apparently my fault. The first endeavour was trying to recollect the names of those around me. There was a very sweet, young, female nurse who seemed delighted when I got her name right; Ray. Just to confuse me. Ray himself insisted his name was Dave for days. Git. People were still visiting, especially dad, Dorian and Jann. Also there was my mother. Mum had been losing her marbles for some time and was the perfect foil for my still beleaguered acuity. I managed to think up all sorts of conspiracy theories about the ward which I told her. The ward was really a posh hospital in the country, ran by a dentist from Angola. The wealthy patients would come to have their teeth fixed but the night before their treatment, in the name of relaxing them, the dentist would get them drunk so that they fell down the stairs, broke something and had to stay for serious operations. That was how he made his money. Obviously. I can remember seeing Rod Stewart and Dennis Waterman chatting in a waiting room. They were both staring balefully at large, amber coloured drinks in their hands.

I swear theyre watering down the whisky.

I asked for gin.

How we laughed. I was now on drugs where I swam in and out of reality. Another theory was that the ward was a secret fox breeding centre. For their coats you understand.

Look you stupid woman. I would urge my mother, Under the bed.

Yes dear. she would agree. Bless her.

I even recall a cousin, Colin, visiting me at some point. He is a very decent fellow though I would hate to think what his wife made of it all. It is mainly Dorian I do recollect, with his girlfriend Nicky. He was in training for a big charity fight night when he would be stepping into the ring for the first time. He had not been particularly small for years but now there was eighteen stone of bristling physical perfection waiting to hit a complete stranger, whilst wearing baggy shorts and designer oven gloves. I thought at the time that I could write a novel juxtaposing his physical growth towards the fight with my physical withering after diving from a cliff. Stupid idea. I also had an idea for a book called, Chocolate and The Charlie Factory about a brown Labrador raised in Columbia. Just daft that one.

There are small snatches of memory that are not visual, purely aural. I definitely recollect being repeatedly asked for my name and date of birth. This must have been the paramedics who scraped me from the Undercliff Walk. For a long time I thought of them as self-righteous, do-gooding, interfering, holier-than-thou gits, and wished I had said something like, Why? Are you ashamed at not sending me a Christmas card but refuse to miss my birthday? Now, of course, I realize that I owe those brave people everything. They kept on saying, Stay with us Julian. Youll be fine. For some reason I recall people talking about April Fool. Strange that. There must have been a period of at least two months when someone had to wash me, shave me, take me for a shit and so on. I am very glad that I remember none of that. By the time I came to I could do all of those things myself. Small mercies and all that.

As I started resurfacing, I also became aware of the people and events that were happening around me. There was a delightful lady called Doris at the end of the ward who was quite remarkable. Because I decided to observe rather than interact I never really spoke to her but I was all too aware of what she was about. I always enjoy it when a person shoots down stereotypes and Doris did this with aplomb. At first it was apparent that she was a Daily Mail (Malice) reader with strong views on immigration and the like but it swiftly became obvious that she was really a lovely human being when she did know someone. Her circumstances still make me sad. She was in her sixties, I would imagine, and had lived life according to how one should. Devoted wife, mother and grandmother, now living in a lovely house in Woodingdean with enough of a garden for bird feeders and things. During the last year she had been having problems with her left hip, which had become very stiff and achy, and had needed crutches from time to time. She had been persuaded that a hip replacement operation was the way forward and had gamely gone ahead with the advised treatment. Unfortunately the operation had not gone well and a large part of her femur had been amputated. She would never be able to walk again. Of course not a word of complaint passed her lips and she was never anything less than completely polite and courteous, even to the most patronizing of the young nurses. I shall never forget the look that would invade her face when, alone, she would stare through the ward window and contemplate her life. I now know what the words bleak and bereft really mean.

She had a son who visited daily. I first thought that he was her husband until a very embarrassing conversation put me right, and he lived very close to an uncle of mine who had died a couple of years previously, but they had known one another very well. Unfortunately I cannot recall his name but he convinced me, one afternoon when I was sort of with it, that I had set up a hospital newspaper which I edited.

Youd sit at the end of your bed, he said, Cigarette constantly on the go, an old Remmington at your crossed ankles, tapping away and screaming at you reporters for scoops.

I even believed him for a while, confusing a nurse horribly when I asked her to give my best to the production staff and tell them I would be writing again soon. I felt terribly guilty for not being at the foot of my bed turning out stories. The fact that you cannot smoke in hospitals did not dawn on me for some time. He was a very funny man.

The last weird dream I had before fully coming round was waking up in a dormitory that was part of a comedy club. It was not like the ward at all, being in a basement. The comedians would do their turn then come down there for a sleep. For some reason all of the comedians were female ward nurses and when I asked Mel why I was the only man, she hushed me with a wink. When I awoke from that one I was back in reality with a bump.

It must have been around this time that I looked in a mirror for the first time since skipping from the folks house heading merrily cliffward. My nasal hairs had contrived to form a Poirotesque moustache. Why do people not tell you these things? My only option was to take a razor blade to them. Fortunately I did little damage; I would have hated for self harm to be added to my list of crimes against humanity.

One day a girl arrived on the ward. Well, a young woman, probably in her early twenties. I might have known her name at some point but it has gone now. I would like to think that I am not bigoted or suffer from prejudice, but I recognized what she was immediately. The best word to describe her is probably pykie. No offence. She took one look at me, and vice versa, and we never spoke a word to each other. Doris however was easy prey. Of course this young woman was a poor, poor victim of an uncaring society which owed her a living but was not paying. The fact that her child was in care and the father in prison was not in any way her fault. Far from it. The world had conspired against the poor, sweet thing, who had probably been a war hero in a former life. Doris lapped it up and I am fairly sure that money changed hands at some point. She was living on the street, sort of, and that damnable council would do nothing to help her, the swine. Pykie Girl garnered sympathy from everyone. Except me. She was doing her best to stay in lodging with meals, it was never apparent what was wrong with her, but after a week a man from the council did come to see her. He lasted her tirade for at least ten seconds as she bellowed at him with closed ears. She did not swear at the poor man, just. I neither know nor care what happened to her.

In the bed next to me was a slightly overweight skeleton named Georgina. She was horrific to look at and very ill with lung something. Every day the nurses would have to do something life saving, cajoling and imploring against her obstinacy. Occasionally family would visit her and they were like a bad comedy sketch about the aristocracy. I wondered where they kept the staff. They would always bring her exotic food and drink which was slightly foolish as anything put in her mouth would reappear from some orifice almost immediately. Her favourite trick was to press the nurse help button feverishly like the demented harridan she resembled. When the nurses tired of constant interruption on no pretext they would turn the thing off. Still wanting to play, Georgina would then bang something metal against her bed until attention was resumed. The things I heard from behind that curtain. Whenever it was a meal time I would ask a nurse to draw the curtain, not wanting to eat while looking at Tutankhamuns granny, a request that was not always granted. Nurses can be very strange. One night Pykie Girl appeared with a male friend with whom she shared a joint on her bed with the window open, clever things. Who would know? It was still April and not warm and the next day I awoke to no Georgina. No-one even referred to her. I can only assume that the dope and cold air had done for her lungs. Later that day her bed was occupied by a little old lady for which I was very grateful. No more noisy tantrums form Lady Spewalot. Then someone gave her a cup of tea which she immediately projectile vomited across the ward accompanied by what sounded like a walrus giving birth. Ho hum.

One of the nurses best tricks happened every morning. They would, very kindly, make all five of the beds, working up something of a damp brow in their uniforms. With the sun streaming through the windows they would declare it a beautiful day and throw open the windows before going off to something far more important. We patients, in our thin pyjamas, would then shiver away until someone could be persuaded that it was April, we were on the eighth floor and it was fooking freezing, or words to that effect. One day poor Doris, who was by a window, passed out with the cold and had to be resuscitated with the electric paddle thingees. The windows were still flung open every morning.

One fine morning a young, female physiotherapist appeared and was trying to motivate Doris into moving and, possibly, buying a Zimmer frame from the company she represented. It was not an impressive spectacle. Doris was crying with pain but trying desperately hard to co-operate with the woman who was demonstrating all the compassion of a Nazi whilst being horribly condescending. The physio then came over to me. She started on her spiel, Hi! Im Vikki. and I was about to start growling when I began to listen. I had just begun to use a Zimmer frame myself and she was so helpful teaching me how to use it. You give it a good lunge then follow. Amazing. She was lovely. I am not at all sure what I was learning about humanity generally during my hospital experience but I hope it comes in useful.

There was a woman opposite me who was dreadful, Jackie or something. She proudly announced to anyone who would listen that she had broken her knee falling down the stairs at a party wearing nothing but a Prada thong. She was in her fifties and not skinny. She would fall asleep during the day so fitfully that her nightie and all the sheets would ruck up around her. She has probably put me off pornography for life.

One morning there was a very pretty young nurse on the ward. Being a with-it young thing she had a pierced upper lip. Instead of anything gaudy sticking through the hole she had a light, flesh coloured something. I have no idea what.

I hate to mention it but you seem to have some toothpaste on your lip.

Where? she asked.

Just there. Oh sorry. I did not realize.

I suppose you think youre funny. and off she flounced. Oops a buttercup. That is two less sympathetic ears.

All the time I was improving from bedridden to wheelchair to Zimmer frame, imploring anyone in proximity that I really should not be there. Terrible drain on resources so I was. Then one day Mel announced that they were moving my bed. Of course no reason for this was given and I felt very upset. It is quite pathetic how we humans can be so petty about the most unimportant things. By this time I had settled into a routine and was established in my place in the ward. I later understood that it was because I was the only male in a female ward and the boys were in another room. What would my position be there? Would I have to compete with the Daddy as in Scum? Would I be able to deal with the shower-room as I had taught myself to do where I was? It was something of a challenge every morning as I could not really stand and I had to have copious handholds everywhere. It was a bit like when I started climbing where the golden rule is to have three points of contact with whatever it is you are climbing. Normally rock of course, but country and western if you like. It was also quite a task not to flood the place when having a shower. Like much of what I could see around me, much money had been spent on the shower room suite but it had been badly done. Water often tends to flow downhill so the drain is best placed in the lowest part of the floor. Never mind. There was a little bench thing that folded down from the wall then snapped back quite happily. It was a minor art form to land safely. Then the shower curtain had to be drawn carefully around, then you realized you had forgotten the soap, you swore at yourself and struggled to retrieve it from the basin, the little seat whizzing back to its default setting. This was the early part of my cripple training, where most things can be done, it simply takes a little longer and requires much concentration. I had no need to worry about the move, my new side ward was quickly adapted to. Opposite me was an infuriatingly cheerful man named Roland and to my right two elderly gentlemen who were happily monosyllabic. The shower-room was similar enough not to cause concern except for the same flooding risk. I now had a view over a scenic car park and the back end of a housing estate and the only real problem was gaining the attention of nurses who were busy in the main room with the real patients. This was Inconsequential Corner where one had to save up requests, ring the bell, wait a while until a familiar figure in white appeared, then be terribly polite and deferential. Sorry to trouble you, but I need some water please, he needs some pills over there and Ken has been acting like that for about half hour. I think he is Godzilla but it is hard to tell. Over to you. Easily handled.

The strange thing about moving was taking stock of my worldly belongings. No-one had told me that they were moving the little cabinet as well. There were lots of books, some of which I even wanted to read, the photograph, a print out with a picture and a message from Amber, something about having fun with the nurses. You have not met this lot. I thought. There was my meagre washing kit as well which contained three tubes of Preparation H. I did have piles before the flying lesson but not now, and certainly not three tubes worth. There was also a tube of Armadillo lubricant or something like that, which I threw away feeling only slightly wasteful. What was really weird was opening the bottom, vertically doored compartment for the first time. I flung it open to reveal the boots I had been wearing, smeared in chalk. All that was missing was the Jaws/Psycho/nails down blackboard strings to accompany such a discovery. It was like finding a skull. Everything else was gone. I seemed to be wearing my spare glasses and had no idea of where they had come from or where my main ones were. There were no clothes and no rucksack containing the note and money for Jann. Bizarrely there was my belt, though lacking its keeper and with a big gash at the back. Upon reflection, although I would miss the Pooh jumper, I decided that if I were starting again it would be best to begin with nothing. I certainly did not want the boots.

Roland took it upon himself to cheer me up, git, and began to regale me with the story of why he was in hospital. An intrepid biker, he said, he had been hurtling down past Devils Dyke when his wheels lost traction and he was thrown mercifully clear. He had cuts, bruises, an arm in plaster and other sundry injuries. Having a love of motorbikes myself I asked him what sort he had been riding. Twenty-two gear apparently. I resisted the urge to rename him Evel. He wanted to know what had happened to me, asking with a big smile and bubbling bonhomie. I fell off a cliff. was all I could be bothered to say. He then proceeded to tell me all about his wonderful family, his fantastic job, his loving friends, blah blah, jaberdy jaberdy, yeah yeah yeah. For about an hour.

So how did you fall off a cliff? he grinned.

I did not fall. I threw myself off.

Oh.

I was trying to kill myself.

Oh.

That shut him up. Fortunately he was released back into the bosom of his adoring family that afternoon and Ken, one of the old boys, was having his bed. The old boy next to me seemed to spend his time fervently masturbating to daytime television. I realize that Carol Vordermann was quite attractive two decades ago but even so. He was soon gone too.

It was the story of Ken was the most disturbing of my vicarious hospital experiences. He looked to be about eighty and, apart from an old cast on his arm, there appeared to be nothing wrong with him. It soon became clear that he had no idea of what was going on around him. The nurses, when they did speak to him, addressed him like a toddler and he did need help with everything, catheter included. His wife visited every day but was treated with scorn by the nurses; she was given more of a welcome by the other patients. When she was there, and she often brought friends, he was quite animated and communicative but, other then that, he was wide-eyed catatonic. I think they call it bed blocking. At about six one morning I realized that he was calling to me.

Hey?

Mnnnughe?

Hey?

What?

I shouldnt be here you know.

What?

I shouldnt be here. Theres nothing wrong with me.

Then why are you here?

I dont know. I want to go home.

I sat up and looked at him through the pre-dawn gloom.

Look, Ken.

Yes?

What is that on your arm?

He studied the yellowing cast.

I dont know.

It is a plaster cast. You have broken your arm. That is why you are in hospital. Now let me go back to sleep.

But I dont want to be here.

What can I do about that?

You could talk to the nurses for me.

Saying what?

I dont know.

Nor do I.

I need a piss.

And?

I need a piss.

Here. Have this.

I threw him an empty piss bottle and went back to sleep. It only occurred to me later that he had a catheter. For some reason that conversation still haunts me but I know that there was nothing I could do to help him.

The real horror came a few days later. One of the many things that surprised me about the nurses was, considering what a major part of their job it is, their reticence nay coyness about bodily fluids. About twice a week I would have a conversation with one of them where they asked me questions. Whenever it came to, Have you had a bowel movement recently? it would be hushed in reverent tones. If I answered, Yes thank you. I had a really good shit yesterday. they would blush to their roots.

Ken was really rather baby-like and had to be spoon fed. I could not help but notice that they did not bother to ask him similar questions and I began to worry as the days passed, food being shoveled into his mouth and no further action taken. Then one day he started farting for England whilst giggling copiously; never a good sign in a senile pensioner. The next day Jann came to visit at the same time as Kens wife and a friend of hers. Fortunately Ken was sitting on a chair rather than in his bed. As Jann and I were chatting we heard those three laughing, then a horrible noise, followed by a sewer smell wafting across the ward. He had shat himself. Jann and I looked at each other and she opened a window. There was nothing to say. The nurses were furious and made a big deal about clearing up the mess, poor Ken. Whatever was going on with bed blocking, or whatever, it was not Kens fault and to treat him with such contempt was not impressive. They did not even take his glasses off when putting him to bed at night. Shameful.

Another major character in my little story was the delectable Dr. Ps. She did say why she should be known in this way but it is long gone. A gorgeous, petite blonde who amazed me by really caring. After the ignominious abuse I had received from my alleged family the fact that a beautiful, professional young lady did give a damn, even though I was a complete stranger, still astounds me. She would check on my progress daily and was very worried when things did not go to plan. I can only assume that there was not the slightest reason for her compassion other than she wanted to help. I still think of her now while realizing just how much I owe to her altruism. I can still almost walk thanks to her.

Other memorable staff, sort of, include Terri the physio who turned up with a thing for my right leg that looked as though she had mugged a Transformer. It seemed to work though. Teresa the nurse with the lovely laugh would have made a fantastic glamour model. There was one very young nurse who was quite beautiful and should be a fashion model. One time she saw me reading a Dan Brown novel and asked me what it was like.

Lousy. I replied.

Lousy? Why?

The premise is implausible, the characters transparent, I can see the plot being winched into position and I really do not care what happens to anyone.

Then why are you reading it?

My mind is in no state to read anything worthwhile. The copy of The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists that has appeared from somewhere will have to wait.

She smiled with sweetness and tolerance. One day she was changing the bed next to mine with a fellow angel and bending over provocatively. I could not watch, heaven knows why. Possibly because she was young enough to be my daughter. Blame it on the hospital drugs.

Patients came and went and, although there were a few amusing moments, most were instantly forgettable. Except for the chap next to Ken, opposite me. I was thinking for ages who he looked like until it struck me; he looked just like Paul Simon dunked in coffee. He kept himself to himself but his details leaked out over the days. One should not use the phrase leaked out when talking about hospitals. He was a German gentleman who had come to England for a routine operation on the NHS because it was cheaper here than back home. Unfortunately it had gone wrong somehow. Shame. There were many strange things about mein herr. His wife looked more ill than he did but was treated with indifference by him. He refused to eat the hospital food, which was really quite good, and his poor wife had to visit daily with Lidyls hampers. He constantly had a laptop, the hospital internet TV and a phone on the go, looking important. Buy pork bellies, sell cantaloups. that sort of thing. In German though. All day and all night. Even when his wife was there. I could not help thinking, If you were that important mate, you would have someone to do that for you. No, you would have a department to do that for you. He was a fascinating chap to watch but his greatest moment took me completely by surprise.

One day his wife arrived with a large and heavy bag, the poor woman must have suffered getting that thing up there, which turned out to be an electronic keyboard. He set it up with gleeful anticipation, plugged in earphones, produced a book of music from a bag and proceeded to play something or other, his eyes closed with sonic joy, his deportment keen, maestro sweat beading his brow. It was very reminiscent of Charles Haughtry in that old Carry On film. When finished, he packed up the keyboard, dropping the music book which I recognized. It was a collection of Bach ditties that I had studied between Grades one and two when I was about ten.

The little digital radio was a wonder. Hospital was endless hours of tedium occasionally interspersed with moments of degradation. I would turn the radio on when I woke and off last thing. It was tuned to BBC 6Music because I am an Indie Kid at heart. There was one song that was played a few times a day called Hospital Beds which I loved. It included the lyric, There is a friend opposite me; I did not choose him, he did not choose me. or something like that. Towards the end there was a chap I got to know, Kevin. He was quite happy for me to play the radio all day which was very kind of him. There was something wrong with one of his legs but he was itching to get out not surprisingly. He was excellent hospital company, being quiet most of the time but very polite when we did talk. A friend visited him once carrying a pile of mid-shelf magazines. They had a conversation along the lines of the invasion of Iraq was a good idea. Saddam Hussain had to go. The Americans are wonderful. That sort of thing. I could have said many things but decided to be discreet. Kevin was another one whose right-wing attitudes only applied to people he would never meet.

He had a delightful wife who visited most days and was very civil to me even though I was quite rude to her. She was very sporty and would turn up wearing a vest, combats, trainers and a healthy glow.

Was it a nice mountain? I asked facetiously. She laughed with sympathy. She would find a chair with wheels from somewhere and take Kevin out for a spin, even missing a meal one time. They would return laughing and in love. I was very jealous.

One morning a nurse came rushing up to my bed with a machine of some sort and kicked over a full piss bottle. She was furious, I mute and we were both humiliated. If I am going to learn anything from all of this, humility would be a good something to start with.

As my time in hospital was coming to an end it became more and more obvious that the nurses viewed me as a hopeless, alcoholic druggie who had tried suicide because of being so useless. They had been talking to my brothers who had not mentioned the years of verbal abuse they had inflicted upon me. I suppose I could have pointed out that the alcohol and cannabis I had enjoyed a little too much were symptomatic of the self-loathing that is created from constantly being told one is a scrounger and a parasite, and not the root cause. I saw no point in shattering anyones prejudice though.

Finally, the social worker agreed with the physios and the nurses and it was time for me to leave. It was the First of May and definitely Mayday in my head. One of the nurses presented me with my keys, mobile phone and twenty-eight pounds. It seems I am allowed back in polite society. Even then they faffed around for four hours before sending off with a great, brown paper bag of drugs and a Zimmer frame. Dr. Ps came to say goodbye looking very cute in her scrubs. She made me promise not to go near any cliffs. I assured her that I would not even look at shadows. I was loaded into a hospital transport van whose female driver thought she was Bodie, or whatever the modern equivalent is. I even had to give her directions. She had just come back from Barbados which is wonderful for children apparently. She and her companion were very kind and I was delivered back to the folks house. Where it all had started. I had taken the express lift away from here. Right then. What to do now?

Chapter II
- There was one early evening when he interrupted my cigarette by the back door and insisted upon conversation. I obliged but began deriding religion in general and his in particular. I was in that sort of mood.
‘Another thing. Why does God hate people having sex so much?’
‘God doesn’t hate people having sex.’ he patronized with a small laugh.
‘Really? According to your God you are only allowed to have sex with one person in your whole life. You have to wait years, long past sexual maturity. Then her parents have to agree, your parents have to agree, the whole community has to agree you can have sex, get married, whatever semantic label you want. Eventually you have to have an enormous ceremony, making all sorts of promises to God and any idiot can disagree, then there is a huge party and the whole thing costs a fortune. Finally you go on holiday and then, and only then, you are allowed to have sex. If it turns out that you are incompatible; tough. If your God made having sex any more tricky the Human Race would have died out millennia ago.’
‘I’ll go check on mum.’
Ha, ha. Git. Why is it that all of the religious people I have ever had any dealings with, on any level, have been complete fuckwits? Mind you I am from a family of scientists and their default setting is full of shyte. Fact is nobody knows. I finished my cigarette with a sigh. What a stupid world…

Chapter III
- ‘Ok. Carry on with the story?’
‘They moved down here at some point, to Telscomme Cliffs along the coast. In search of work I would imagine.’
‘What are your first memories?’
‘The Sex Pistols, The Queen’s Jubilee, the hot summer when the roads melted, that sort of thing. I remember being at one nursery school where I was very popular as I used to write short stories.’
‘Really? How old were you?’
‘Six I would suppose. I remember one very clearly. Jaws was the big film that everyone was talking about and the folks went to see it. Mum told us about it the next day. “So the policeman, the scientist and the shark man went out in a boat looking for the big white shark that killed the little boy.” and so on. I wrote about it at school and drew a picture next to the story; a small rowing boat with three people in, one of whom was dressed as a London Bobby. Helmet, stripy bracelet, shiny buttons and everything. Bless. Happy days.’…

Chapter IV
- Jono has also been a major pal for years. We met when we were seventeen and had a major influence on each other. At least I hope that our friendship was as meaningful to him as his has always been to me. From opposite ends of the teenaged male spectrum he taught me so much. I recall introducing him to a friend, Tracey.
‘Jono, Tracey. Jono is a secretary and Tracey a forklift truck driver.’
He helped me realize that beyond tolerance is love. So, my friend is gay? So what? It does not detract from his loveliness as a human being and we do not fancy one another. There was an interesting conversation I once heard on something or other. Some religious twit was trying not to be homophobic.
‘Of course I am not against gays. I have many gay friends.’
‘Have you really? So how many of your gay friends have you asked to look after your children?’
That was that. The problem with bigots is that they have no idea that they are. Arguably one of my finest moments was with Jono. He was living in London at the time and I was invited to stay with him and his then boyfriend. The three of us went out on the town and ended up in a club in Soho or Piccadilly or somewhere. It was a splendid place, a huge room with a mezzanine floor and two sweeping staircases to it. The place was packed, heaving. Jono and I stood on a stair to catch up as a flow of humanity ebbed and flowed slowly around us. It was shoulder to shoulder. Suddenly a very attractive young woman was in front of me. Very Gillian Anderson so she was. In the throng she could not move and there was nothing to do but be polite.
‘Hello.’ I smiled, ‘How’s you?’
‘I’m brilliant.’ she beamed, ‘I’ve just pulled.’
‘Good for you.’ I enthused. She looked over my shoulder, saw Jono and assumed.
‘You’re doing alright yourself.’ I saw no reason to quibble. It was neither the time nor the venue. ‘She’s so lovely.’ she continued, very happy, ‘It’s so much nicer kissing a woman than a man.’
‘I would not know.’ I played the hapless homo.
‘Would you like to?’
‘If you do not mind?’
So we kissed. Lovely so it was. Eventually we parted.
‘What did you think?’ she purred.
‘You are very soft.’
Just then the tide shifted and she drifted off to the rest of her life. I waved her well.
‘You bastard!’ Jono exclaimed.
‘What?’
You’re the only bloke I know who can snogg a lesbian in the middle of a gay club.’
‘It is a talent.’…

Chapter V
- Fine by me. I now had a definite date and could finalize all the logistics of flight. Phrases that occurred to me during this time, which I could never use of course, included, ‘Are you trying to patronise me little girl? I have tattoos older then you.’ ‘You are entirely mendacious, dishonest, indifferent, cheap, stupid and mercenary.’ ‘Your name is not Danni. You do not have a birth certificate somewhere that just says, “Danni” on it. If you had the first notion of professionalism you would use your surname, Ms whatever it is.’ ‘My time may not be particularly precious but every moment spent with you is worthless.’ ‘You demonstrate all the compassion of Dr. Mengele.’ ‘This is not the playground anymore Danni. This is grown ups’ world. You cannot simply stamp your little foot, pout and everything will be all right.’ ‘You obviously think that ethics is somewhere near Kent.’ It struck me that Coven ladies represented the first generation of people from when society changed from children being told what to do with the tacit threat of violence for not behaving, to there being kids who were deferred to. They had no sense of humanity or empathy, no grace, no charm just over-whelming self-importance. There seem to be a lot of children around the place who think they are adults merely because they have had sex…

Chapter VI
- Although many people asked what was wrong with my right leg, the flipper, I was always loathe to say for some reason, possibly because it was such a non sequitur. There was a very pleasant young man in the small shop where I topped up my electricity meter and ‘phone.
‘So what happened to your leg?’
‘It is a long story.’
‘So keep it short?’
‘Well. There were these air stewardess on runaway horses. A load of Swedish nurses seemed to be locked in a sauna and a row of orphans were trapped on a burning greenhouse.’
‘A burning greenhouse?’
‘They had seconds. I had to do something. Unfortunately my leg was a bit mushed in the process.’
‘Swedish nurses eh?’
‘Yes, and they were all called Anna.’
‘Really?’
I think the silly sod believed me…

Chapter VII
- Often when I was babysitting we would decide that there was nothing on the television and either talk or play Connect Four. I did have to concentrate to beat her and would often cry off at 3-2. She always loved her pop music, just like mum, and was into Steps for a while. I never laughed at her.
‘There is nothing wrong with pop music sweetie. It is a perfect introduction to music for someone of your age. It is not as though for every little pop song that is released an old classic disappears. Listen to what you want. You will like different stuff as the years go on. I would bet that you will soon be into Bouncey and pals; all that American R&B nonsense. If Muddy Waters was still alive he would be turning in his grave.’
She was devastated when Steps split up and even range the helpline. It would not happen in my day. It must be progress. When she recovered she decided that Sclub was the future which was fair enough. One afternoon in 1998 I took off work and, after a few gargles, returned home and put the telly on. A new program was about to begin called Miami 7. I saw some attractive young women jumping around not wearing much. Why not? It was perfect to get stoned to. Not the intended demographic but there you go.
‘Amber?’
‘Jude?’
‘I bet I can name you all of Sclub.’
‘Go on then?’
‘There is the lovely Tina. The delicious Rachel. Little Hannah. Jo, and three chaps. I do not know who they are.’…

Chapter VIII
- ‘A mate, Alan, has introduced me to Tara who is the editor of the Kemptown Rag.’
‘It’s just shyte that thing.’
‘Having been a paparazzo makes you an expert on quality journalism does it?’
‘Fook off.’
‘I have seen it and I like it. It looks good and there is a minimum of advertising which for a free paper is very impressive. Anyway, Tara is a delightful and stylist lady and is interested in my story.’
‘You think you’re in there do you?’
‘No. Of course not. I said, “Stylish”.’
‘She does have a point. I occasionally read bits of your book but you’d have to change your style. It’s way too bombastic but you do have a story to tell. Now might be the time to write something worthwhile. What were you thinking of?’
‘I am not sure. It is on a back-burner in my head but something to do with those young people in Bridgend.’
‘The ones who keep killing themselves?’
‘Yes. Possibly I could write something relevant.’
‘You of all people should know something about suicide.’
‘True, but I might have gone over the top in my research. It might just be a small, local, free paper but it is a start.’…

Chapter IX
- ‘What do you mean “quite strange now”? You’ve always been mad.’
‘You think so? I realize that I do think differently from most people. There are those questions that others feel there is no answer to. For instance the chicken and egg issue.’
‘You know the answer?’
‘Of course. At some point in time a bird very similar to, but not quite, a chicken laid an egg from which emerged a chicken. That is how evolution works. Simple. The egg came first. How long is a piece of string?’
‘How long?’
‘Twice as long as half a piece. I also know the answer to life, the universe and everything.’
‘You? What is it then?’
‘Who knows? The fact is you are here; get over yourself and enjoy life as best you can. Easy. I tend to enjoy little pleasures now. If I ever see someone wearing camouflaged clothing I bump into them deliberately. “Sorry, I did not see you.” Look KT?’
‘What?’
‘Would you please get your stuff together and go?’
‘What?’
‘Hurry up and leave. Go. Vamoose. French Connection off. I wish to be alone.’
‘That’s not very nice.’
‘You have not been picking up on subtlety. The acres between lines you have been steadfastly ignoring leaving little option. Get your act together and disappear from here.’
‘You know Jude, you’re a walking contradiction.’
‘Of course I am. My legs are different lengths. My default setting is going round in circles.’…

Chapter X
-‘I am astounded at the advertising as we accelerate towards Christmas. Do people really think that putting concentrated chemicals into the washing machine is good for the environment? Can buying anything save you money? Does anyone really imagine those glossy models would use a shampoo that you can buy cheap in a supermarket? There is an advert for a computer game where they say “Feel every punch.” I have been beaten a few times in my life and it is not pleasant. Another one asks, “Remember why you fell in love with dance music?” Yes, it was the drugs. You would not listen to that noise straight. You can buy a ‘phone that is the digital communication equivalent of a Swiss Army Knife with a bit for getting shyte from a horse’s hoof. You can buy washing powder that cleans dirt you cannot see and a toothpaste that repairs damage that no-one can notice. If you have a cold sore and out a little see-through patch on it before snogging someone you will give them Herpes. Cars are not dolphins, skateboards or Terminatoresque machines that morph into stuff. Cars are lumps of metal that kill people and where do they find those empty roads? Not round these parts. What is this concept of Real Women? If a woman is not fat and ugly she is somehow preternatural?’
‘I wouldn’t know.’
‘Come, come. You both exceed pulchritude. I can well believe that nine out of ten women would tell their friends that a useless but highly expensive product was great really, just for a laugh, but I refuse to think that one in four women are too stupid to read a pregnancy test correctly. The whole concept of UK call centres only is thinly veiled xenophobia. Anyone working for a British company abroad is bilingual to start with and thus more educated than most Brits. All this faux science bollocks like Proto-peptides or whatever is so insulting. Shampoo is soap, age replenishing stuff is only moisturiser. No human being needs five portions of any sort of nutrition a day. No wonder obesity is endemic. It is amazing the things people will believe out of vanity. Last year when the weather dramatically improved, if you remember, there was one sort of product that doubled in sales in time with the weather. Guess what?’
‘Sun tan lotion?’
‘No.’
‘Aftersun?’
‘No.’
‘Ice cream?’
‘No.’
‘What then?’
‘Fake tan.’…

Chapter XI
- It began on the Monday…
You will just have to read it yourself; no clues