Bella Cat

Bella the Cat has taken to defecating in my bathroom. It’s not much fun to have to avoid stepping into a pile of kitty poo in the morning (apologies to people with weak stomachs). So it looks like the Brat Cat is off to the vet’s next week. I know it’s necessary but the ‘Ow, ow,ow’ that emanates from her basket while we are in the taxi makes me feel like the meanest cat-mummy on the planet.

A couple of nights ago I succumbed to the urge to binge. There was a kind of bitterness lodged in my heart. As I left the flat I saw Our Friendly Neighbourhood Drug Dealer (the New Zealander) skulking outside the flat of Our Friendly Neighbourhood Psychopath. No doubt he was waiting to ‘do a bit of business’. All the bitterness inside came spewing out. ‘You saw what happened,’I screamed. ‘Why didn’t you intervene? Are you that much of a coward? Do you know how I feel now? No, I don’t think you do and I hope to God you never have to.’

I did not stop to see his reaction. I ran over to Hanover Court. Doug’s door tempted me but I turned away from it and, amazed by my own swiftness, I ran up the eight flights of steps to the top of the building. And then suddenly I was outside, standing on the ledge. The city was spread out before me. I spat on it from above. I stood there for what seemed like forever. Wouldn’t it be easy to just let go? I have no children to leave behind. Only my piles of drawing and scribbling. But then it occurred to me that this is exactly what the Pseudo-Messiah wants – someone to die in his name. I backed away from the edge, confident that I will thwart his plans. I am ashamed to say that I turned to the only friend I have around here: Doug. Fortunately, he was still awake. I sat down on his big easy chair and Freddi the Dog flung herself into my arms. ‘I’m not going to die for him, I’m not going to die for him,’ I repeated.

‘That thing,’ Doug scoffed. ‘He’s not worth pissing on!’

‘I won’t give him what he wants.’

(To be continued…)

A Belated Back Home Post

The train journey (much to my relief) home was uneventful.

The last time I got the train a couple of years ago, in the dead of winter, I travelled back from Birmingham to Cambridge in an ice box. It was a Sunday and the heating in the carriage I was sitting in had broken down. The Guard asked me if I would like to change carriages.

I shook my head, ‘No, thank you. Besides it’s good for the old diet.’ When he looked at me quizzically, I explained, ‘When you’re cold your system has to work harder to keep you warm. That way you burn more calories. If you want to lose weight, sit in an ice box for a few hours every day. I’ll move to another carriage when my fingers turn purple I’ll move to another carriage. Besides, I value a seat to myself far more than I value warmth.’

The Guard edged away from me as though he thought I was stark-raving bonkers.

Oh well, gotta give the guy credit for being an outstanding judge of character.

‘If the limit does not approach anything, the limit does not exist.’

Shatterday

I met my tutor and fellow members of my tutor group. My tutor was a beautiful Indian woman attired in an elegant silk scarf that floated around her when she walked. This sounds mean but I find OU students insufferably earnest, particularly the supercilious South African young woman who glared at me throughout the entire session.

During the break I spoke to a thin faced, middle-aged man about my plans for the future. I told him I’d be content to be a student forever. My plan is to do an MA (yes, another one) in Creative Writing at the UEA (I’ll be sponsored. I’m confident that my ‘mentor’ will see to that and, with the results, fund my PhD).

‘Germaine Greer says Creative writing courses homogenise contemporary writing.’

‘Oh, really? And did she give any examples?’

‘Oh no, I didn’t read the article myself. I just heard it.’

I asked him if he’d read her latest offering: The Whole Woman. One critic called it a ‘polemical bomb’. I thought it was an unstructured rant. Oh, yeah, Germaine Greer can be liberating when you’re 15 and your father is a tyrant and you paraded through the house, clutching a copy of The Female Eunuch (‘Hail the Mini Dictator, the Conquerer of Rooms). Life was so polarised back then – rather like Germaine Greer’s world-view.

Needless to say, my interlocuter hadn’t read that either. Then perhaps you ought to explore her works more thoroughly before you presume to regurgitate her views with such pseudo authority. These words remained firmly lodged in my mind.

During the informal discussion afterwards I commented on how much Birmingham had changed. ‘Yes,’ someone piped up. ‘And it was such a dump in the early nineties.’

That was the last time I lived there on a permanent basis. I guess the city became less of a ‘dump’ after it had divested itself of my presence.

Now, Let Me See...

Where were we? Ah, yes, Birmingham. Well, not quite.

(In case you were wondering the damage to Lori Gottlieb’s Stick Figure, portrayed in the previous post, was caused by water-damage from the fire. I’d only just purchased it from Amazon too.)

I awoke on Saturday full of anxiety at the thought of having to make the first train journey I’ve made for a couple of years. Mother had convinced me to stay overnight at ‘home’. I was born on the Isle of Wight but brought up in Birmingham. (Not Alabama, unfortunately. No, the one whose car industry has just collapsed.) And, before anyone asks, no, I don’t have that accent.

I said ‘Goodbye’ to Bella as she rubbed up against me. I had arranged for Doug to feed and take care of her. I will miss the warmth of her small furry body against my own while I sleep. I packed an overnight bag in a hurry and left for the station. The train journey seemed to take us all around the world. Three hours to be precise. ‘Are you sure we’re not dropping in on Siberia,’ I muttered as the guard announced the stations at which we would be stopping. I spent most of the journey sleeping, my forehead resting against the window. I had the seat to myself until we reached Leicester when a guy embarked and plonked himself next to me. He played a rather noisy game on his mobile ‘phone for the rest of the journey. The sun shining through the window made me sleepy and my head lolled. I almost found myself resting on my neighbour’s shoulder once or twice. I didn’t do that horrid dribbling thing though. (At least, I don’t think I did. I wish I could take a sign on board trains and buses with me saying ‘I have a Contagious disease. Sit Down Next to Me and Your Life Will Be At Risk.)

I was still half asleep when I left the station at stepped out into the cold (well, to me anyway) air of Birmingham City Centre. I hardly recognised it. I felt like that character Will must have felt in Philip Pullman’s The Subtle Knife; as though I had cut a hole in the air and had gained access to a parallel universe.

(To Be Continued)

Overnight In Birmingham

You may have noticed that I haven’t been my usual ‘busy-bee’ self. On the other hand there may be no one out there to notice but who cares if I’m shouting into an abyss.

I went to an OU conference in Birmingham. I have a rather convoluted academic history. I have an MPhil in American Literature but I plan to base my PhD on the Nazi Occupation of the Channel Islands during the Second World War so I am making the ‘disciplinary’ transition by completing a post-graduate module in history at the Open University. It’s also a way of avoiding throwing myself into the shark-pool.

More Later….

The Good Ship Venus

Two workmen came to fit Chubb locks and other security devices to my door this morning. I gave them each a huge mug of steaming milky coffee. As they worked they sang The Good Ship Venus. Why? Were they trying to shock me? They needn't have bothered as Doug has taught me all the words. And besides, I am just about old enough to be familiar with The Sex Pistols Friggin' On the Rigging. I was relieved when they left. I locked myself in securely. Andy won't be obliged to run into my swordstick or mallet.

'Oh, Officer, I was practicing sword-fighting when my neighbour walked around the corner, straight into the tip of the sword and was tragically and instantly disembowelled.' Not terribly convincing, I admit. Thoughts of revenge are still haunting me, much as I try to suppress them. I could photocopy pages of my diary and distribute them amongst his disciples. I know things about Andy's 'friends' that I never could have known unless their Messiah himself had told me.

A little lesson for you, Andy, never trust a diarist. She'll always betray you.

Kami's

If any one reading this is living in Cambridge then I would highly recommend a restaurant on Hills Road called Kami’s (named after the proprietor). It serves delectable Italian and Greek food. We celebrated Doug’s forthcoming 87th birthday there last night. Doug dressed in his Special Services jacket and looked rather dapper. He was, as usual, insecure in unfamiliar surroundings. I had my usual Moussaka and Doug had spaghetti in tomato and herb sauce. (Do I sound like Michael Winner in his column in The Sunday Times.) I took my dictaphone in case Doug had any good stories to tell.

Doug said the meal reminded him of his time in Sicily. He had somehow become separated from his Commando Unit. His shirt was encrusted with grime and sweat. He came across a well and stripped to the waist, preparing to wash the garment. He found it impossible to draw water from the well. He had always had the luxury of running water. A voice called out to him in Italian: ‘Can I help?’ He turned and was confronted by a dark-haired girl in her late teens who was vaguely pretty, round-faced and of peasant stock. She and Doug conversed in a mixture of English and Italian. Her name was Gina and she was the only one of her siblings who could read and write. She took him back to an old stone farmhouse with walls that were several feet thick. The Patriarch of the family was sitting in a rocking chair. The girl introduced Doug to her father in a rapid stream of Italian that even he, who was fairly fluent in the language, found hard to follow. To his surprise the old farmer spoke to him in English in a broad American accent.

‘Hi there, soldier.’

‘You’re American?’

‘No, but I spent twenty years in New York.’

Doug stayed with this family for several weeks. Each night he joined them for dinner. The large family gathered around the huge wooden table in the kitchen and ate communally. Plates of pasta in tomato sauce were placed in the centre of the table and the dinner guests helped themselves while a tureen of wine was passed around.

Doug decided to return to his unit when the ‘patriarch’ started to make hints about a marriage between him and his daughter Gina. So he said farewell and made his way down the dirt road, away from the old farmhouse with Gina screaming and crying after him.

‘Oh, she did put on a show,’ said Doug.

I suppose she had a dream of escaping rural life and being whisked away to England by a handsome British soldier. But she was to be disappointed because of the vow that Doug made when he joined his Commando Unit that he would never become involved romantically with a woman. And he kept that promise until he returned to England in 1944 and met his wife.

Throughout the evening Doug addressed the staff in Italian although most of them hadn’t a clue what he was saying. The proprietor came out to greet us warmly as I am a regular customer there.

I got my usual glass of white wine ‘on the house’.

And some more material for my novel from Doug.

Playing at Being a Secret Agent

I received a new P.I.N. for my credit card which was lost and replaced last week. I am hopeless with those things - on those grounds alone I oppose the introduction of Identity Cards. (A measure being proposed by the current government and opposed by the opposition which is rather odd considering they proposed the same measure when they were in government in 1989. Gotta love cyclical amnesia. But the assumption that we all suffer from it is quite insulting.) The accompanying letter ordered me to dispose of those top secret numbers immediately. So I ate it. I slipped the tiny piece of paper into my mouth. After all, isn't that the way spies dispose of their evidence. Unfortunately, it stuck in the throat and I stood there, discreetly choking to death in the middle of the street. It brought to mind the 'L' Pill they gave Special Operations Executive Agents in World War Two. It would have been kind of inconvenient if one of those had stuck in someone's throat.

Relinquishing the need to belong brings true freedom.

Poor Damaged Boys

Saw Nobby. Apparently two of those nasty little brats from the 'correction' school opposite Hanover Court decided to mug a diminutive school girl. How brave of them. Nobby rushed over to help and they ran away. What proud specimens of manhood they must be! They were later caught. I wonder what terrifying fate awaits them - poor damaged boys - diddums....my heart bleeds for them. Of course, I immediately started fearing for the fate of Bella. What if one of those little psychopaths (do you sense a somewhat illiberal tone here?) has a history of animal cruelty? Well, he won't have much of a future if he lays a finger on Bella. Can we say 'Claw hammer coming into contact with little psychopathic brat's face'. Where are crusading, socially responsible serial killers like Hannibal Lechter when you need them? (If you remember, he only killed the offensive, obnoxious and the criminal! _That_ was revealed in Hannibal!)

Insomnia strikes.
Anticipate more entries...

Birthday 'Party'

Lisa rang early yesterday to make sure I would definitely be at her birthday celebrations. I get that a lot: phone calls from people who say, ‘You will be there, won’t you?’ And my answer phone is always jammed with messages saying ‘’Rie, if you’re there, pick up the ‘phone.’ People around me are well aware of how antisocial I am so they assume I am trying to avoid them (and usually I am). I did go to Lisa’s birthday celebrations. We met at The Eagle and then went back to her house for a small party. I even managed to make myself useful by clearing a bunch of Trojans from her hard-drive. Norton didn’t even pick them up so I downloaded AVG. (Typical). So, Lisa’s computer is no longer (in her words) ‘poorly’.

I received a ‘phone call from my mother earlier this morning. We discussed the differences between ‘madness’ and ‘badness’. Mother has this rather simplistic notion that the two cannot exist within the same person. ‘Were you ‘mad’ or ‘bad’ when you tried to kill me, Mother? Did you know what you were doing when you wrapped your hands around my neck and squeezed so hard that I blacked out?’ I asked this question in my head, not out loud. I was nine when this happened.

The Pseudo-Messiah has stolen something from me – a certain innocence; a conviction that now I am an adult, I can defend myself in a way that I was unable to when I was a child.

I’ll never be the same.

I’ll never be as trusting as I was before.

An Encounter With the Pseado-Messiah

I saw the pseudo-Messiah (i.e: Andy Lee) on the way back from this morning’s visit to my GP. When he saw me he scurried back into his flat. ‘That’s right, run away,’ I muttered with grim satisfaction.

During my consultation Dr. S. said that the way in which I am coping with the aftermath of the assault and the fire was ‘admirable’. ‘You are clearly a strong person.’ I wondered if I should destroy his delusion by declaring that I don’t particularly care what happens to me. (But hen again maybe that’s the ultimate form of sanity – recognising your own utter insignificance against the backdrop of the universe. After all, what is one life?) Or should I tell him that I have frequent fantasies of skewering the Pseudo-Messiah with the sword-stick that Doug gave me, roasting him over an open fire and serving him up to his disciples at a celebratory dinner party. Not especially admirable really.

In the end I let Dr. S. live with his delusions.

I watched Girl Interrupted for the tenth time and wondered if I could be a sociopath like the character Lisa (admirably played by Angelina Jolie).

Weird Dream

I awoke to Bella ‘grooming’ me. She was running her claws through my hair and miaowing in my ear. The little brat cat wanted her breakfast – a nice big bowl of M&S Luxury Tuna. She interrupted a bizarre dream I was having in which I was a guest a George Bush and his family in The White House. My Perfect Cousin (better not mention who I mean. But everyone has one) was living there alone, without her husband and children and was being referred to as ‘The President’s Favourite Girl’. (Well, she was everyone’s favourite girl). Bush was taking pot-shots at Michael Moore and various other ‘left-wing’ journalists from a watch tower. Many of them collapsed in pools of their own blood.

Later, I was sitting with Laura Bush discussing the ‘No Child Left Behind Programme’ and her interest in the process of teaching children to read. We were drinking Earl Grey and eating scones with jam and cream. When I mentioned that I happened to object to presidents shooting journalists, I was escorted from the White House by My Perfect Cousin at gun point. I wasn’t surprised – she always was a treacherous bitch.

Weird dream, huh? Any dream analysts out there?

Or am I simply completely nutso?

A Name to Inspire Confidence

I was given the wrong medication by a young female locum called Dr. Watson (a name that should inspire confidence, if ever there was one). I took it anyway and spent half the morning on the 'phone, negotiating a prescrition for my usual: Zolpidem.

Needless to say, I got it.

Some Fucking Spastic

This guy: some fucking spastic does not like 'lemons'

I'm confused. Men usually like 'lemons'. They buy videos of them in action and everything. I guess they want to join in and convert them to...um, I don't know...oranges.

Just for the record, I am not a 'lemon'. I am a strawberry.

I wonder why I felt compelled to add that :rollseyes:

Fight Club

I watched Fight Club for the first time today. Brad Pitt and Helena Bonham Carter were excellent but were outclassed by the guy who played the protagonist. Alas, I am indulging in the shameful habit of downloading films. I am trying to give up, I really am. I wonder if I could start my own 'fight club'. After all, when Andy attacked me I didn't feel the pain. I'd just have to learn how to dish it out. I'd have to learn to suppress my capacity for empathy. And maybe physical pain is preferable to emotional pain.

OTOH women have their boobies and their pwetty ickle face to worry about. And I have a War Club, consisting of two members: Doug and I.

Phone Call

After a tres stressful week involving members of a certain forum which shall (for the time being) remain nameless I received a 'phone call from Aaron (soon to be added to that promised Cast section. I met Aaron at a Christian student group way back in the late '90s. He's been a faithful friend ever since. I was the first person he came out to, even though my 'gaydar' had detected that long ago. He too had read about the fire in the local paper and wondered 'if it had anything to do with me'. Oddly enough I found that question rather amusing. He was also worried about my reaction to the pope's death.

There is one bone of contention between us though - his weight. He suffers from the little recognised eating disorder - Binge Eating Disorder. Once, in the throes of purging anorexia, I wrote in my diary: 'Anorectics are pitied, binge eaters are scorned and bulimics are simply ignored.' I have suffered from all three of those disorders. I do not scorn Aaron. I am genuinely concerned about him. It's as though he is insisting upon committing slow suicide - by eating himself to death and resisting any help offered to him. He has compromised his system to such an extent that he is susceptible to every infection going around. And I am supposed to stand back and watch. Maybe it's time for what psychologists call 'tough love' . Having an addiction does not absolve a person of taking responsibility for their own health.

Or maybe I'm the pot and he's the kettle.

Playing Catch-Up IV

Friday passed relatively peacefully apart from the visit from the insurance assessor. Doug turned up unexpectedly to act as a witness for me. But to be honest, he made the whole thing look rather dodgy. 'My goodness, Doug, what are you doing here?' At one point the assessor asked me how the fire started. How in Hades should I know? I felt like telling him I'd nipped up there and started the fire myself just to get new stuff. Instead I said (demurely), 'I have my suspicions but to voice them would leave me open to accusations of slander* so I'd best keep them to myself.'

*as opposed to libel on here!

Playing Catch-Up III

Having said all that I shall resume the summary of my week:
(if only to break the monotony of insomnia)

On Thursday I abused my prescription pills again - not all of them - just the hypnotic: Zolpidem. Not advisable, people. (Hence the insomnia and the rather incoherent entry on that day). And, as always, I lived to regret it. I had conducted substantial research into my father's current ailments and has discovered that, in very rare cases, an aortic aneurism can be post-traumatic. My father was mugged and quite badly assaulted recently and it occurred to me that this could be the cause. I rang my mother up and she dismissed my suggestion out of hand. She is a nurse after all and is therefore omniscient. I was, admittedly, in a rather excitable state. I told her that she should at least consider the possibility because, if the assailant is apprehended, he could be charged with a more serious crime. She continued to dismiss what I thought was quite a constructive suggestion. She resorted to ridicule and the whole conversation degenerated into an argument which concluded with my slamming the 'phone down. (Metaphorically speaking, as I have a cordless 'phone so rather than slamming it down I pressed the 'disconnect' key which doesn't sound quite as dramatically satisfying.)

She left a message on my telephone later, asking me to 'ring her back'. I didn't.

So all in all, not a terribly productive day. Let that me a lesson to you..I mean, to me..to whoever.

More later.

(Is that a 'Please God, no,' I hear?)

Playing Catch-Up I

It seems I am playing Catch Up once again. Yes, Sunday was a fine evening to round off a apocalyptic weekend but unfortunately, Monday came around again. The fire made the local paper. I rang mother up to tell her about it. She expressed sympathy for my (hopefully former) neighbour. Oh, mother, if only you had been that sympathetic towards me when I was ill. Kind of topsy-turvey. You can muster up sympathy for a complete stranger but none for your own daughter. There were calls to make - to the insurance company etc. One of my computers and my mini-disc player is completely screwed. And the books I had just purchased from Amazon have lost their new and shiny look although I doubt I shall be reimbursed for them as there is a £50 excess charge.

There are some things that simply cannot be insured.

Playing Catch-Up II

Back to the events of last week. In bite-sized pieces because my screwed-up concentration span can't cope with much more. I was supposed to go to Lisa's on Tuesday to look at her computer because, according to her, it is 'poorly'. Don't anthropomorphise computers - they hate it! How many times have you heard that before? But she read about the fire in the local paper and came over to visit me instead. She took me out to dinner at The Globe. We had a little argument - about theology, as usual. But we made it up. As she left my flat we saw Andy approaching. She ushered me back inside. 'Why did you do that?' I asked. 'I'm not going to let that man dictate when I can walk down my own steps.'

'I don't particularly want to see him,' she said.

On Wednesday my mother rang. Apparently my father is dying. Well, he is and he isn't. He has an aneurism in his aorta and a shadow on his lung. It sounds almost poetic. 'I'm worried about him.'

Huh? Is this the same woman who spent my entire childhood bemoaning his very existence, condemning him for being an alcoholic bastard and wishing death upon him so she could collect the insurance money.

I pointed this out to her and she called me heartless.

'Pot, kettle, black,' was my 'heartless' response.

More later...