tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53437575672678896542024-03-05T00:52:14.537-05:00The Literary Word - Book ReviewsIf you have found this blog, you are probably a bookworm just like me. Are you searching for inspiration on what to read next? <br>Are you looking for new authors and subjects which may interest you?
<br><br>In this blog, I will be posting reviews of books I have read, in the hope that it will help others to find the great books out there!
<br><br>Happy Reading
<br>Charlene
<br>Charlene Martelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08780533933122108482noreply@blogger.comBlogger321125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5343757567267889654.post-27626133794262906702018-09-06T14:23:00.000-04:002018-09-06T14:25:56.256-04:00BLOG TOUR: The Lost Queen by Signe Pike<div align="justify">
<img align="left" border="0" src="http://i168.photobucket.com/albums/u164/charlenemartel/4FFEAA16-E55D-4FB3-AA5C-E11E46A47F04_zpswrxqqt3f.jpeg" height="160" hspace="10" />Published by Touchstone Books <em>an imprint of</em> <a href="http://www.simonandschuster.com/" target="_blank">Simon & Schuster</a> and <a href="http://www.simonandschuster.ca/" target="_blank">Simon & Schuster Canada</a><br />
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The Lost Queen is the first novel of a debut trilogy by Signe Pike. A blend of history and fantasy that is built around twins Languoreth and Lailoken with Scotland in the sixth century as a backdrop. Each has a destiny to fulfill. Languoreth is to follow the paths of most princesses in that she is to enter into a marriage based not on love, but on a strategic and political choice that would strengthen alliances. <br />
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Both Lail and Languoreth are gifted when it comes to knowing the Wisdom Keeper path but only Lail has the freedom to walk along it. Languoreth struggles to find a way to help her family and follow her dreams. Can she find a way to have it all?
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Where do I start with this novel? There is so much to love. As someone born and raised in England who is passionate about the history including the legends of Camelot, King Arthur, and of course Merlin (who is thought to have been inspired by Lail). The book drew me rapidly into the story and the characters are brilliantly crafted and easy to bond with. It was easy to fall in love with one character above all the rest and that's the Lost Queen herself. Languoreth is bold, fearless, and incredibly strong. She has such determination and is a fabulous heroine.
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What made this book for me was the obvious level of research. Additionally, while dealing with legends and history around this era, the author brings it to us as a bold and wonderfully original tale. It's part history, part fantasy but fully entertaining and fantastic. This book needs to be on your bookshelf. The only downside? I have to wait for book two to continue this adventure. It's one of my favourite reads in 2018.<br />
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Author's website: <a href="https://www.signepike.com/" target="_blank">www.signepike.com</a>
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GIVEAWAY (Canada only)<br />
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Do you want your very own copy?<br />
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Simon & Schuster Canada are providing a copy of this novel to one lucky winner. All you have to do is leave a comment with the name of Signe Pike's first novel. The answer can be found on the author's website.<br />
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I loved being part of this blog tour. Do check out the other participants for excerpts, Q&As, and author written pieces. I'll add clickable links to each stop this evening.<br />
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Charlene Martelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08780533933122108482noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5343757567267889654.post-1098457116534908882018-05-06T00:30:00.000-04:002018-05-05T23:26:19.427-04:00BLOG TOUR: Amsterdam Exposed: An American's Journey Into the Red Light District by David Weinir<div align="justify">
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<img align="left" border="0" src="http://www.gunplumbers.ca/tlw/AmsterdamExposed-FinalCover.jpg" height="200" hspace="10" />Published by De Wallen Press.<br />
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I liked the cover.<br />
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That was the start of this reading experience for me. When will I learn?
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I tried to like this book. It started off promising, but the truth is that if I hadn't committed to being a blog tour participant, I wouldn't have finished reading it. That said, I'm glad I did because it confirmed for me that this memoir is a testament above all, to the fact that sometimes abuse (unintended or otherwise) is packaged as love, and consideration. It's marketed as an unusual love story among many things.<br />
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I'm uncomfortable with so much of this book and it's not because I lack an open mind. It's judgmental. The author uses the term "unhinged" to define a person within the pages. A fact I found fascinating due to the author overreacting on a large scale to a cookie situation. In yet another scenario, this self-described optimist purchases a necklace for a sex-worker who he would like to interview for his book, only to toss the necklace in the river when she fails to show (assuming the worst), and then he repurchases the same necklace when their paths reconnect. These were only two of the multiple shining examples that reveal the difference between the author's self-image and the person his actions describe.
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I cannot recommend this title. I can't encourage people to support dangerous behaviours. No, I'm not talking about paying for sexual services, or the ingestion of drugs with legal status. I'm more concerned that the author felt it acceptable to pressure Emma to share her traumatic past, acknowledging that she needed to be strong and even found it necessary to take a break from the conversation. He continues to pelt her with questions that are often loaded with negative connotations and yet more judgment. I was horrified that he describes this interaction as caring, love, bonding, when to me the scene was far more harmful and destructive and would have been far safer for the health and wellbeing of Emma, if it had been conducted with a trauma specialist within a safe environment. I am still in disbelief that what the author viewed as two human beings sharing an intimate experience is clearly and unapologetically his wrenching information from her for one sole purpose. His book.
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That's ultimately the take away of this read. Harmful and horrible behaviour towards others, believing himself to be of higher moral calibre and thus experienced to "save" those around him. All of this, and more is somehow acceptable because it's all about the book.
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There are many books that deal with Amsterdam. Read one of those. Read any of those. This book can't even be redeemed as a guide to Amsterdam since much has changed since the era within these pages some 18 years ago. I did like one thing. The cover. I really had hoped to be able to share a positive review for my stop on the blog tour but I can't love them all.<br />
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P.S. I truly hope wherever she is, Emma has found happiness and peace in life.
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Excerpt included below courtesy of the author and Smith Publicity.
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Oliver aspired to be a writer and instantly attached himself to me. Half Indonesian and half Dutch, he was raised in The Hague by a celebrated Dutch novelist. Now living in Amsterdam for the first time, he was ready for adventure.
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“So, what’s your plan for writing the book?” he asked.
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“Plan?” I said, with an uneasy smile. I didn’t really have one. I was fine with that, based on lessons I had learned years before.
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After my freshman year in college, while my friends were securing internships in the business sector, I enrolled in whitewater rafting school in Idaho. My love for rafting ran deep, but while growing up, I never considered becoming a guide. I was being groomed for a different kind of life. Being a guide wasn’t an option, or at least wasn’t presented as one. My perspective changed while on a river trip during my senior year of high school. I was surprised to learn one of my guides was premed at Yale. I was off to Columbia in the fall. My mind was blown.
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“If I can do it, why can’t you?” she said. “Your identity is yours to choose.”
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A light went on. I wasn’t stuck on a path at all. Corporate America would have to wait.
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Guide school began in June, and conditions were extreme. The Middle Fork of the Salmon was running high, making the journey treacherous and unpredictable. We were in the wilderness for 15 days, and it rained nonstop. It was brutal, and we had to be careful. We had no idea what to expect downstream. When possible, we would climb the banks of the river to give us perspective on the rapids ahead. We would study the currents, noting side eddies and obstacles, and plot a course. Often, though, we had no choice but to enter the rapids blind.
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I came to believe navigating life is very much like navigating a river. Each of our lives has a unique current. At certain times, we have more than one. They are never easy to find. Once we find our current, the trick is staying in it. There are many proverbial rocks and eddies confronting us every day. Some cling to them, or become stuck in them, and life passes them by—often due to fear, laziness, and other human foibles. While there are dangers ahead, there is also unimaginable beauty. Sometimes you can get a glimpse of what’s to come; often you can’t. Needless to say, you can never swim against the current, or create a path that’s not yours. Doing so is futile, and can lead to ruin.
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Seeing life like a river made sense, and guided me through my time in Amsterdam. What was my plan? I just needed to find my current, and stay in it. Everything else would follow.</div>
Charlene Martelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08780533933122108482noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5343757567267889654.post-56007031565906184342015-06-17T14:18:00.001-04:002018-05-05T14:14:52.309-04:00BLOG TOUR: Every Father's Daughter edited by Margaret McMullan<div align="justify">
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<img align="left" border="0" src="http://www.gunplumbers.ca/tlw/EFDcover-hires_zpsl8n7qxkd.JPG" height="200" hspace="10" />Published by <a href="http://www.mcphersonco.com/" target="_blank">McPherson & Company</a><br />
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What comes to mind when you think about the word father? What does it mean to you personally? In <i>Every Father's Daughter</i>, Margaret McMullan has brought together twenty four incredibly gifted writers to share their deeply personal essays on this very subject.<br />
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Where to start on this book? I try not to go into reading experiences with any expectations but I couldn't help it. When this title landed on my desk, I was a little hesitant because I haven't had, until recently, a stable father figure in my life. I had thought, albeit briefly, that this book would be celebrating all that was wonderful about father/daughter dynamics, and mostly by focusing on healthy and 'normal' relationships if such creatures exist.<br />
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As soon as I read the introductions, I knew I was in for something completely different and before we had even reached the first essay, I was firmly hooked. The fathers in this book are not the perfect figures that we dream about, but very real, very human, very fallible. The relationships detailed are not perfect, and while there is happiness and joy within these pages, there can also be found sadness, longing, regret, and often a curiosity that is never quite satisfied. It's not a book to be rushed through, but rather to be savoured, and considered. <br />
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Even though the experiences were far different from my own, I found myself able to connect with much of the content, and empathize with the writers as I bore witness to their heartfelt testaments that almost always felt as though they were each discovering something new about themselves and their father. If I had one question to ask the writers, it would be about that. Whether the essays were as cathartic as I feel they would have been. At times reading the words upon the page caused a mild discomfort as though I, the reader, was peeking into the personal and secret diary of another. I don't intend for that to sound as negative as it may come across, rather it just gave me pause, and I appreciated the courage that it took to lay it all out on the pages.<br />
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This book runs through such a diverse set of experiences, and as you would expect from such a scenario, it also leads the reader on a roller-coaster ride of emotions. It's beautiful and tragic, raw and gritty, uplifting and devastating all at once, and while the elegant design may lead you to believe that it is a book written by women, for women, don't let that deceive you. This is a book that every father and father-to-be should have on their shelf. <br />
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I have to comment too on the interior layout. Some pages separate the content and have a muted grey design which I found added to the luxurious style that I so enjoy in this collection. At first I had taken it as looking very feminine but the more I read, the more I noticed it, the more it brought to mind the paisley design that I have always enjoyed and found so masculine and easy on the eyes. It may seem irrelevant, and perhaps the bibliophile in me pays far too much attention to detail, but it really did add something to the experience for me, and again, reinforced that this book is not for women only.<br />
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All in all, I loved this book. Was it hard to read? At times, I found it mildly triggering having come from an abusive background but that discomfort was brief, and ultimately so very worthwhile. Margaret McMullan speaks of more essays that didn't make it into the book and I'd be happy to see another volume released. What I'd love to see too, is a volume focused on the same relationship, but written by fathers. <br />
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The takeaway? Great book. Not a fluffy read. A great gift for the upcoming Fathers Day weekend.<br />
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Update: 18/06/2015<br />
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I think this is a first for me. That I've gone back to a review to add content, because a book has lingered with me, almost hauntingly. This morning I find myself thinking back over the essays, over the people within the pages, and most especially, the family connection and deep history that explains, or tries to at least, the characteristics of the loved ones featured. I find myself enamoured most especially by Alice Munro's contribution <i>Working for a living </i>which really captured the essence of family, and teamwork, and so much more. Also<i> </i>Joyce Maynard's <i>My Father's Bible </i>which didn't so much tug at the heartstrings, as masterfully and gently with perfect precision, play them much like a master musician and their most cherished instrument. Yesterday it was an essay to me. Today it feels like so much more. I know this book is going to be remaining on my shelf for many years to come, close by where I can take it down from time to time, and savour the experience again. One essay at a time. I've definitely fallen for this book.<br />
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Authors Website: <a href="http://margaretmcmullan.com/" target="_blank">http://margaretmcmullan.com</a><br />
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Charlene Martelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08780533933122108482noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5343757567267889654.post-26779984251529834972015-06-17T10:25:00.002-04:002018-05-05T14:19:37.477-04:00BLOG TOUR: Every Father's Daughter. A Q&A with Margaret McMullan<div align="justify">
<img align="left" border="0" src="http://www.gunplumbers.ca/tlw/EFDcover-hires_zpsl8n7qxkd.JPG" height="200" hspace="10" />
I was really excited to be approached about this tour, though I'll admit, I was also uncertain how much I would connect with this book, given the subject matter. Paternal relationships are not my strong suit. The man I grew up believing to be my father, turned out not to be but given that much of my experience with him was violent, and highly inappropriate, that isn't necessarily a bad thing. My father by birth is another story altogether. We found each other late in life and we are still very much learning about each other. I was pleasantly surprised though. I have so many thoughts to share on this book, and I look forward to posting them a little later today but I thought I would start by sharing a Q&A with Margaret McMullan first.<br />
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<img align="right" border="0" src="http://www.gunplumbers.ca/tlw/Margaret_Headshot_HighResolution_zpsshbngu7f.JPG" height="200" hspace="10" /><b>1. How did you decide which authors to reach out to for this collection?</b></div>
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In the last month of my father’s life, I read to him Alice Munro’s essay, “Working for a Living.” We had one of our last book discussions about that fox farm, the cold work, and the landscape of Canada. She was the first person I contacted. I wrote her a letter and a few months later she called and said <i>yes, of course you can reprint my essay</i>. I was just stunned. The other authors followed. I invited the authors my father loved or had met at some point in his life. He had dinner with Lee Smith once and she was so quick to respond. Lee led me to Jill McCorkle. I also included three former students. In the end, this collection of women writers became one big circle of friends.<br />
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<b>2. How did your vision for this collection evolve from the start to end of this project?</b><br />
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At first I saw this as a collection of southern writers, men and women. But then I realized I just wanted to hear from women, <i>daughters.</i> I moved away from regionalizing it when I began thinking of my father’s literary tastes and what kind of man he was. He was southern but he was also very much shaped by Chicago and the Mid-West. Each time I read an essay, I would think, <i>Would Dad like this?</i><br />
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<b>3. What most surprised you about the creation of <i>Every Father's Daughter</i>?</b>
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I was surprised how difficult such a great collection was to get published. Jane Smiley had a Pulitzer, Maxine Hong Kingston won the National Book Award, and Alice Munro had just won a Nobel Prize. I felt this book was no-proof. Who wouldn’t want to read these writers on this particularly personal subject? And who wouldn’t want to read about fathers? I’ve always thought this collection was a sure thing, but it was much more difficult to find a publisher than I had imagined. Apparently, anthologies were no longer fashionable in the publishing industry. One editor, who declined the book, has since contacted me to tell me how she genuinely regrets not taking it.
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<b>4. In your introduction, you talk about how this book was a way for you to grieve. How did you come to realize this?
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This particular work felt meaningful because all along I thought so much about my father. I started soon after my father died. The work – reaching out to other women, asking for their stories, and then reading them was therapeutic because it reminded me that there are other emotions besides grief. After a while, after I organized and put together the book, after I wrote my own essay, my grief transformed. It felt less like sadness and more like love.<br />
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I have encountered so many readers who have read the book and want to talk about an essay, and then, inevitably, these readers begin to tell me about their fathers. A conversation starts. This book has a power. We are remembering our fathers, and, in some cases, bringing them back to life.
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<b>5. Did you come to realize anything about your relationship with your father as you read through the essays in this collection?</b><br />
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I knew from the start that we were close, and that a good part of that closeness was how we stayed connected through literature. Now, I realize exactly how close we really were.<br />
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Check back this afternoon for my review of <i>Every Father's Daughter</i>. See you then!</div>
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Charlene Martelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08780533933122108482noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5343757567267889654.post-55272199131761809172014-11-21T09:00:00.000-05:002018-05-05T14:31:30.598-04:00November: The Twenty-First<div align="justify">
<img align="left" border="0" src="http://www.gunplumbers.ca/tlw/November_zps21f6a849.JPG" height="160" hspace="10" />Our daily adventure continues right here with The Twenty-First instalment of November: Ralph Conway's Immortal Diary. If this is your first day with us, I'd recommend you click <a href="http://www.theliteraryword.com/2014/10/how-many-times-do-you-have-to-die.html" target="_blank">here</a> for links to the preface and previous instalments.<br />
The content appears here on The Literary Word courtesy of Table 13 Ltd<br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">THE TWENTY-FIRST</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I don’t normally listen at keyholes, but I couldn’t help overhearing this conversation between Eric and Chloe this morning - in which Eric was wondering if he ought to suggest to me that I go and see a psychiatrist. Mavis was in the upstairs bathroom. I descended a flight and was about to go into theirs, when I heard Chloe say: “Who?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">To which Eric replied: “Ralph.” </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I was riveted.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“If anyone needs a psychiatrist,” said Chloe, “it’s you.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Me?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Yes. You.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What for?” asked Eric in a mystified tone of voice.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“For offering him a job.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“He’ll be fine.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“You’ve got a short memory when it suits you.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Anyway, he won’t take it.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Huh. It’s so depressing having him festering in that room.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The idea of me going to see a psychiatrist is ridiculous. The biggest mistake I ever made was leaving this confounded book where Joan could get her prying little eyes on it. I don’t know - maybe it’s all worked out for the best. If she ever thought I entertained the notion of being immortal, she now knows I must have been disillusioned. But when she read this, I had not yet died up at Alison’s flat and really come back to life again as myself three days later. That’s still my secret, and I’m hanging onto it. I’m hanging onto it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">There’s been a good Sunday feeling in the house today. Eric has all the Sunday papers of course. Mavis took the children out, and we settled down with a forest or two of newsprint and the television. The efficiency of the Epstein central heating is such that Chloe could quite comfortably lounge about on the floor in nothing but knickers and a large T-shirt. Joan is always banging on about me fancying Chloe. I always say I don’t, which has, what’s more, been true. Or more or less true. But she was sitting there, leaning on her hand, with her left leg out and her right leg bent, and I found myself looking at the little strip of mons-hugging white cotton that was ... you know. Eric had his nose in the News of the World. Chloe was studying the Observer. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And then, what with one thing and another, I found myself considering this part of Chloe’s anatomy in more detail and the phrase, Chloe’s clitoris, just sort of popped into my mind. Chloe’s Clitoris! It sounds like one of those French films. If you enjoyed “Clare’s Knee”, you’ll love “Chloe’s Clitoris”! </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And, what with one thing and another, these musings gave me a ferocious hard-on under the Sunday Times Colour Supplement, which I had let fall onto my lap. Then Chloe looked at me and saw to which part of her anatomy my eyes were glued. I think I may also have been licking my lips at the time. Our eyes met. Mine probably looked lecherous and embarrassed. Hers were annoyed. She pulled the T-shirt well down over her bum. I averted my eyes to the television, just as the Blue Danube Waltz began to emerge from it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Twice in two days! It’s always the way. My raging erection subsided as I became sucked into the film, which was “Goodbye Mr Chips”, starring Robert Donat. And anyway, Chloe’s got herpes. Or so Joan tells me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The tears started from the moment that Mr Chips ran down the railway platform in Vienna and proposed marriage to the girl, whom he loved, but whose address he did not know, as her train pulled out of the station. They kept on coming. They just sort of leaked out of my eyes. But the crunch came when - there’s this boy at the school called Collie, or Collis, Collie, I can’t remember which. Anyway, on his first day at the school, this Collie gets into a fight with one of the local boys. Come World War 1, Collie becomes an officer in the army. Before he goes off to the front, he comes to say goodbye to Mr Chips - and guess who his batman is. Yes, it’s that lower class lad with whom he fought on the first day of school all those years ago.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It was when Mr Chips announced to the boys in the school that this Collie had been killed going to save the life of his batman, not realising that the batman was already mortally wounded - it was this that for some inexplicable reason sparked off a veritable explosion of grief inside me, which, loth as I was to give them any grounds for the Ralph-needs-a-psychiatrist cause, I found I couldn’t contain. Whoosh! Out it all came in a great heaving sob. I buried my head in my hands and sobbed away like a good’un. At which point, the children came in with Mavis, and I beat a retreat upstairs. There’s nothing like a damn good cry. I felt limp, but purged. I heard the front doorbell ring away downstairs and wondered who it was. Shortly afterward, Eric came up and told me that Normal and Hilarious had arrived, which is what he calls his parents behind their back. Their real names are Norman and Hilary. Eric sat down on the bed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Are you alright?” he asked.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Yeah. I’m fine.” </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Well, we all know what F.I.N.E.’s an acronym for.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Do we?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Fucked-up, Insecure, Neurotic and Emotional.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I told Eric I’d come downstairs in a minute. I splashed cold water on my face. My eyes looked a bit red. I had some Murine in my jacket. When I went to get it, I came across the letter from my bank. I sat down on the bed and opened it. It was one of those chillingly formal letters that tell you you’ve reached your limit and as of now all cheques will be bounced. It was dated the sixteenth. With any luck they’ll be bouncing the cheque for dinner in Brighton - at least I’ll be revenged on the tinned green beans.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Otherwise, the outlook is grim. Grim. I have £360 in my deposit account, and my current account is £485 overdrawn. Money. I hate, hate, hate money. Why should I have to worry about bloody money?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I went downstairs. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Mr and Mrs Epstein were very pleased to see me. Most of the discussion centred around Christmas and what Dylan wanted in the way of presents. The last thing I need at this juncture is Christmas. I’ve never known Christmas not to occur at anything other than the most inconvenient time. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">There was a programme on genetic engineering, which I’d missed earlier in the week and which was being repeated. Eric recorded it and said I could watch it later. I went out for a walk. It was wet and blowy. On the walk, I imagined that instead of going back to Eric and Chloe et al, I was going back to Joan and Cosmo, and that we were married. We got married in a church with all the trimmings. I pictured Joan pregnant with our second child. Tomorrow, I’d go off to work in my company car, to my £15,000 a year job: just like any normal boring trendy middle-class person. I conjured up this vision of myself - and I liked it. Ralph the Provider.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So this is the final capitulation. This is what I’ve decided. Tomorrow morning, bright and early, I am going to propose formal marriage to Joan. Apart from anything else, what with one thing and another, marrying Joan, when you consider the alternatives, well, the word convenient springs to mind. Somehow or other, the idea of a marriage of convenience is much more acceptable to me. I mean, if a marriage is not convenient, what is the point in it?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And now I shall go and watch that programme on genetic engineering.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I'm really glad I was able to take part in this opportunity. It's rare that we are offered the chance to read a book, collectively on a blog before the book is released. I can't wait for the release date so I can pick up a copy for my bookshelf. How are you all liking it so far?</span></div>
Charlene Martelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08780533933122108482noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5343757567267889654.post-52982490590399476842014-11-20T09:00:00.000-05:002018-05-05T14:32:04.130-04:00November: The Twentieth<div align="justify">
<img align="left" border="0" src="http://www.gunplumbers.ca/tlw/November_zps21f6a849.JPG" height="160" hspace="10" />Our daily adventure continues right here with The Twentieth instalment of November: Ralph Conway's Immortal Diary. If this is your first day with us, I'd recommend you click <a href="http://www.theliteraryword.com/2014/10/how-many-times-do-you-have-to-die.html" target="_blank">here</a> for links to the preface and previous instalments.<br />
The content appears here on The Literary Word courtesy of Table 13 Ltd<br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">THE TWENTIETH</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I don’t know. I really don’t. I mean - I really don’t know. I was awake most of last night, planning what I would say to Joan this morning. And what I decided, in the end, was that I would offer her a 100% down-the-line commitment to producing an offspring. I was prepared to give this commitment in writing, if necessary. But I would not even discuss the question of marriage until such time as Joan had resumed normal eating. This seemed like a fantastically fair deal. It would allow both parties to emerge from the conflict with honour and all that intact.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Breakfast was Bedlam this morning. Coco started screaming from her high-chair. Naked rampant ego demanding attention. She threw her toast on the floor. Mavis picked it up. Coco threw it to the ground again. Mavis picked it up again. Coco threw it yet again, this time at Dylan. Which inspired Dylan to pick up his toast and throw it at Coco. It hit her in the eye.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Then her screaming changed frequency. Chloe leapt for her, picked her up and cuddled her - at the same time as Eric whacked Dylan across the top of the head with a rolled up copy of Screen International.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">There was a long pause, while I watched him, Dylan, deciding whether or not he was going to cry, then he let rip. He ran to Mavis, who put her arms around him protectively.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What did you do that for?” Chloe asked in disbelief.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“He threw the toast,” said Eric, defiantly.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“So what?” said Chloe. “You don’t hit people for throwing toast.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Look, hang on a minute here,” said Eric, “you’re supposed to back me up.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I’m not supposed to do anything,” Chloe roared.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I could see that Eric was absolutely furious, but he was attempting to play it cool. He kind of smiled at me out of the side of his face, stood up and dropped his napkin nonchalantly onto his plate. Then he pointed a finger at Dylan and said:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“If you turn out fucked up, kiddo, don’t blame me.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Eric stalked away from the table toward his office, seized the handle of his door, opened it. He’s going to slam it, I thought. But he took control of himself, turned and said to me:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“You know that whole new dimension of love we were talking about. There’s an addendum. You’ll also discover a whole new dimension of HATE!”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Then he slammed the door. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">At this point, I judged it wise to make a hasty exit. I had been planning to ask if I could borrow one of their cars - but this was not the moment. On the train, I thought: “You have just escaped from a graphic illustration of the utter ghastliness of parenthood - and where are you going? You are going to instigate proceedings designed to make a parent of yourself. You are a lunatic. You shouldn’t be allowed out - except perhaps to see a shrink. You should be locked away in a loony bin. You are free. Free! And you are going to give yourself up into bondage. You are free to do ....”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">At this point I seemed to run out of steam, and I found myself replying to myself:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Free to do what?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Well .....”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What is there to do except have children?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Then I thought: Let’s be sensible about this. Let’s be rational. And above all, let’s be positive. You’ve made a decision and it’s settled. There’s nothing you can do about it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">There’s no law against changing your mind.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Despite all this mental pussy-footing, I found myself walking up our road. It had been a beautiful morning, yet again, when I left Chiswick, but the sky was grey and shivery as I turned in through our gate. I went down the side and rang Orson’s bell. Orson came to the door. Absurdly, I was nervous as hell, clutching the croissants I had acquired en route. The thought flashed through my mind that it wouldn’t worry me in the least if I never saw Joan, Orson, this house, or anybody, ever again. I could just leave London, leave the country altogether, and not come back till they’re all dead and buried.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I had been expecting to enter a house full of terminal doom and gloom - but Orson was in an extremely bouncy frame of mind. He waltzed into the living-room and I followed him. I use the word waltz advisedly. The whole place was whirling to the sound of some ridiculously cheerful confection by Strauss.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Orson returned to the chair at the table in the window, where he had patently been sitting prior to my arrival. A half-smoked cigarette smoked in the ashtray. A half-drunk cup of coffee steamed beside it. Orson picked up the cigarette, puffed at it and looked at the sheet of paper in the type-writer on the table in front of him. It was half-covered with typing.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Where’s Joan?” I asked. “In the spare room?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Yeah,” said Orson - as the waltz that had been playing came to an end and the bloody Blue Danube commenced. Orson started conducting it with his cigarette. I walked out of the room.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Joan was propped up in bed. She had a dreamy expression on her face. Her eyes were closed. She was waltzing in her imagination. She said as much, when I announced my presence and she opened her eyes and saw me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Ralph,” she said - and gave an annoyingly tragic smile . “I was just dancing with you - “ dramatic pause “ - at our wedding.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Can you believe it?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I shut the door, which muted the Viennese loonies somewhat. I went and sat on the edge of the bed. I kissed Joan.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I’ve missed you,” she said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I’ve missed you too,” I said. Actually, when I started to say that, I thought it was going to be a lie, but by the time I’d finished saying it, I realised that it was in fact true. I really have missed the dear old boot. Let’s face it: the fact of the matter is that I love Joan. I do love her. I do. I’m sure I do. The trouble is that I’m also sure I could love anybody if I put my mind to it. So, why Joan? Well, why not?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“So?” she said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I told her. An unconditional yes on the progeny front. And a postponement on the marriage front until such time as normal stuffing is resumed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“No,” said Joan.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What do you mean - No?! I’ve brought croissants,” I exclaimed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I want to get married.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“For all you know, I might want to get married myself. But I’m not going to tell you till after you’ve started eating again. What could be fairer than that?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“It’s nothing to do with fair, Ralph.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“You’re not kidding. Well what has it got to do with then?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“It’s got to do with you doing something that I want for a change, rather than us always doing what you want.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">She was short of breath by the end of that speech. Her eyelids fluttered, almost closed. She was obviously in a very floaty, transcendental frame of mind.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I’ll say this for you,” I said. “You’ve got a lot of guts.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It was perhaps not the most appropriate thing to say to a person on hunger strike - but I meant it most sincerely, folks. She smiled a little smile to show she’d heard what I said - and her eyes closed gently. I sat there and looked at her for a bit. It was very warm in the room. Too warm. I stood up and walked back into side two of Jo Strauss’s Greatest Hits. Orson was typing away in time to it. He stopped, when I walked into the room, and picked up another cigarette, which was alight in the ashtray.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I thought you’d given up,” I said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“So did I,” he said. “It’s this writing.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What is it?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Yet another screenplay,” said Orson, who tends to write screenplays when he is not looking for locations. To date, he has failed to persuade anyone to turn one of his screenplays into an actual film. But Orson is nothing daunted. A refusal, to Orson, goes to show the stupidity of the refuser, rather than his own incompetence.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What’s it about?” I enquired.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I’ll tell you when I’ve finished it.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I filled him in on what had just transpired.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“So now what?” he wondered.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I’m not sure.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Well you should be sure. She’s extremely weak.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Orson, believe me, I promise you, I know Joan very well. This is pure brinkmanship. As soon as she feels she’s in real danger - she’ll stop it.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“You may be right. I don’t know. The trouble is that she may not be able to stop.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Hmmm,” I said. “Well, I have to go.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Tell me, Ralph, there’s just one thing I’d like to know.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What’s that?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“If you didn’t take my suicide pill, why did you write what you did?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Well, I don’t know. I just did.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What - sort of like fantasising?” prompted Orson.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“That sort of thing.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“And the same with the girl?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What girl?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Alison Pitney. AKA Honey.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“It’s got absolutely nothing to do with you, Orson.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Joan sent me up there.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Up where?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Melrose Court,” said Orson, jerking his thumb in the direction of that building.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Oh, terrific,” I opined.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When I asked him what had happened, he told me that he had gone up there, rung the bell, and Alison had answered the door.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Who are you?” she asked.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Where’s Ralph?” countered Orson.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What’s it to you?” Alison wanted to know.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“He only happens to be my lover, dear,” Orson had been inspired to assert. “And I happen to know he’s here. Ralph!”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I should’ve fuckin’ guessed,” said Alison, and then tells Orson he’s too late. “I gave that little sod his marching orders.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Thank you very much!” I snorted.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“It’s alright,” he said. “I didn’t tell Joan. I told her there was no-one who fitted the description resident in the building, and that you’d obviously been making the whole thing up, and isn’t it sad?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Very considerate of you, Orson.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Think nothing of it.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Well alright,” I said. “I’ll confess. I did take the pill.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“You fuckhead. What did you want to do that for?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I don’t want to talk about it.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“But you should.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What difference does it make? It didn’t work.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Yeah,” says Orson. “Obviously.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I’ve gotta go,” I said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">As I was departing, Orson said: “Hey, Ralph, listen. Next time you feel like bumping yourself off - call me first.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“OK,” I said, sheepishly, and departed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I went upstairs and let myself into our flat. It was horribly cold, damp and foetid in there. On the mat, there was an ominous looking letter addressed to me from my bank. I put it in my pocket. I went to look in my tuck box.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I pulled out the Club International and had a look at Alison. “My pussy’s getting wet just thinking about what I’m going to say to you?” Chance would be a fine thing. Puckering up, more like. I put the magazine back in the box. There was the Envelope-envelopes-envelope. I’d forgotten all about it. The big E. with its thirty-one envelopes inside, with “envelope” written on each one. Thirty-one! 31!! And there are thirty-one years in my life, and 31 is 13 backwards and - how about this? - there are thirty-one days in ..... or are there? No there aren’t! There aren’t thirty-one days in November. Well, that’s something.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I headed back to Chiswick.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Alright - so Joan isn’t having it. It’s marriage or else. I really tried to address my mind to why the idea of getting married so depresses me. It’s so unoriginal. It’s so boring. Then I had a brilliantly original idea for a completely personal individual new type of marriage. A nice private marriage, just between Joan and me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I popped into Smith’s and bought myself a DIY will-form. When I got back to Eric’s, I went straight to my room and filled it in. Very simple. I wrote:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I leave ALL MY WORLDLY GOODS, everything I possess and own, to JOAN CECILY HENDERSON of Flat 1, 23 Abercorn Road, London NW2.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Then I took it downstairs and got Chloe and Mavis to witness my signature.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When they had done this, Chloe mentioned to me that if Joan died, she would personally see to it that I got charged with her murder.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What are you talking about?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I’m just telling you,” she said. “Think of it as an incentive. Even if they can’t make it stick, they can make things extremely nasty for you, while they’re making up their minds. Ask Orson if you don’t believe me.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I’ll bear it in mind,” I said. “Can I borrow your car?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">One thing, about which Chloe is not uptight, is things like cars.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I drove back to Cricklewood.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It took a while to attract Joan’s attention. Then I said my piece:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Joan. I’ve got an announcement to make. A proposal. I want to marry you.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The beginnings of a joyful smile on Joan’s dear little physog soon faded when I started to explain the kind of marriage I was driving at.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“All we need to do is swap wills,” I said. “I mean, actually, when you come to think about it, that’s all a marriage is in the first place. And then, when you’re better, we can make a little formal thing out of it, if you like. We can work the details out later.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I handed her my will. She had some difficulty holding it, and some difficulty reading it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“It’s very sweet of you, Ralph. But I want to get married in a church.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“In a church. I want a wedding breakfast, champagne, an antique car with a ribbon, an aisle, bridesmaids, and you in a morning coat, with a carnation and a topper.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“That’s what you want?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“That’s what I want.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I see. But, Joan, this Swapping of Wills business is a really good idea. And then, if you ever go off me, all you have to do is change it.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My words were falling on deaf ears. I thought she’d think this idea of mine truly romantic - but she obviously thinks getting married in a church is more romantic. I can’t see anything romantic about getting married in a church. I’m NOT getting married in a blasted church!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I happen to think that the idea of God is probably one of the most brilliant ideas any human being has ever had. God is a great liberating notion. Religion is not. I belong to no religion. I pay lip-service to no religion. I kneel to no priest. One man - one God. That’s my motto. That’s my platform. One man - one God. The new franchise. For me, for someone who thinks like me, to get married in a church would be totally out of order. And Joan knows it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Orson had popped out to buy another packet of cigarettes. I left Joan in her stubborn stupor, and found that he had abandoned his screenplay to the gaze of an unscrupulous passer-by. I sat myself down and started looking at it. I felt absolutely no compunction about doing this, seeing that Joan had brazenly read my diary and just as brazenly told Orson all about it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Boy, am I glad I did look at it. I only managed to read a few pages before Orson returned, but that was enough. I got the gist. He hasn’t even bothered to change our fucking names.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Look here,” I said, “I’m afraid this isn’t on.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">To which Orson replied that Joan has given him the rights to our story - which Joan subsequently confirmed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Of course, obviously,” said Orson, “I’ll change the names in the final draft. But I find it easier to write it with the real names.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I’ll sue,” I said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Come on, man,” said Orson, “it’s a fantastic story.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I’m not having it.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Look,” said Orson, “you let me read your diary, and I’ll cut you in on it.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Out of the question.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And it is out of the question. Though exactly what I’m going to do about it - I don’t quite know. At the moment, I can’t even think about it, because when I got back to Chiswick, Eric took me into his office and said he’d just been speaking to Orson on the telephone.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Oh yes?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“He told me you took that tab I gave him.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“You gave him?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Apparently, Orson had been banging on about how he’d rather be dead than do fifteen years in prison for a crime he didn’t commit - and the subject of suicide pills had come up. And when Orson started wondering about where he could get hold of one - Eric said he knew just the person.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“You mean, you actually procured him Instant Death?” I said, shocked and impressed. “How could you?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Of course I didn’t, you berk. But I thought it was safer if I gave him something he thought was a suicide pill, rather than he should get hold of the real thing from someone else.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“You mean, it wasn’t a suicide pill?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Nah,” said Eric, with a chuckle, “it was a tab of acid.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What do you mean? LSD?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What did you think of it, Ralph?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I was outraged. In the first instance, I was outraged on Orson’s behalf. Suppose there had been a miscarriage of justice, and Orson had been done for murder, sentenced to prison for fifteen years, and had taken what he thought was Instant Death, only to find - I mean, really. And in the second place, I’d been tricked. I’ve been tricked, TRICKED, into taking LSD. I thought I was dying and coming back to life again, and all I was bloody doing was tripping. It’s outrageous.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The dreadful Dave and his wife, Mandy, came for dinner. Conversation was dominated by Beaujolais Nouveau, the pros and cons, (I kept out of it) and the Circle of Gold - out of which Dave has made £8,000. And this is the guy who burns money instead of fireworks. He owns a recording studio. I must say he was very friendly. But I hate him. He’s one of these people who tries to draw you out. I don’t want to be drawn out. Fuck off, Dave.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Eight thousand quid. It’s this chain letter. The Circle of Gold. You buy it for twenty quid, send twenty quid to the person on the top of the list, cross that person’s name out and add your name to the bottom of the list. Then you make a copy of your list, so now you have two lists with your name at the bottom. All you now have to do is sell your two lists for twenty pounds each and in due course, you will move to the top of the list and receive something like £186,000 through the door. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Chloe had attempted a cassoulet. Joan is the cassoulet queen, and this apparently was Joan’s recipe. But Chloe just doesn’t get cooking. I don’t know how Eric puts up with it. There’s no doubt about the fact that Chloe is one of the most gorgeous girls I’ve ever clapped eyes upon, but she can’t even roast a chicken. Cassoulet is way beyond her.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Dave left most of his. Mandy is a vegetarian and just ate veggies. Eric had two helpings of everything. Does he actually like it? Or is it the dope he smokes before each course?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I never made it through to pudding. The pain in my bum was getting worse and worse. I kept on trying to find a comfortable position on the chair, first one buttock, then the next. Some invisible devil is deliberately sticking an invisible red-hot poker up my rectum and twisting it around and around and around.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In the end, I had to get down. I came up here. After a while, the pain abated somewhat. So what I’ve been doing is writing all this down. Somehow, it seems to help. It stops all these thoughts from attacking me at once.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I’ve just been downstairs to get myself some juice. They’re all hard at it down there, snorting coke, smoking dope and playing the Bumhole Game.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">This, for future historians, is a very simple game, which involves thinking of a book, song, play, or whatever title - and substituting the word “Bumhole” for one of the words in the title.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Bumhole Pacific,” said Mandy, as I was pouring my juice.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">They all shrieked with laughter.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“’I’m Gonna Wash That Man Right Out Of My Bumhole’!” Eric gasped, in a paroxysm of mirth.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“’There’s Nothing Like a Bumhole’!” suggested Dave.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It’s quite a good game, if you’re in the mood. But right now the last part of my anatomy to which I want my attention to be drawn is my bumhole. So back up here I came - just as they were getting on to Agatha Christie Bumhole: </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The Bumhole of Roger Ackroyd. Ten Little Bumholes. Hercule Poirot’s Bumhole. The Mystery of the Blue Bumhole and, of course, that great classic, The Bumhole Cracked from Side to Side.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">See you tomorrow for more..</span><br />
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Charlene Martelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08780533933122108482noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5343757567267889654.post-59938796629192595092014-11-19T09:00:00.000-05:002018-05-05T14:32:35.112-04:00November: The Nineteenth<div align="justify">
<img align="left" border="0" src="http://www.gunplumbers.ca/tlw/November_zps21f6a849.JPG" height="160" hspace="10" />Our daily adventure continues right here with The Nineteenth instalment of November: Ralph Conway's Immortal Diary. If this is your first day with us, I'd recommend you click <a href="http://www.theliteraryword.com/2014/10/how-many-times-do-you-have-to-die.html" target="_blank">here</a> for links to the preface and previous instalments.<br />
The content appears here on The Literary Word courtesy of Table 13 Ltd<br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">THE NINETEENTH</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I have never understood how a pain could be described as exquisite - until I went to the loo this morning. I had to lie down on my front for twenty minutes until the throbbing subsided. Hell and damnation. I have been stricken with piles. Hell and damnation. It’s just not fair. What’s more, my teeth hurt. Otherwise, I am feeling unreasonably cheerful. I have come to a decision which, when all is said and done, is monumental.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Eric and I went for a walk in Gunnersbury Park this morning, and he made several points. We were talking about love and marriage and children and everything. The sky was brilliant blue. It’s been a beautiful day altogether in fact.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I know people always say that you simply can’t understand what it’s like until you’ve had one yourself,” said Eric, “but I’m telling you, man, it’s true. You just discover a whole new dimension of love. Really. You have to try it.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A whole new dimension of love. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I liked the sound of that.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I suppose the thing is,” I said, “that I’m, well, I just think I’d be a dreadful father.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Nonsense,” said Eric. “And anyway. So what? Lots of people are dreadful fathers. Look at my father. It never worried me. Look at Orson’s father, for God’s sake.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Look at Orson.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Yeah, well, you know what I’m saying. As long as you feed the little fuckers and make sure they’re warm - they’re no problem. I promise you.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“It’s easy for you to say that.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Why?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Come on, Eric, you’re rolling in it.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“That’s got nothing to do with it. The point is that you and Joan are made for each other. Why don’t you just marry her and have done with it?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I’m not getting married,” I said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Why on earth not?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I’m not standing up in front of a whole lot of people and making some oath which I have no possible way of knowing I can keep. I mean, how can you say you’ll love someone until death?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“We did it,” said Eric.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I’m not saying it’s wrong for you to do it. I’m just saying it would be wrong for me to do it. For me it would be hypocrisy.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Bullshit,” said Eric. “It’s time you joined the real world.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I don’t like the real world.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“That’s because you don’t do anything in it.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What am I supposed to do?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Well, if I was you, the first thing I’d do is marry Joan. OK, if you don’t like the vows, keep your fingers crossed while you’re saying them. Then take it from there. You know. One day at a time and all that. At least then we wouldn’t have this threat of Joan dropping dead of starvation at any second.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“She won’t,” I said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Crap,” said Eric. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“But I didn’t make her go on hunger strike.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“That’s not the point. You’re the one who can make her come off it.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Alright,” I said, “so if some girl, some lunatic, her for instance ....” (I was referring to a sweaty girl in shorts who came thumping past at a lumbering jog.) “Suppose she happens to see you, decides she wants to marry you, and goes on hunger strike - are you then responsible?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“The situation is completely different,” said Eric, somewhat testily. “You love Joan. And Joan loves you.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We proceeded in silence to Eric’s BMW and climbed in. On the way back to his place, he offered me a job in this new video thing he’s setting up. He said he could pay me £15,000 a year and a car. I told him I didn’t know anything about video. Eric said I’d be able to do it standing on my head. I told him I’d think about it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The only part of the house that isn’t open-plan, apart from the downstairs bog of course, is Eric’s office. He took me in there after lunch, which consisted of fish fingers, Cadbury’s Smash and Heinz tomato ketchup - Eric’s favourite food. Then he proceeded to fill me in on this new video company of his. He’s a very good salesman. He has an infectious line in enthusiasm.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Look,” he said finally, “I just don’t have the time to run this thing myself and I need someone at the helm I can trust. I trust you.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I’d have to have a percentage,” I said, feeling very grown-up.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Eric pondered this for a moment, then he offered me 25%.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“That sounds pretty fair.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“It is,” said Eric</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Then the children came home with Mavis and put paid to any further intercourse. They wanted attention from their father. For the first time, I started to stop seeing them as unbearable nuisances and began seeing them as the providers of this whole new dimension of love, which Eric had mentioned on our walk. I watched him experiencing it. And I thought that I would like to experience it too.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Mavis did things in the kitchen department, while Dylan and Eric and I watched “Charlie Chan in Shanghai” on the box. Coco was goo-goo-gooing around on the floor. I observed that part of the appeal of Charlie Chan is the relationship he has with his Number One Son. I felt myself getting broodier and broodier.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Then Eric had to go and meet Chloe at the Hypgnosis party and did I want to come? Of course, someone like Eric has to be in the music business, as well as everything else. Eric’s trouble is that he is a sort of cross between Woody Allen and Richard Branson. Woody Branson! But he professes to loathe and despise both these characters. Allen he hates for having the unprecedented gall to look like him. Eric has absolutely no sense of humour on this point. And he hates Richard Branson for being richer than him. Richer Branson.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I passed on the party and went to join Dylan in front of the television. We watched a Bugs Bunny cartoon together. As it started, Dylan activated the video recorder with the remote control doodad. He did it with the ease of one who knew how to operate remote control video machines long before he could walk or even shit under his own steam. In the last line of the cartoon, Bugs Bunny said: “Well, like the man said, don’t take life too seriously - you’ll never get out of it alive.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">As soon as the cartoon ended, Dylan wound the tape back and played it again.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Well, like the man said, don’t take life too seriously - you’ll never get out of it alive.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Huh, I thought, unless you happen to be immortal.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Mavis summoned Dylan to the table for his supper - chipolatas and baked beans, followed by cherry Ski yoghurt - his flavour of the month. I watched him eat this, while Mavis put Coco to bed. I didn’t talk to Dylan, and Dylan didn’t talk to me while he ate. Instead he carried on a conversation with his E.T. doll, which he had leaning casually against the ketchup bottle.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I did say: “Are you looking forward to seeing E.T.?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">To which he replied somewhat snootily: “I’ve already seen it.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“But it’s not out yet,” I said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I saw it ages ago,” said Dylan.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Where?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“In America ..... with daddy.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">That put me firmly in my place. It was so strange to think that here was a person who thought of Eric as daddy.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But would my son be immortal? I suppose I could always shoot him and see. No, I’d just have to wait. Of course, if I did know, I would never have to worry about him getting run over, or overdosing on drugs, or getting fantastically depressed and jumping off a tall building. But I couldn’t risk shooting him just on the off chance. I’d have to wait and see. I reckon that by the time the kid’s 150 or so, I’ll be able to stop worrying.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I’ve just thought of something - re this business of both parents having to be immortal, if you want to have immortal children. What if this hunger strike of Joan’s goes on and on and on and on and it turns out that she’s immortal too? And all this has been meant to happen? Of course, it would be awful if she dies. But if she does die, I will at least then know that she is or was only mortal - and consequently not the girl for me. How would I find my immortal partner, should Joan not prove to be the one? Unless I’m very lucky, I foresee all sorts of problems.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Either one tells the girl, or one does not. In the first place ..... well, imagine it -</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Me: “I want to marry you.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Her: “I want to marry you too.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Me: “There’s only one problem.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Her: “What is it, darling?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Me: “You see, the thing is, I’m immortal - and I can only marry one who is also immortal - if we are to have immortal children. In order to ascertain whether you are immortal or not, I’m going to have to shoot you. If you come back to life as yourself again, we can get married.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I can’t see it. I can’t see any girl who isn’t a raving lunatic going for it. Even if I didn’t tell her, just proposed and when she said yes, shot her regardless - well, as I say, fraught with difficulties.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Mavis took Dylan off to bed and when she came back downstairs, she ripped my clothes off, threw me onto the Corbusier chaise longue and ………. as if.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Apart from the fact that Mavis is a grimly efficient young woman, of the type that mugs muggers, the pain in my bum was playing up. I decided to go for a bath.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">After the bath, I was feeling much better, though my teeth were hurting again.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">There was a knock at the bathroom door. Mavis. She was not after my body. She wanted to know whether I’d like something to eat. She was making spaghetti.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“No thanks,” I said, emerging from the bathroom, which separates the guest room from her room on the top floor. If the truth be known, I could certainly have done with a large bowl of spaghetti, but I feared I would not be able to think of anything to say to Mavis. So I said: “Actually my teeth hurt and I’m not feeling so hot.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Of course, I broke a cardinal rule here - never volunteer any information about anything, even if it’s true. Moments later, the telephone rang. Mavis called me downstairs. It was Eric, saying that they were going to Langan’s and why didn’t I join them there. I could just have done with one of their spinach soufflés with anchovy sauce, but having told Mavis that I was too far gone to handle her spaghetti, I did not have the heart to effect a miraculous recovery at the drop of a better offer.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I’d never been to Langan’s before I met Joan. It was quite a momentous occasion. I asked the waiter for a side plate and Joan muttered underneath her breath: “You don’t have side plates here.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I turned to the waiter, whom I had asked to bring the article of crockery in question. He was hovering there, waiting to see what the outcome of this altercation between Joan and me might be.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What are you waiting for?” I snapped.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“It pays the rent, sir,” said this waiter.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Well, I laughed, and Joan laughed, and off he went, and I never got my side plate.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">On the way home, Joan said: “I don’t think I could ever really love someone who asked for a side plate at Langan’s.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Dear old Joan.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I went up to my room, the guest room, and I looked at myself in the mirror there and I said to myself: “Well, Ralph, you certainly have changed your tune.” And I have. I’ve decided to become a father.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">There. I’ve written it down. I’ve been lying on this bed, scribbling away. And finally I’ve managed to write it down.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I am going to be a father!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I’ll take this fucking job of Eric’s. £15,000 per annum. Car. 25% of the business. I’ll be able to buy a video. And an electric guitar. I can go on holiday - and join the R.A.C. club. And I’ll be able to buy Joan presents and take her on surprise jaunts to Paris. God, it’s true what the man said: a man without cash is like a car without gas - useless. I could have an American Express card and charge things. I must go and give Joan the good news.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I bumped into Mavis on the way downstairs. She was coming up to tell me that if I could keep an eye on the kids she’d like to pop out. And out she popped to wherever it is people like her pop off to. I supposed that Joan was still chez Orson, went into Eric’s office and dialled the number. Orson answered.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Hi there,” I said, cheerfully.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What do you want?” said Orson in a far from friendly tone of voice.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Is Joan there? I want to speak to her.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“She’s asleep.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Wake her up. I’ve got some good news for her.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Oh yes?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Come on, Orson. Go and get her.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“No.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What do you mean - no?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What I said. I’m not waking her up.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Oh. Well I want to tell her something.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I don’t want to tell you. I want to tell Joan.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Well, she’s asleep.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I’ll tell you what,” I said. “I’ll come round for breakfast tomorrow morning.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Where are you?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“At Eric’s. I’ll be there tomorrow morning for breakfast. I’ll bring croissant. Joan likes croissant.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Aha,” said Orson. “So you’ve given in.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Aha yourself. I’m coming round for breakfast – and I’m breaking Joan’s fast.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And that’s it. I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to be a father. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">If it’s a son, I shall call him Cosmo. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Cosmo Conway.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Dear little Cosmo, at this very moment you are just one of some three hundred million sperms swimming around in my balls. But one of them is you, and I love you already. You hear that, you little fucker?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Cosmo Conway. Cosmo Conway. Cosmo Conway. You have to admit, Cosmo Conway’s a pretty cool name</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And if you’re a girl?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">How about Aretha?</span><br />
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We're almost two thirds of the way through and I'm going to be so sad to see the end of this book.. </div>
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Charlene Martelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08780533933122108482noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5343757567267889654.post-50322493558489235212014-11-18T09:05:00.000-05:002014-11-19T10:15:16.563-05:00How many times do you have to die before the penny drops?<div align="justify">
<img align="left" border="0" src="http://i168.photobucket.com/albums/u164/charlenemartel/November_zps21f6a849.jpg" height="160" hspace="10" />As a book reviewer I get some of the strangest subject lines in my e-mails, but none usually capture my interest quite like "How many times do you have to die before the penny drops?" I was excited when I finished reading the e-mail and I'm sure you'll be excited too by the end of this post.<br />
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The people over at <a href="http://www.tablethirteenbooks.com/" target="_blank">Table 13 Books</a> are giving readers an amazing treat. <span style="font-family: inherit;"><span lang="EN-GB">Every day in November I'll be
posting a chapter from E.P.Rose’s new novel; </span><span lang="EN-GB">NOVEMBER, <strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">Ralph
Conway’s Immortal Diary.</span></strong></span></span><br />
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<strong><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The book will be published mid
December – so you’ll be getting it before anyone else!<o:p></o:p></span></span></strong></div>
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<strong><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">What’s it about?</span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></strong></div>
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<i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">Ralph
Conway is a messed-up master-of-wine.<br />
What with being unable to do his job,<br />
and his girlfriend going on hunger strike,<br />
and everything in the world being so crap,<br />
he concludes that suicide is obviously the sensible option,<br />
so he kills himself,<br />
only to discover that he seems to be immortal.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">This
is Ralph Conway’s diary, written as the reality of immortality dawns.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 13pt;">You can read the preface now </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 13pt;"><a href="http://www.tablethirteenbooks.com/november-preface/" target="_blank">here</a>:</span><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 13pt;">
Then come back every day in November to read each new entry in Ralph
Conway’s immortal diary which I will also link to in this post for your convenience. Feel free to post comments sharing your thoughts about this title. I'm looking forward to reading it along with you, and then reading what you think. I love this </span></span><span style="line-height: 17.3333339691162px;">serialization</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 13pt;"> idea! Thank you to Table 13 Ltd, and Panpathic Communications for making it possible.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span lang="EN-GB">For more information
about E.P.Rose and his books visit: </span><span lang="EN-GB"><a href="http://www.tablethirteenbooks.com/" target="_blank">http://www.tablethirteenbooks.com</a></span></span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"> <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
November. (Please be advised the following posts contain mild adult content).<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.tablethirteenbooks.com/november-preface/" target="_blank">Preface</a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.theliteraryword.com/2014/11/november-first.html" target="_blank">The First</a><br />
<a href="http://www.theliteraryword.com/2014/11/november-second.html" target="_blank">The Second</a><br />
<a href="http://www.theliteraryword.com/2014/11/november-third.html" target="_blank">The Third</a><br />
<a href="http://www.theliteraryword.com/2014/11/november-fourth.html" target="_blank">The Fourth</a><br />
<a href="http://www.theliteraryword.com/2014/11/november-fifth.html" target="_blank">The Fifth</a><br />
<a href="http://www.theliteraryword.com/2014/11/november-sixth.html" target="_blank">The Sixth</a><br />
<a href="http://www.theliteraryword.com/2014/11/november-seventh.html" target="_blank">The Seventh</a><br />
<a href="http://www.theliteraryword.com/2014/11/november-eighth.html" target="_blank">The Eighth</a><br />
<a href="http://www.theliteraryword.com/2014/11/november-ninth.html" target="_blank">The Ninth</a><br />
<a href="http://www.theliteraryword.com/2014/11/november-tenth.html" target="_blank">The Tenth</a><br />
<a href="http://www.theliteraryword.com/2014/11/november-eleventh.html" target="_blank">The Eleventh</a><br />
<a href="http://www.theliteraryword.com/2014/11/november-twelfth.html" target="_blank">The Twelfth</a><br />
<a href="http://www.theliteraryword.com/2014/11/november-thirteenth.html" target="_blank">The Thirteenth</a><br />
<a href="http://www.theliteraryword.com/2014/11/november-fourteenth.html" target="_blank">The Fourteenth</a><br />
<a href="http://www.theliteraryword.com/2014/11/november-fifteenth.html" target="_blank">The Fifteenth</a><br />
<a href="http://www.theliteraryword.com/2014/11/november-sixteenth.html" target="_blank">The Sixteenth</a><br />
<a href="http://www.theliteraryword.com/2014/11/november-seventeenth.html" target="_blank">The Seventeenth</a><br />
<a href="http://www.theliteraryword.com/2014/11/november-eighteenth.html" target="_blank">The Eighteenth</a><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
</div>
Charlene Martelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08780533933122108482noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5343757567267889654.post-59620854766649985392014-11-18T09:00:00.000-05:002014-11-21T07:53:04.982-05:00November: The Eighteenth<div align="justify">
<img align="left" border="0" src="http://i168.photobucket.com/albums/u164/charlenemartel/November_zps21f6a849.jpg" height="160" hspace="10" />Our daily adventure continues right here with The Eighteenth instalment of November: Ralph Conway's Immortal Diary. If this is your first day with us, I'd recommend you click <a href="http://www.theliteraryword.com/2014/10/how-many-times-do-you-have-to-die.html" target="_blank">here</a> for links to the preface and previous instalments.<br />
The content appears here on The Literary Word courtesy of Table 13 Ltd<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">THE EIGHTEENTH</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I’m on the train again.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Taking up where I left off yesterday afternoon, it was my mother at the door. She came in with a pullover.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“It’s your father’s, but he never wears it.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I could see why not. It was grim.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Oh, thank you very much,” I said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I’m going to give it to Eric for Christmas. Christmas! If only there was some way of avoiding it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I was looking at my mother and I thought of something which was quite revolutionary to my way of thinking about her. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“You know, it’s very odd.” I said. “I always thought that you were the impossible one and I could never understand why Dad didn’t divorce you ....”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Ralph!” she gasped.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“..... but the odd thing is that since I’ve been down here now, I’ve come to see that it is in fact the other way around. He’s the impossible one. How come you’ve never left him?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">She became thoughtful.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I mean, I hope you don’t mind my asking - but have you ever thought of it?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Well, obviously, I’ve thought of it.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Have you?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I did actually leave him once.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“You didn’t? When?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“When you were fifteen.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I never knew that.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“You were at school.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What happened?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I went to a hotel. I don’t know why I’m telling you this ..... “</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Go on. It’s interesting. Which hotel?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Browns.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Were you .... I mean .... were you on your own?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I wasn’t running off with another man, if that’s what you mean.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“There’s nothing wrong in that,” I said. “It happens all the time.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Well it hasn’t happened to me.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Never mind,” I said. “So what happened?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Well, obviously, I went back to him. The next day.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We sat there in silence for a while, her remembering and me attempting to imagine that one night, sixteen years ago: my mother all alone in Brown’s Hotel.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Why did you go back?” I asked.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I think for the same reason that I left.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“You’ll have to explain that.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I don’t think I can,” said my mother. “Where else was I to go? We all have our cross to bear. Your father’s mine.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">How’d you like that? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I joined them for supper in the flat. It was stew. My mother’s stew is almost as good as mine, which is not surprising, as I got the recipe off her in the first place. My father has not cooked anything for himself ever.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">They pulled out the table in the living-room, and we ate on that.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I told them I would be coming back to London this morning and that I would let them know about the wedding. Then mum and dad had an argument about going to Australia - and dad threatened to cancel the tickets.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I just can’t see the point in going to Australia,” said my father.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Oh for God’s sake,” said my mother, “there isn’t any point. There isn’t any point in anything.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">She pushed back her chair, went into the bedroom and slammed the door.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I shook my head and tutted.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">He shrugged and gave me an awkward smile.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“How long’s Mum been grey?” I asked.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Oh, your mother’s been grey for years.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Really? How many years?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“She went grey when you went away to school.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Oh.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“But ever since she came down here, she stopped dying it. Couldn’t see the point.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Ah.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Then my father went off to play snooker with Earp.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I cleared the table and washed up, said goodnight through the bedroom door and retreated to my room, where I put a call through to Orson.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Joan has just been telling me about your diary,” he said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Oh.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Is it true?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Is what true?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“That you took that pill?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Of course not,” I said, absolutely without a moment’s hesitation. “I told you. I chucked it away.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Well why did you say you took it?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I never said that.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Joan says she read it in your diary.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“If Joan goes around reading other people’s private diaries, she’s bound to get the wrong end of the stick.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“He says he didn’t take it,” I heard Orson say, presumably to Joan.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“How is she?” I asked.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Just about as well as you’d expect anybody to be who hasn’t eaten for eighteen days. What? Oh, sixteen days. Look, Ralph, where are you?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I’m not anywhere,” I said. “Goodbye, Orson.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Hey, wait.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I hung up. I went to sleep. I stayed in my room till noon. Then I checked out and strolled up to the station and climbed onto this train, and here comes Battersea Power Station, and here I nearly am.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I walked all the way from Victoria to Eric and Chloe’s house in Chiswick. It only took me a couple of hours. I was wearing my father’s brogues. Halfway there I had to take them off and change back into my sneakers. I stopped at two McDonalds en route, in High Street Kensington, and then at the one in Hammersmith. I had a quarter pounder with cheese in each one.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Eric and Chloe were in, as was Mavis, their nanny/au pair, and the two children. Children are simply a nuisance. You can’t carry on a decent conversation when they’re around. Coco went up to bed at six, and Dylan finally retired at eight, when Eric and Chloe had to go out to dinner somewhere. I asked them if it would be alright if I stayed. Chloe was far from keen on the idea. What with her being Joan’s best and closest friend, she felt that giving me shelter would be something of a betrayal. But Eric said it would be fine with him - and I acknowledged the fact that Chloe had made an official complaint. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">One person who was extremely pleased with my advent was Mavis, who has taken advantage of my presence here by going out. So here I am - baby-sitting.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Bauhaus meets Glynn Boyd Harte meets Laskys in the Epstein household. The Corbusier furniture and the arsenal of hi-fi and video equipment are all Eric. The Glynn Boyd Harte, the colour, is Chloe’s input. I am sitting here at the Corbusier table in the huge open-plan downstairs. Everything is open and well-lit. There are no dark corners in this house. I’ve just been watching a programme called Birth Reborn about this French surgeon called Michel Odent - Mike Otooth in English - who runs a maternity unit in Pithiviers in France. Pithiviers, home of the eponymous pie.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I found myself imagining Joan giving birth to our child.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The weird thing is that on the one hand I got pretty excited by the idea, but on the other hand it made me feel ill.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Do I have dynastic longings in me?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Oooh, I forgot. While I was walking here, at one point I started counting my footsteps - to pass the time. It did not take me long to reach 169. I stopped and thought about it. I started again and soon reached 169 again. I stopped counting and carried on walking, and as I walked, my mind worked its way round to this extraordinary discovery: My birthday is on June 18. And, guess what, June 18 is the 169th day of the year!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Well so what? So what! What difference does it make? Supposing I was, supposing I am, well, suppose there is something special about me. Alright, let’s go the whole hog. Suppose that, for want of a better word, I am the messiah. Well, it’s perfectly bonkers. I mean, the whole point about Christ is not who he was, but what he said and did. Had he never said all that stuff, he wouldn’t have been anybody at all, never mind who his daddy was.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Look, you, God, the big whoever-you-are - if you think you’re going to get any mileage out of me, you’ve got another thing coming. I am no messiah. All I want is a nice quiet life.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Oh dear. Oh shit. How about this for a thought?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">If I have children, will they be immortal too?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Or do both parents have to be immortal? And if so, is that the clincher as far as not marrying Joan is concerned?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I am really loving this book and I can hardly wait to see what the next instalment brings. See you tomorrow!</span><br />
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
Charlene Martelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08780533933122108482noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5343757567267889654.post-9546752560930310962014-11-17T09:00:00.000-05:002014-11-18T07:34:06.201-05:00November: The Seventeenth<div align="justify">
<img align="left" border="0" src="http://i168.photobucket.com/albums/u164/charlenemartel/November_zps21f6a849.jpg" height="160" hspace="10" />Our daily adventure continues right here with The Seventeenth instalment of November: Ralph Conway's Immortal Diary. If this is your first day with us, I'd recommend you click <a href="http://www.theliteraryword.com/2014/10/how-many-times-do-you-have-to-die.html" target="_blank">here</a> for links to the preface and previous instalments.<br />
The content appears here on The Literary Word courtesy of Table 13 Ltd<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">THE SEVENTEENTH</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It has taken me sixteen days, fifteen excluding last Sunday, when who knows where I was, to fill up 121 pages of this book. I have just counted and there are 392 pages in this Flying Eagle Chinese diary of mine. If I do 121 pages in half a month, I’ll do 242 pages in a whole month. That’s 482 pages in two months, and 2892 pages in a year. (These calculations, by the way, are brought to you courtesy of my old man’s pocket calculator, which I came across in the inlaid box beside the gilt and green plush phone.) My God, suppose I live for the traditional three score years and ten. That gives me seventy minus thirty-one years to go. 70 - 31 = 39. (Steps!) Say 40 years. Going at this rate, I’ll have written 2892 x 40 pages by the time my time has come to kick the bucket, which = 115,680 pages. Now, all I have to do is divide 115,680 by 392, the number of Flying Eagle pages in this book. I make that 295. Amazing. If I keep this up at this for another 40 years, I’ll leave 295 of these volumes behind me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Of course, being immortal, the figures become absurd. I have definitely thought the thought that someone would read these here words after my death. But if I am to have no death - what is the point in them? Oh God.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I supposed that sooner or later people are bound to start suspecting something. It won’t be all that long before I am England’s oldest inhabitant. I’ll get my hundredth birthday telegram from King Charles. But then, won’t it be news when I get my two-hundredth birthday telegram from King William, if he lives so long.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A most ghastly thought has just struck me. Suppose the loonies win and kill everybody, including themselves. And there’s only me left in the destruction. All alone.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Perhaps I won’t be alone! Perhaps there are others like me. Immortals. Total global nuclear war would in fact be a very convenient way of finding out if there are any others like me. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I was walking along the front this morning and I was sort of looking at the sea out of the corner of my eye and what with one thing and another I started thinking about fish. You have to wonder about fish, don’t you, especially all these apparently super-intelligent dolphins and hump-back whales and the like. Well, yes, alright smartypants, I know that whales and dolphins aren’t fish, but they do live in the sea. That’s the point.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I went onto the stony beach and clattered down to the sea’s edge and looked at it more closely.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Supposing all the fish got together and started thrashing their tails in unison - they’d cause a tidal wave that could engulf the earth. No problem. Fish! We eat them and eat them and eat them. We hook them and net them and gut them and eat them. And sooner or later, they’re going to get fed up with being hooked and netted and gutted and eaten, and they’re going to get together, thrash in unison - and drown the lot us. Why shouldn’t fish get more intelligent? Humans are getting more stupid.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When my mother got back from the launderette yesterday, we finally had a conversation.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“So - to what do we owe the honour of this visit?” she asked.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I just felt like seeing you.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I see.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Inspiration struck me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I’m thinking of getting married.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“To whom?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“She’s called Joan.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Oh,” said my mother. I could see from the look on her face that the name, Joan, conjured up something unpleasant. “And who is this Joan?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“She’s a waitress,” I said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Oh Ralph.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Waitresses are rated on my mother’s social scale somewhere between prostitutes and bus-conductresses.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“She’s upper middle class,” I said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My mother would like to think of herself as being upper middle class. In fact, she is middle class, verging, in her present state, on lower middle class. The thought that I might be marrying above myself soothed her.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What’s her surname?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Henderson. Her father was a judge.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Was?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I explained about Joan’s family and how her parents are dead.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What’s she doing being a waitress then?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“She likes being a waitress.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Huh,” said my mother, obviously finding this last assertion hard to swallow. “And what about you?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I’m not doing anything at the moment.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“You’re out of work.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Yeah.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“On the dole?” She made it sound like a nasty disease, like herpes.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Certainly not.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“And you’re living with this upper middle class Joan?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Yeah.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“And she’s supporting you.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Well,” I said, “only up to a point.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Fool! I should have lied. I should have told her I had a job. I should have told her I’ve got an incredible new career. What harm would it have done? It would have made her happy.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“And you and this Joan are planning to get married?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“We’re thinking about it.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“And when she gets pregnant?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Is she planning to carry on at her waitressing, or what?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Getting married doesn’t automatically mean you have children, you know?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Whose idea is it to get married, Ralph? Yours or hers?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“It’s both of our idea. Well, Joan’s very keen and I’m thinking about it.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“She wants children, Ralph. Are you going to look after them, while Joan goes off to be a waitress?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I might do,” I said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Oh for God’s sake,” she snapped.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">There was a silence, and then I asked her if I could take them out to dinner.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“On Joan’s money? No thank you very much.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I’ve got money,” I said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Oh yes?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Yes, as a matter of fact. Now do you want to come out to dinner?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Alright,” she said. “That’ll be very nice. It’ll make a nice change.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What about Dad?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“You’ll have to ask him.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Well, where is he?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What time is it?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It was one-thirty.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“You might catch him at Forfars in the Lanes. He goes there for lunch. If not, he’ll probably be at King Alfred’s. Bowling.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Bowling? It’s a bit cold for that, isn’t it?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Not bowls. Bowling. Ten pin bowling.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Good Lord,” I said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The walk along the front to King Alfred’s Sports Centre took me about twenty minutes into the wind. My lips were good and salty by the time I arrived - and descended into that clattering subterranean world. I think I must have been fourteen the last time I went bowling. I know I wasn’t strong enough to lift anything heavier than the speckled balls. I used to go with Eric up to the lanes in Temple Fortune. When I first moved to Cricklewood, I went to see if they’re still there, but they’re gone.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Dad was alone on lane thirteen. I traded in my sneakers for a pair of bowling shoes, bought a couple of games, and went and sat in the plastic seats behind him. He had his back to me, was holding his ball up to his chin, preparing to roll it at the pins.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">He was wearing a bright pink bowling shirt, with the legend EARP’S ANGELS on the back. He moved forward with three fluid crouching steps and rolled the ball gently down the runway. At first I thought it was going into the gutter, but two thirds of the way down it started to curve in onto the target. A strike! He gave the air a little punch of pleasure. Then he about-turned, came back to the scoring table, filled in his score, while his ball returned and the automatic machine replaced the pins. He failed to notice me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">With his next ball, he got eight, and left himself with two, in either corner, a split. A gesture of annoyance from him. Then he failed to pick off either of the two pins. It was strange, watching him. He finished his game and noticed me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Hi,” I said. “Fancy a game?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">He was very happy to play with me. I was astonished at how well I did. It all came back to me. I scored 169, which is an amazingly good score. Dad was miffed, as he had been expecting to beat me hollow. But then it dawned on me that I had scored 169 - and that we were playing in lane 13. And that 13 into 169 is 13 and 13 times 13 is 169 and that’s how many pounds I weigh. And I am 31, which is 13 backwards.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">If I was the kind of person who tends to imagine that he is the victim of satanic plots, it is at this point that I might well have started seriously to worry. But I’m not that kind of person. I’m not. I do not believe in satanic plots and conspiracies with me as the victim at the centre. I don’t believe in that kind of stuff. I don’t. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We did not talk during the game. Then we wandered round to this rather wonderful cafe-cum-ice-cream-parlour called Marocco’s, round the corner on the front - where we had hot chocolate.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I thought I’d take you and Mum out for dinner this evening,” I said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Oh.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“You don’t sound very enthusiastic.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“No, it’s, er .... “</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">At this point a character breezed in and clapped my father on the shoulder.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My father introduced him to me. It was Earp.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“As in Earp’s Angels?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“You’ve got it, son,” said Earp.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Earp is terrific. He’s a sixty year old Teddy boy, basically. He has grey Brylcreemed hair, combed up in a quiff at the front, and in a D.A. at the back. He was wearing drain-pipe trousers and winkle-picker shoes. Apparently, my father used to pop into Marocco’s on his various walks up and down the front. And it was here that Earp had recruited him for Earp’s Angels.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It turned out that my father’s reluctance about dinner had to do with the fact that he had made an arrangement to play snooker with Earp. But when Earp heard of my invitation, he insisted that my father accept.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Then we all went back to the bowling lanes. I sat and watched the two of them play. I declined their invitation to join them, claiming a sore shoulder. But the real reason was that I didn’t think I could follow the 169 in lane 13 with anything better. Another score in this other lane, where they were now playing, would spoil it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Earp is brilliant. But my Dad beat him with his handicap. The old man was as pleased as punch. I played the space invader machines, while they had another game. Then Earp gave us a lift back to the Metropole in his customised Zodiac, which is black with leopard-skin upholstery and the names Earp and Sheila on the windscreen over the driver’s and passenger seat respectively. My father in this car, and indeed my father with Earp anywhere, was a thought-provoking sight. I thought that here he was, having the mis-spent youth he would have had, if he hadn’t had the misfortune to marry my mother and have me and my sister.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">On the way up to the flat, Dad told me that Earp is 64, that his Christian name is George, but never used, that Earp and his sons run a we-buy-and-sell-anything kind of business in the back of Brighton, and that he is not to be mentioned “in front of your mother”.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My mother had organised a room in the hotel for me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Unless of course you plan to go back to Joan tonight?” </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“No, but it’s alright. I can sleep on the floor.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“No you can’t.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So I thanked her graciously. Then we discussed where I was going to take them, and my mother suggested a French place called Le Trou dans le Mur, which didn’t bode well. She booked the table and I went and had a look at my room. Nothing to write home about - but better than the floor. Apart from which there is a certain something about all hotel rooms, however ghastly, that is strangely enchanting.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I gave them time to get themselves ready. Then I returned to their flat. My mother had in the interim been going through my father’s wardrobe - and produced an outfit for me to wear.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The shoes weren’t bad. Black brogues. The trousers were out of the question. But I agreed to don the sports shirt - “which he refuses to wear” - and a herringbone jacket that I really like.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Are you sure you want to part with it?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">He shrugged.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“He never wears it,” said my mother.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I never wear it,” he echoed glumly.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I put it on.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">This restaurant, to which my parents had not been, but about which my mother had read good words, was dreadful. I mean, they started you off with perfectly acceptable crudités - but when it came to the main course, tinned French beans were produced. Tinned! As everyone knows, a French bean, unless it be fresh, is simply not worth the shit in which it was grown. I said to le patron: “Look, you served all those nice fresh vegetables to start with - why serve tinned beans?” He made some preposterous excuse about the size of the kitchen.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Then my mother said: “If you don’t like them, Ralph, why don’t you just leave them?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I dropped the whole subject.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Over the inevitable chocolate mousse, I mentioned that someone had read my palm and told me that there is a mystery surrounding my birth.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“The only mystery surrounding your birth,” said my mother, “is that your father ever managed it.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I was shocked - but he was highly amused.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I went to get my birth certificate,” I told them.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Checking up on us, eh?” he chortled.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What an extraordinary thing to do,” said my mother.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It seems to me now that I was stupid even to have considered that my parents weren’t who I’ve always thought them to be. Namely, them. Apart from which, what difference does it make? I mean, really, what difference does it make, whether my father is a retired incompetent shop-keeper or, I don’t know, a shower of golden rain?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I mean, when Jesus was a kid, did he know all along that Joseph wasn’t his father?<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>No, I think that Joseph was Jesus’ dad, and that’s who Jesus thought he was, and when someone in the playground said to Jesus: “What does your dad do then?” - Jesus would say: “He’s a carpenter.” </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“So,” said my father, “your mother tells me that you’ve landed yourself a rich girl.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I wouldn’t say that,” I muttered.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“That’s what I always wanted to do,” he said, “but I got your mother instead.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">They wanted to know when they would meet Joan. I told them that we would try to manage it, but that she was very busy at the moment.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I always fancied being a restaurateur,” said my dad, “opening my own place.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Thank God you never did,” said my mother.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Then we talked about my sister. Most of the time, I completely forget that I even have a sister. She’s a few years older than me - and I hate her. I’ve always hated her. When I was sixteen, she fell in love with an Australian person and married him and went to live in Australia with him, in Melbourne of all places. Apparently, she now has four children. Mum and dad are going there for Christmas.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“That’s nice,” I said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Dad gave the same shrug he gave when he gave me his jacket.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">She said: “It’s better than nothing.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I don’t see why she can’t come here,” said he. “She’s always going on about how well-off they are.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“You know they can’t, with the children.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Huh,” said my father. “Children.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I paid the bill with a cheque. We walked home, said goodnight in the lobby of the hotel. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Breakfast was included in the price of the room - so I went and had it with the delegates in the enormous hotel dining-room. Frosties, followed by kipper.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I wandered up to the Brighton Pavilion, which looks as though it has just landed and is about to take off again at any second. Then I wandered around the town for a bit. Everybody here seems to be either old or stupid. The rest must have gone up to London. I met my father for lunch at Forfar’s in The Lanes - not the bowling lanes, but The Lanes - where I ate an excellent Buck Rarebit, with not one but two poached eggs on top.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I decided that my father was perfectly content, that he didn’t particularly mind my being there - but I was an interruption, a nuisance. I think that’s what I must have been, when first I erupted from his loins, when he was thirty-one and I was nought. Mind you, he’d already had to get used to my sister. But she went, and I remained. And my school fees were much more expensive than hers.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Do you regret having children?” I asked him.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“That’s a funny question. From you.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I’m just wondering. I mean, why did you?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Have us.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I don’t know really. There wasn’t much alternative, when I was your age.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“But did you like being a father?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Some of the time.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">He said he had to get along to the bowling lanes, King Alfred’s. To give him his due, he did ask me if I’d like to come too - but I reckoned he’d rather be left to it. So I came back to the hotel.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I don’t know what to do. Whether to go or stay. I can’t stay in the hotel. They can’t afford to pay for the room - and neither can I. But I just don’t feel like going back to London. I - hang about. There’s someone at the door ...</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">See you back here tomorrow for more.</span></div>
Charlene Martelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08780533933122108482noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5343757567267889654.post-60215636291571204832014-11-16T09:00:00.000-05:002014-11-18T07:30:21.981-05:00November: The Sixteenth<div align="justify">
<img align="left" border="0" src="http://i168.photobucket.com/albums/u164/charlenemartel/November_zps21f6a849.jpg" height="160" hspace="10" />Our daily adventure continues right here with The Sixteenth instalment of November: Ralph Conway's Immortal Diary. If this is your first day with us, I'd recommend you click <a href="http://www.theliteraryword.com/2014/10/how-many-times-do-you-have-to-die.html" target="_blank">here</a> for links to the preface and previous instalments.<br />
The content appears here on The Literary Word courtesy of Table 13 Ltd<br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">THE SIXTEENTH</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The sea!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">As I walked down from the station towards it, I began thinking about the dreadful scene which precipitated my departure from home at the age of twenty-one.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I was supposed to go to university - but when I overheard my father telling my mother how much in debt he was as a result of paying for my extremely expensive and ineffectual education, I decided not to go to university at all, but that I would join the family business instead.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My father was really rather pleased. My mother was horrified, but she consoled herself with the thought that perhaps with someone of my brilliant academic bent beside him, my father’s business might pick up.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">She put up with it for about three years. And every morning, my father and I would take the bus into Tottenham Court Road and open up the shop, which was just opposite where Lasky’s now is. Then it was coming up to my twenty-first - and Dad told me that he was going to change the name of the shop from Wilfred Conway Ltd. - to Wilfred Conway and Son Ltd.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I said that while I was highly appreciative of the honour he was doing me, I thought this might be a good opportunity to change the whole name and image of the shop altogether. I think Electric City was the name I suggested. My point was that you had to get young people to come into the shop. I thought we should start moving away from white goods and start getting more into stereos and music. I was full of good ideas. I wanted to try out some of the new Amstrad lines, you know, affordable stuff. And I thought we should sell records as well. And car stereos. And we’d fit them in. And we could sell them cokes and cups of coffee and tapes, while they were waiting. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I was full of enthusiasm. My father was full of caution and, well, boringness.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“See, the thing is, Dad, why does work have to be so excruciatingly boring?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Because, Ralph, that’s what work is. If it wasn’t boring, it wouldn’t be work.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">He just didn’t get it </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">At which point, my mother finally exploded.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Oh for goodness’ sake,” she yelled at me, “do you want to end up like him?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My father was sitting between us. She was staring me in the face. It was an incredibly awkward moment. I couldn’t look at him.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I knew,” she started. “I knew all along. You had the whole world at your feet. But you wanted to come and work for your father. Alright, I didn’t say anything. Maybe you’d make a go of it. But he’s just dragging you down with him. Please, Ralph, it’s not too late. You’re still young enough to go to University. You could still make something of yourself, instead of this. It’s bad enough having one failure on my hands.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I heard a sort of “ouf” from my father’s side of the table, as of one who has been viciously kicked in the solar plexus.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">There was a harrowing silence, during which I couldn’t think of a single word to say. My mother realised, I think, that she had overstepped the mark - but having stepped over it, she was determined to maintain her position. She glared at me. I could not return her gaze. I looked down at my gooseberry crumble, a dish I’ve not been able to stomach since that day. She turned defiantly toward my father.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I could not imagine what he would say or do. I have a feeling he wanted to burst into tears. Then I thought he was going to hit her.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Stab her with your fork, I thought.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">At the very least, I was sure he would divorce her on the spot. What he in fact did, which quite astonished me, was smile. Then he said something which under the circumstances was pretty classic. He said: “Irene, would you please pass the custard?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I couldn’t take any more of this. I left the room, and five strained days later, I left home. If I was going to be a failure, I wanted to be a failure on my own account - something, I suppose, I’ve rather succeeded in. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I found myself a job as a delivery driver for a wine merchant in Lamb’s Conduit Street, and that’s how I first met Joan, delivering a box of Chiroubles, I believe it was, from Georges Duboeuf, the King of Beaujolais, to the restaurant in Chelsea where she worked.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I would like here, if you don’t mind, to pay tribute to the late great Felix Parker, whom I loved as a son, in an ideal world, should love a father. It was his habit at the close of business to open a bottle or two of something interesting and to share it with whoever happened to be around. This tended to be his nephew, a moron, who worked full time in the shop, an ever-changing assortment of part-timers, a variety of friends and family, who were always popping in and out and, when I joined the team, me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In my family, wine never featured much, but I found that I took to it like a duck to water. It turned out I had an extremely good memory for flavours and, in no time at all, I could tell a gamay from a merlot at five hundred paces. Felix decided to take me under his wing and teach me everything he knew, and when he had taught me everything he knew, he enrolled me in the Institute of Masters of Wine and funded my studies there. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When I graduated from the Institute with the highest marks in my year, Felix took me to Paris to celebrate, with lunch at Le Grand Vefour and dinner at Le Tour d’Argent. The highlights of this wonderful weekend were a stonking bottle of 1945 Chateau Palmer and a gorgeous 1969 Gevrey-Chambertin, Clos St-Jacques from Fernand Pernot. All I have to do is close my eyes and breathe in. There. I smell them. I taste them. I am intoxicated.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Six months later, Felix Parker Wines went bust. It wasn’t just Felix’s exuberant generosity, although that had a lot to do with it. He was also, as he was the first to admit, an absolutely crap businessman. Added to this, he was a dedicated gambler. There were weekly poker games in the back room at Lamb’s Conduit Street, at which I became a regular attendee, not as participant, but as sommelier. When Felix wasn’t drinking the profits, he was cheerfully redistributing them to his poker cronies.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But the bankruptcy did him in. Felix took to his bed and was dead before the year was out. He left me his private cellar, the last benighted dregs of which languish in my so-called cellar at home.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">You may not believe this, but before Felix died, I never drank to get drunk. Sure, from time to time, I drank too much, and I was frequently intoxicated, but with the thrill of whichever wonderful wine it happened to be. Mostly I tasted, then spat it out. Smell, taste, analyse, record, remember, spit. Taste and spit. Taste and spit.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When Felix died, I stopped spitting. And when I stopped spitting, that’s when I started to unravel. And that’s how I ended up here.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The last time I saw my parents was about two years or so ago - just before the move to Brighton. I went round to the old house.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I bet you got a good price for it,” I said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Not bad,” said my father - at the same time as my mother said: “Very disappointing. This area’s gone down a lot.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Well, still, it’ll be good to get out of it all. Nothing like a bit of sea air,” I said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I’ve always liked Brighton,” said my father.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I hate Brighton. God’s waiting-room,” said my mother. “I’d rather be going to Siberia.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I’d rather you were going to Siberia,” said my father.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I was impressed. This was a distinct improvement on Irene-pass-the-custard.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So there I was, with the sea on my left, as I strolled along the front, past the Brighton Conference Centre, as seen on television, past the lovely gleaming Grand Hotel - and came at last to the Metropole’s massive red-brick bulk.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In I went.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The foyer was seething with delegates to some conference they’ve got going on here. The place is infested with noisy red-faced people in ill-fitting suits, with name-tags pinned to their lapels.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I struggled through to the reception desk - whence I was directed round to the appropriate lift.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Their flat is on the sixth floor of this hotel. I stepped out of the lift, and into the corridor, which is just like all those corridors you see in American made-for-TV films - totally unrealistic. Well, the fact of the matter is that realism and reality are poles apart.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I rang the bell. Then, after a goodly while, I heard a voice. My mother’s.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Who is it?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“It’s Ralph.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Who?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Ralph.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“My Ralph?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Yes.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I heard the chain being slipped into position. Perhaps she thought I’d come to murder her. Then her face appeared in the crack.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Last time I’d seen my mother, her hair was brown. Now it was grey. It was a shock.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">She recognised me. Then she looked at me. She looked at my exterior. Her gaze passed over my face. I became aware of the bristles that covered it. Her gaze went down. I felt the grime on the neck of my T-shirt, my grubby pullover, even though my coat was buttoned over it. This book throbbed under my arm. Then all the way down to my feet, my sneakers, her least favourite form of footwear for men, especially when in the condition that I suddenly became acutely aware mine were in.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I’m sorry about my appearance,” I said. “Can I come in?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What do you want?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Can I come in?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">She let me in.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I was just going to bed,” she said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“It’s very early.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“There’s nothing else to do down here.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Where’s Dad?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“He’s out. Look, Ralph, I’ve really got a dreadful headache.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Oh, I’m sorry.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I can’t talk. Your father will be in. I’m ..... You must excuse me.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">This whole conversation took place in this tiny hall they have here. Immediately on your left is the sitting-room. And to the right, there is a little corridor - with the bathroom just past the kitchen, and the door into the bedroom at the end of it. Through this last door, my mother now plodded. No mention of if I was staying, where I was staying, where I would sleep. She was not interested. She had gone to bed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I walked into the living-room.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The place is swarming with cupids. And the telephone is in its own special basket of gilt and green velvet plush. I sat down on what purports to be an armchair and looked at the onyx coffee table.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Never mind what I was doing here, what were my parents doing here? What are they doing here?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I stood up and looked out of the window. The window overlooks the front. I saw the sea and West Pier, sticking out into it. The Pier looked singularly spooky and full of possibilities out there. It looked like a runway. It looked like it was waiting for something to land on it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I yawned. I was extremely tired. I thought of taking a bath - but the chances of my falling asleep and drowning in it were high. On the other hand, what was that to me? If I drowned, I’d only pop back to life again.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">One of the features of the furniture in the living-room is that none of it is the right size for lying down and going to sleep in or on. So I lay down on the carpet-covered floor, looked up at the golden cupids clinging to the perfectly inappropriate chandelier and went to sleep.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I woke up, to a certain extent, when my father finally came in. He did not come into the living-room. He did not see me. I only saw him in silhouette, through the glass in the living-room door. It has some of that nice wired glass in it. He seemed to be wearing a jaunty cap. Then he passed through the frame, and I heard bathroom noises. Then he went to bed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">After a while, I went to sleep again - and I did not wake till early this morning. My bladder woke me up. I went, with joints creaking after my night on the floor, to the bathroom, peed. The bath looked too inviting for words. I twirled the taps, stripped off my stinking clothes and climbed in.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Oh, the bliss of that bath.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I poured some Fenjal into it and the milky white stuff curled through the water. I gave myself up to physical sensation.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Then there was someone on the other side of the door. It was my father. The door opened a fraction and our eyes met in the mirrored wall over the sink.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Ralph?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Hello there,” I said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Do you mind if I have a pee.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Go right ahead.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">He came in and loafed out of his pyjamas and peed. I observed the paternal penis out of the corner of my eye. I could not help thinking that’s where I come from. I was once a sperm inside those balls – unlike, of course, Jesus, who wasn’t. I mean, well, you know what I mean.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Dad flushed the loo, brushed his teeth, and then he started to shave. He did not seem to be in the least inclined to talk - but he did seem to be happy for me to be there. Well, he wasn’t noticeably unhappy. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I watched him shave. Amazing. He taught me how to shave.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">All my childhood - I suddenly remembered it. I remembered being small and watching him shave like this. It was such a good memory,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“How old are you now?” I asked.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Sixty-three,” he said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It struck me that when I was but a sperm inside his balls, he was the same age as I am now.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I’ll leave you to it,” he said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">He left the bathroom.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I washed my hair and washed myself. Then I climbed out of the bath. I helped myself to his shaving kit and removed the stubble. I noticed the scales, dropped my towel and stood upon them. I weigh twelve stone and 1lb - or 169 pounds. It occurred to me that 169 is 13 squared. Then it occurred to me that I am 31, and 31 is 13 backwards. I was wondering whether this was significant, when I heard the front door open and close. Shortly after this, the departure of my father, there came a knocking at the bathroom door. Old mother Conway.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Ralph?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Hello.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Hurry up. I’m late.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I picked up the towel, wrapped it round my middle and came out of the bathroom. She was back in the bedroom with the door closed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“All clear,” I shouted.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">She came out of the bedroom as though she had been waiting on the other side of the door. She looked at my face, saw that it was shaved and said: </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Well, that’s better.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And she swept into the bathroom and shut the door.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I made myself a cup of tea and took it into the living-room. I heard her come out of the bathroom and go back into the bedroom. Then she came out of the bedroom and into the living-room, stopping en route to get her coat out of the hallway cupboard.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">She was holding a yellow plastic bag.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“How’s your head?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Pardon? Oh - much better thanks,” she said, then, holding up the yellow bag: “I’ll drop these in at the launderette.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">They were my clothes that she had picked up off the bathroom floor.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Launderette!” I exclaimed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Well, there’s no room for a machine in this .... “</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">She groped for the mot juste and failed to locate it. Off she went.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">There were some eggs in the kitchen and bread in the bin. I scrambled the former and toasted the latter and ate them on the little flap-up table in there.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Then I found my father’s bathrobe. Having donned it, I came in here, into the living-room, put this book on this gleaming mahogany table, under the gilt mirror, on the wall opposite the windows, and began writing in it. And here I am. Here I jolly well am. Sea. More gulls. Swooping squabbles. Hold on - there’s someone at the door.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
See you tomorrow.. </div>
Charlene Martelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08780533933122108482noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5343757567267889654.post-12839324074717010942014-11-15T09:00:00.000-05:002014-11-18T07:26:41.105-05:00November: The Fifteenth<div align="justify">
<img align="left" border="0" src="http://i168.photobucket.com/albums/u164/charlenemartel/November_zps21f6a849.jpg" height="160" hspace="10" />Our daily adventure continues right here with The Fifteenth instalment of November: Ralph Conway's Immortal Diary. If this is your first day with us, I'd recommend you click <a href="http://www.theliteraryword.com/2014/10/how-many-times-do-you-have-to-die.html" target="_blank">here</a> for links to the preface and previous instalments.<br />
The content appears here on The Literary Word courtesy of Table 13 Ltd<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">THE FIFTEENTH</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">All right. I’m convinced. I’m immortal.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And I’ll tell you this for nothing, dear diary: if you’re feeling suicidal, immortality sucks.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So now what? Where does that leave me? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Apart from the fact that we both died and came back to life again as ourselves on the third day, are there any other similarities between Jesus Christ of Nazareth and Ralph Conway of Cricklewood? Are there? Are there, my eye! A bowl of spaghetti is more messianic than me …. than I. Do I love mankind? No, I do not. Do I want to save it? No, I do not. Do I wish I was dead? Yes I bloody do. Now hold on a minute there, Ralph. Don’t get hysterical. Let’s take this nice and easy. What’s happened exactly?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">What’s happened? I’ll tell you what’s happened. I’ll tell you exactly what’s happened. What’s happened is that I’ve died and come back to life as myself again, AGAIN!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We’re moving! I’m on a train, going to Brighton.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Sunday? I’ll tell you what happened to Sunday. On Sunday, I was dead. It was Remembrance Sunday too. Remembrance Sunday always reminds me of Remembrance Sunday at school. We used to have this outdoor service round the Norman staircase, and the Archbishop would come, looking windswept - and it would always snow during the service. When I was at school, it would always snow without fail during the service on Remembrance Sunday.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">At first I did not know what was going on.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I seemed to be lying face down on the carpet, between the settee and the coffee table.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I could hear the sound of knocking. Then the ringing of a bell. It dawned on me that there was someone at the door.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I arose.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">As per one in a dream, I went to the door and opened it ..... and there was Alison, standing on the mat. I sensed at once that her mood was not friendly. <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Where’ve you been?” she demanded. “You promised you’d be here, when I got back.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I am here,” I said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“You weren’t here, when I got back at ten o’clock this morning.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">She pushed past me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What day is it?” I wondered.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What do you mean, what day is it? It’s Monday. What day do you think it is?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I don’t know. Are you sure it’s Monday?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Of course I’m bloody sure,” yelled Alison.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What time is it?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“It’s bloody four o’clock in the poxy afternoon!”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Ah.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So, it was Monday. I was alive - and it was Monday.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Alison scanned the room with a beady eye.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What’ve you been up to in here?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">She crossed to the coffee table and plucked the empty valium bottle from the debris there.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Are these mine?” She inspected the bottle. “They are mine.” She upturned it. “It’s empty.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I wasn’t quite sure what to say.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I had a job to do today. I needed these.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Sorry,” I said, lamely.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Poor old Alison, unable to cope with the rigours of her chosen profession without pharmaceutical support.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“This bottle was practic’ly full. What’ve you done with them?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">She glared at me. I shrugged, uncertain as to how I should respond.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Don’t tell me you’ve taken the whole sodding bottle.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I’ll get you some more,” I offered.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“You actually swallowed all them pills?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Yes,” I confessed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Bollocks,” she said. “I don’t believe you.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Why would I lie?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Why aren’t you dead?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Aha,” I said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Aha? What’s that supposed to mean?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I blinked my eyes and cleared my throat: “Well, you see, that’s the whole thing. I was.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Was what?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Dead. But then, you see, I came back to life again – as myself.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I gave her a somewhat sheepish smile.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">She folded her arms and gave me a flinty look and then produced the following speech:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I’m disappointed in you, Ralph. I am. I really thought you were something a little bit special. I did. But you know what you are? What you are is a total fucking tosser. And you know what you can do? You can piss off. Piss right off back to where you come from. And don’t come back.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Then she gave me a quivering finger. Nail a nasty weapon. Long. Blood red. Vicious.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It wasn’t quite the Mary Magdalen sort of response I had been hoping for.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I shrugged, stepped up to the coffee table, picked up this book and went to the front door</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Keys?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Pardon me?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“My keys.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Oh.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Good point. Her keys were in my pocket. I handed them over and departed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The air in the street hit me. It’s been another icy sky-blue day. As I staggered home, the evening came along and swallowed it up. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Home?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I stood in the street outside our big white house. There were lights on in the basement in Orson’s flat. His car was parked nose to nose with Joan’s in the street. I crept up the stone steps and let myself into the building. I stepped across the hall, without recourse to the time-switch light. I felt for our key-hole in the dark, crouched and applied my eye to it. As far as I could see and hear, there was no-one in. I inserted my key and then I was in the kitchen. In the dark, Alison’s block towered against the sky.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">More than anything then, I wanted a bath. No hot water. If the heating engineers did come, they didn’t do anything. It was damp and freezing in there. I could have gone downstairs and used Orson’s - but I did not want to speak to him, and I did not want to speak to Joan, who was missing, presumed downstairs with him. Unless she was ....</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Joan?” Pause. “Joan?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I went through to the bedroom, treading lightly. I did not want them to hear me moving about on their ceiling. No, she wasn’t in the bedroom.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I switched on the kettle and located the hot water bottle, which was half under the bed. While I waited, shivering, for the kettle to boil, a cockroach crawled out from underneath an unwashed plate, nonchalantly crossed the kitchen counter and inserted itself into a crack in the splashback. I shuddered.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Glancing up, I saw a new moon in the sky. Must have been hitherto hidden by a cloud. It’s one of those skies tonight. You can’t tell where the clouds end and the sky begins.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I reached, somewhat self-consciously, into my pocket for a coin to turn. When you see the new moon, you turn a coin in your pocket and make a wish, or so my Mother always told me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Go on, Ralphie, make a wish,” I heard her say.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I wish ..... I wish ..... I wish .....”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Well, I couldn’t think what to wish.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The kettle boiled.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I wished: “I wish I knew what to do about all this.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I turned the coin in my pocket, and filled the hot water bottle, which I carried through to the bedroom. I climbed into the bed, got under the blankets. Joan hates duvets. It was cold and damp in the bed. I hugged the bottle, and rubbed my stockinged feet back and forth on the sheets. The friction produced a pittance of heat.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">What the fuck was I doing here – shivering in this dump?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I considered the cockroach.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It seemed unlikely to me that that cockroach was a lone operator. It seemed highly probable to me that that cockroach had friends. In Fat Freddy’s Cat, the cockroaches operate like an army. There are thousands and thousands of them. The one I saw was probably a scout, who was doubtless even now reporting back to base. Cockroaches like heat, don’t they? And protein. In this godforsaken Siberian waste, which used to be my home, it dawned on me that I was the only source of either of these two commodities.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I had to get out</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But where could I go?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I could go and stay at my club. Only thing is, I don’t belong to one.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I suppose I could always crash at the Epsteins. What, and be lectured at by Chloe? No, thank you. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Orson was out. I mean, he was in, but out of the question.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> I’d blotted my copy-book irrevocably, I reckoned, at Alison’s. That quivering finger of hers had a definite air of finality about it. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I tried to think of someone else in London on whom I could descend out of the blue. Nobody came to mind. Ten years ago, everybody slept on everybody else’s floor, dropped in and out at all hours of the day and night. These days you have to make an appointment.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“You could always go and stay with the ‘rents,” I suggested to myself.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“You must be joking,” I replied.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But then I thought: Why not? After all, there is still that mystery surrounding your birth, which more than ever now needs clearing up. So if you go, you will be doing something constructive.</span><br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I hope you are enjoying November as much as I am. Check back tomorrow for the next instalment.</div>
</div>
Charlene Martelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08780533933122108482noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5343757567267889654.post-91948161489885028592014-11-14T09:00:00.000-05:002014-11-18T07:23:32.896-05:00November: The Fourteenth<div align="justify">
<img align="left" border="0" src="http://i168.photobucket.com/albums/u164/charlenemartel/November_zps21f6a849.jpg" height="160" hspace="10" />Our daily adventure continues right here with The Fourteenth instalment of November: Ralph Conway's Immortal Diary. If this is your first day with us, I'd recommend you click <a href="http://www.theliteraryword.com/2014/10/how-many-times-do-you-have-to-die.html" target="_blank">here</a> for links to the preface and previous instalments.<br />
The content appears here on The Literary Word courtesy of Table 13 Ltd<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">THE FOURTEENTH</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">There is no entry in Ralph’s Immortal Diary</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">for the fourteenth of November.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">E.P.R.</span><br />
<div>
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<div>
Sorry gang, but we have another day to wait.. </div>
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I can't wait to see what comes next.</div>
</div>
Charlene Martelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08780533933122108482noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5343757567267889654.post-46573497377416396972014-11-13T09:00:00.000-05:002014-11-18T07:18:37.714-05:00November: The Thirteenth<div align="justify">
<img align="left" border="0" src="http://i168.photobucket.com/albums/u164/charlenemartel/November_zps21f6a849.jpg" height="160" hspace="10" />Our daily adventure continues right here with The Thirteenth instalment of November: Ralph Conway's Immortal Diary. If this is your first day with us, I'd recommend you click <a href="http://www.theliteraryword.com/2014/10/how-many-times-do-you-have-to-die.html" target="_blank">here</a> for links to the preface and previous instalments.<br />
The content appears here on The Literary Word courtesy of Table 13 Ltd<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">THE THIRTEENTH</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Yesterday’s sudden drop in temperature was not the result of evil entering in, as I initially assumed. The fact of the matter was that the pilot light in the boiler had gone out, and the central heating had therefore ceased to function. I tried to relight it, but had no success. So I called Orson up from downstairs to see if he could do it. But Orson couldn’t relight the blasted thing any more than I could. Kettle, television, bulb, boiler. What next? Perhaps I’ve been overhasty in ruling out some form of invisible satanic interference after all. I called the heating engineers, who had the nerve to say they can’t come till Monday.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The thought of leaving Joan all alone in that flat in the middle of November, on hunger strike, with no television, no central heating, no hot water, and a kettle that won’t switch itself off, was almost too much even for me. But as it happened everything worked out for the best, because Orson said we should come downstairs and sleep in his spare bedroom. So Joan went downstairs with Orson - and I snuck off to Melrose Court.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We went to see Poltergeist at The Odeon in Swiss Cottage.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Alison spent most of the film with her face buried in my shoulder.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Why do people want to make nasty films like that?” Alison wanted to know as we headed for Mr Wong’s.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Didn’t you like it?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“No, I did not.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Oh,” I said. “I thought it was quite funny.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“That’s because you’re a bloke,” said Alison, “and blokes, as everyone knows, are weird.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Over the spring rolls and sweet and sour pork, the subject of Alison’s mother came up. The widow Pitney, it seems, lives in Southend-on-Sea and runs some kind of boarding-house there. Alison’s off to see her in the morning.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What does your Mum think of your, er, work?” I asked.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Oh, she’s all for it. She’s the one who suggested it in the first place. Know what she said to me? Alison, my girl, there’s gold in them there tits.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Incredible.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“This is on me,” said Alison, when the bill came. “Want my After Eight?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Then she asked me if I would please come home with her, because the thought of being all alone in the middle of the night after watching a film like Poltergeist gave her the heebie-jeebies.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Next thing I know, I am reclining on Alison’s sofa and my ENORMOUS penis is nudging her tonsils. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I reach for a cigarette, light it and say: “I hope you don’t mind if I smoke while you eat.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I inhale.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Alfred Hitchcock emerges from the kitchenette and says: “Cut.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I blow smoke at him.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Then, dammit, I woke up.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I should have known it was a dream all along. On the one hand, my penis is not enormous. I mean, I don’t think it’s particularly small, but it’s certainly not ENORMOUS. And then I don’t smoke. And anyway, that line about smoking while you eat is from Deep Throat, which I watched one afternoon with Eric, when Chloe was off with the children, visiting her mother in Devizes. And whoever heard of Hitchcock making a porno movie?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It was fun, though, while it lasted. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I was lying under a blanket on Alison’s sofa, or settee as she calls it, on which uncomfortable item of furniture she had installed me on our return to Melrose Court.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">She tucked me in. Then she reached into her handbag, which was on the coffee table, and took out a bottle of pills. Brown bottle. White label. She popped one into her mouth and swallowed it dry. It was blue - the same colour as the cake or cakes.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Want one?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“No thanks,” I said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“It’s only Valium.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Thanks all the same.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Well, good night then.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Alison went into her bedroom and shut the door.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Awaking from my brief appearance as a porn star, I sat up, and found myself staring down into Alison’s handbag, there on the coffee table in front of me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">There was the little brown bottle with the white label. I reached into the handbag, picked out the bottle and read the label: A.Pitney. Valium. 10mg. One when required.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I gave the bottle a shake. It seemed to be more or less full. I could swallow the contents there and then. I lay back and was considering it, when Alison breezed into the room.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Good morning,” she chirped. “Rise and shine.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I shoved the little brown bottle under the blanket.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What time is it?” I wondered, faking a yawn, which then turned into a real one</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Seven o’clock.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“It feels like the middle of the night.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What are you up to this weekend then?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Dunno,” I shrugged. “Freezing to death, probably.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What are you on about? Tea?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Oh, yes please. My bloody central heating’s on the blink.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Can’t you get it fixed?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Not till Monday.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Alison addressed herself to producing two mugs of tea.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I reached for my jeans and slipped the brown pill bottle into a pocket and pulled them on. It was neatly done.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Alison emerged from the kitchenette, handed me a mug and said: “You can stay here if you like.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Really?” I responded</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I can’t think of anything more ‘orrible than a weekend without central ‘eating.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Well if you really don’t mind.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Be my guest.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Well, thank you very much indeed.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“A friend in need and all that,” said Alison. “Now, you’ll want a key.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Then she started a hunt for the spare key. The spare key did not seem to want to be found.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Look,” said Alison, giving up, “as long as you absolutely promise to be here when I get back on Monday, you can ‘ave my key.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">As she said this, she picked up her handbag and started rummaging around in it. This rummaging went on and on and on. I can only suppose that it was last night’s pill that was still dulling her mind and preventing her from noticing that the rest of them were gone. Then again, she was looking for her keys, and Valium was probably not so much at the forefront of her mind as it was beep-beep-beeping away at the forefront of mine.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What about your jacket?” I suggested, unable to bear the suspense any longer. It turned out to be a brilliant suggestion, as this is exactly where the keys were, in the right hand pocket. She handed them over, picked her handbag up from the bed and snapped it shut.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Then she gave me her mother’s telephone number, in case anything should go wrong, said she would call me, probably tomorrow, and to make myself at home. I just wonder if there’s going to be a tomorrow.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Just one more thing,” she said. “No visitors.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“How do you mean?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I don’t mind you staying, but I don’t want you entertaining.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“There’s no chance of that,” I said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“There better not be.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">For a moment there, I suspected that she was having second thoughts about her spontaneous generosity. Then the lift arrived with a ping. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Alison entered it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Ta-ra,” she said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The doors shut and down she went.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I sat myself on Alison’s settee and finished my tea. The sky outside was bright November blue. Tom Hood wouldn’t have known what month he was in. A little wind whistled in the aluminium window frames. I sat there for quite some time. I didn’t want Alison to have forgotten something and walk back in. I didn’t want her to be about to get on the train and then to decide at the last moment that a weekend with her mother was infinitely less preferable than a weekend with me. I pulled the Valium bottle out of my pocket and emptied the contents onto the coffee table. I counted them. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Forty-seven. Three gone. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I put all the pills back in the bottle. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Then I went home to get this book.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Out into the bracing air. The leaves on the pavements lay in damp piles. It’s no fun shuffling through them any more. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I had sort of assumed that Joan would be at Orson’s. But, when I walked in, I found her sitting at the kitchen table, with the oven on in the background, reading this book, my own personal private diary!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">She looked up at me without batting an eyelid. I stared back at her, while I wondered how to handle this extremely tricky situation.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Give me that,” I said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">She pushed it over the table at me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I was on the verge of laying into her about violating the privacy of my tuck box, when it dawned on me that I had left it on the table myself. I had forgotten to put it away in the heat, or rather cold, of trying to rekindle the boiler. I looked down and saw that she had been starting on this Tuesday, just gone. What I did not know was whether Joan had started from the beginning or from the end, as she frequently and infuriatingly does, when reading things. Or perhaps, said the blind optimist, she’d just happened to open it at Tuesday and had only just started reading it, when I came in.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I had to know.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“How much of this have you read?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Enough to know that you need help.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Oh great. Coming from you, that’s brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“You do, Ralph.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I looked at the oven and listened to the flames flappering away in there.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Ralph?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What? What am I supposed to say?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Well, for a start, you could say that you’ll marry me”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Jesus, the woman is implacable.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Alright,” I said. “ALL RIGHT! I’m sorry. I’m sorry I took so long to make up my mind. But I’ve made it up now. I’ve had enough of this. I really have. So you can come off your hunger strike, as of this moment, because this is it. I’m off. I’m leaving. I’m leaving you.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“For Alison?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Does it really matter?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I suppose not.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Look, just tell me that you accept the fact that I’m leaving you and that you agree to start eating again. You’ve had a good run. You’ve lost a lot of weight. But enough is enough.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“No.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“No? What do you mean - No?!”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“You’re wrong, Ralph. We could be really happy. I know it. If you’d just come down off your cloud and join the real world and Marry Me.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What are you saying, Joan? If I leave, you’ll continue not eating? Joan? Joan?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">She suddenly became exhausted. She slumped, but she nodded her head.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“That is totally out of order,” I protested. “You can’t just change your demands in the middle of everything.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Help me downstairs, Ralph. It’s too cold in here.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I helped her up. We went out the back and down the rickety wooden steps into the garden. Joan stopped and looked over at Alison’s building.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Is that where your new girlfriend lives? Up there?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“She’s not my girlfriend,” I replied.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Orson’s back door was open. Orson was out. I took her through to the spare room, where she had in fact spent last night. It is a very nice little room, with detective stories beside the bed, into which Joan wearily subsided.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Go on, Ralph,” she said. “Go off to your fantasy. But remember this. I am your salvation. I hold the key to your happiness.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“You really believe that, don’t you?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Only because it’s true.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Look,” I said, “I better just go and turn the oven off.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“You’re a rotten liar, Ralph Conway.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The little tyke saw right through me. But I did not protest. I left the room, climbed the steps, switched off the oven, picked up this book and left by the front door. The last person I wanted to bump into right now was Orson. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I beetled back to Melrose Court.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I went into Alison’s bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror. I opened the bathroom cabinet, the door of which is the mirror into which I was peering. I found the remains of a pack of Veganin in there. Ten Veganin and forty-seven vallium. That should do the trick. I looked round the flat for a suitable place to write. Minus Alison, it’s a very impersonal little flat - like a hotel. The perfect location, in fact, for the job in hand. I sat myself down at the kitchen counter.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It’s now dark. Nearly five o’clock. It was still light when I started writing this. It’s now dark. Dark. We all go into the dark, don’t we? Now, now, Ralph, there’s no need to get maudlin. In a minute I will sit myself down on Alison’s “settee” and swallow the pills. I’ve decided to leave the phone on the hook. There’s always the chance, if someone calls and gets an engaged signal, that they might come round on the off-chance, assuming Alison to be in. If the phone continues to ring, they, or Alison when she calls, will think I’m out.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A squabble of seagulls just sailed by!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Well, here goes.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">If it transpires that I am merely mortal after all and that I don’t come back to life again as myself again - I leave everything I own equally to my two dear friends, Joan Henderson and Alison Pitney.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> All my love,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> Ralph Conway.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">P.S. I would like to be cremated. And I would like my ashes to be fed to the Thames, at midnight, as Big Ben chimes, from off of Westminster Bridge. R.C</span>.<br />
<br />
Check back tomorrow to see what happens next!</div>
Charlene Martelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08780533933122108482noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5343757567267889654.post-28712707013596604782014-11-12T09:00:00.000-05:002014-11-18T07:15:37.324-05:00November: The Twelfth<div align="justify">
<img align="left" border="0" src="http://i168.photobucket.com/albums/u164/charlenemartel/November_zps21f6a849.jpg" height="160" hspace="10" />Our daily adventure continues right here with The Twelfth instalment of November: Ralph Conway's Immortal Diary. If this is your first day with us, I'd recommend you click <a href="http://www.theliteraryword.com/2014/10/how-many-times-do-you-have-to-die.html" target="_blank">here</a> for links to the preface and previous instalments.<br />
The content appears here on The Literary Word courtesy of Table 13 Ltd<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">THE TWELFTH</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I went to collect my birth certificate this morning. I took the car and parked round the back. I did not look at it, till I was back in the car.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Well, what a disappointment! First of all, I thought it was going to be a photocopy of the original document - when what it turned out to be was a “certified copy of an entry of birth”, copied out in the last few days in a wobbly backward-leaning hand. And, surprise surprise, my father is who I always thought he was. As far as this document went, I could see nothing fishy about my birth whatsoever. Of course, I suppose it still is perfectly possible - I mean, this birth certificate doesn’t prove anything. It is possible that the mystery surrounding my birth is a mystery to my father as well. I began to wonder how my mother would react if I asked her whether my father really is my father, or whether it’s some other fucker.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Then I thought to myself: Well, Ralph, is it LIKELY that there should be a mystery surrounding your birth? I mean, over and above the mystery that surrounds everybody’s birth? Is it likely?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The fact of the matter is that I am a very normal boring person, and that’s all there is to it. Ralph! What are you saying? You are by far and away the most fascinatingly interesting person you’ve ever come across.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">On the way home, I happened to pass an empty parking meter. This was near Charing Cross Road. So I thought I’d take the opportunity to have a browse in some of the bookshops there. Which is how I came to buy a copy of The Diary of Bobby Sands in Collet’s.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I had a bit of time left on the meter, so I popped into a pub, ordered a large scotch and sat down with a view to reading it. But then I got paranoid about somebody seeing me reading it, taking me for an IRA loony and having me arrested. So I picked up my scotch and was about to down it in one, when I suddenly thought: what the hell am I doing? I’m an alcoholic. But then I thought, maybe now that I’ve died and come back to life as myself, I’m not an alcoholic any more. Maybe the slate has been wiped clean. I can start anew. On the other hand, I didn’t want to risk it, so I put the glass down, untouched, and left the pub and came back here..</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Joan was not in. I read the little book in the kitchen. It was written over the first seventeen days of Bobby Sands’ hunger strike. In those seventeen days he lost sixteen pounds. The diary starts with the words: “I am standing on the threshold of another trembling world. May God have mercy on my soul.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It ends with the words: “If they aren’t able to destroy the desire for freedom, they won’t break you. They won’t break me because the desire for freedom, and the freedom of the Irish people, is in my heart. The day will dawn when all the people of Ireland will have the desire for freedom to show.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“It is then we’ll see the rising of the moon.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Another trembling world. The rising of the moon. The man was a fucking poet. Oh boy. Six weeks and six days later he was dead. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Joan staggered in with Orson. He had driven her up to the Heath, so she could take a walk in the air. She was pooped out and went to lie down. I left Orson in the kitchen and followed her into the bedroom with the little book.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I think you should read this,” I said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">She took it from me, looked at it, at me, did not say a word, and flopped down on the bed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I went back to Orson.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“This can’t go on,” he said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I know.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“She hasn’t even been to see a doctor.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“She won’t go.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Well then you should go.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“She told me she’d cut me out of the will if I interfered in any way.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“So what? You won’t be so blasé about all this, when she dies.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“She’s not going to die.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“She is, if you don’t make up your mind.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Look. I don’t see it,” I cried. “How can anyone want to marry someone who disagrees with them on so crucial an issue as getting married at all in the first place?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We neither of us said anything for some time. Orson broke the silence.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Oh, by the way, I have a message from your new admirer.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Who’s that?” He couldn’t possibly mean Alison, could he?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“The delectable Miss Jackson, my dear. She said to give you her best regards.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Huh. Are you going to do it there?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“No. The director loved it. The agency loved it. We managed to agree on a price, and then in passing I mentioned that we would be taking down her hut, but not to worry, we’d put it back just as we found it, so she wouldn’t be able to tell the diff - and she wasn’t having it.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I must say that secretly I was rather pleased about this. I did not like the thought of Orson and his mob despoiling the place.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">If this was a novel by James Hadley Chase, instead of my life, I would return to Sidewood, to seduce and marry Miss Jackson. Then I would hire Joan as my secretary, subsequently bump Miss Jackson off, probably by drowning her in the lake and making it look like an accident. I would then have the house and Joan and I could settle down and live happily ever after. Mind you, J.H.C. wouldn’t let me live happily ever after. It would all go wrong at the last moment. There would be a fly in the ointment. In fact, a good rule for survival in la vie, whenever you are faced with a tricky situation, is to think of what a James Hadley Chase hero would do in the circumstances, and then do the exact opposite.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Before Orson sloped off to do whatever it was he was going to do, I asked him if he was busy tonight. He wasn’t.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Look,” I said, “I have to go out. You wouldn’t mind popping up and keeping an eye on Joan, would you?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">He said he would and went. I was sitting there looking over at Alison’s building, when Joan walked in with the Bobby Sands diary in her hand, with tears streaming down her face.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Oh Ralph,” she sobbed, “it’s so sad.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I went and put my arms round her and gave her a damn good hug. Then I sat her down at the table.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">After a while I said: “And is that what you want to happen to you?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“It’s not a question of what I want.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Jesus Christ, Joan, I thought that if you read that you’d realise just how ridiculous all this is. I mean, what the fuck have you got to go on hunger strike for?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“There’s no need to shout.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I’m sorry. But, really, you just want to have your cake and eat it.” </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Blue cake?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What do you mean?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“You just want to extract all the mileage you would have got by killing yourself, without actually doing it.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Huh. You’re one to talk.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“That’s completely different,” I said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">She gave me a withering look.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Listen to me, Joan, I can understand. I’m not saying I think he was right, I’m not saying I don’t think he was totally wrong, but I can understand why Bobby Sands went on hunger strike. I mean, obviously he genuinely believed that he was an oppressed person giving his life in the cause of liberty. But if you give your life, what’s it for? What’s it for!”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Love,” she said, and gave me the sweetest smile.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Oh God, she’s really enjoying herself.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“You’re just like him,” I said, pointing at the Sands book. “You’re on a different planet.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">She looked at me for a long time, shrugged, and tottered back into the bedroom.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Joan just came back into the kitchen now, saw me writing this here.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What are you writing?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I put my arm over the page and said: “Nothing.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I see,” said Joan. Then she went back to the sink, poured herself a glass of water.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Oh, by the way,” I said, casually. “I’m going out in a bit.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Well, I’m going back to bed,” said Joan – and that’s what she did.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Then, all of a sudden ………. No, dammit. It’s gone.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I don’t know. You go through life in a kind of haze. Then there are tiny moments when it all flickers into startling clarity and you suddenly see what it all means. Oh! THAT’s what life is all about! It’s so simple! Of course!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But then, incredibly, you forget, whatever it was you saw that made it all so clear, that gave you a positive reason for hanging around until tomorrow - and the fog redescends.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">All of a sudden, it’s absolutely freezing in here. I can see my breath.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It’s an evil miasma.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Check back tomorrow for more..</span><br />
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Charlene Martelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08780533933122108482noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5343757567267889654.post-72985694873124202592014-11-11T09:00:00.000-05:002014-11-11T09:55:47.919-05:00November: The Eleventh<div align="justify">
<img align="left" border="0" src="http://i168.photobucket.com/albums/u164/charlenemartel/November_zps21f6a849.jpg" height="160" hspace="10" />Our daily adventure continues right here with The Eleventh instalment of November: Ralph Conway's Immortal Diary. If this is your first day with us, I'd recommend you click <a href="http://www.theliteraryword.com/2014/10/how-many-times-do-you-have-to-die.html" target="_blank">here</a> for links to the preface and previous instalments.<br />
The content appears here on The Literary Word courtesy of Table 13 Ltd<br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">THE ELEVENTH</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">As it happened, I had not been in bed five minutes, when I heard voices in the hall. Thinking quickly, I turned out the light. Then people came into the flat, two people, who turned out to be Eric and Joan.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Ralph?” </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Joan came through into the bedroom. She came up close to me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Ralph?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I grunted, turned over, and settled down again, rather convincingly I thought, for a non-Equity member.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">She tip-toed out again and did not shut the doors behind her, so that I had no trouble gleaning the gist of their conversation.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“He’s asleep,” she said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I told you,” said Eric. “Ralph is simply not the suicidal type.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I grinned. Eric, for all his American Express cards, is a prune.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Well,” said Joan, “thanks for bringing me anyway.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Think nothing of it. You’re welcome to come back if you want.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I’ll stay. I think I’ll stay.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Sure?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Absolutely.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Joan.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“You want to know what I think?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What do you think, Eric?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“He’s not worth it.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Well, up yours, Eric, old son.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Goodnight, Eric,” said Joan.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Pause.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Goodnight. Hey, Joan, be happy.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Puke. I nearly vomited into my pillow. <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So Eric left, and Joan came to bed. She slipped into bed and cuddled up to my back. After a while I felt hot droplets between my shoulder blades and realised that Joan was crying.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Hey,” I said, rolling onto my back and re-organising her in the crook of my arm, “what’s this?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">For some reason, this provoked even more tears, not to mention the occasional heaving sob.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Why are you crying?” I asked.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I don’t know.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Come on. I bet you do.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“It’s all so sad.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Now there was a thought. I had never thought of it at all as being all so sad. Interesting, yes. Annoying, frustrating, yes. Funny? From time to time. But never sad. Certainly boring. Though one funny and indeed interesting thing is how funny and interesting boring things have become ever since I started writing them down in here. And do you know what I think? I think that if I hadn’t started writing them down in here, things wouldn’t have been as funny and interesting as they have been striking me as being, even though things were exactly the same. It’s amazing really. I never realised how interesting I was. As Joan quietly sobbed herself to sleep on my chest, I thought about all this.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The next thing I knew, I was back up on the parapet of Melrose Court. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Now here’s a strange thing - I remember thinking, as I stood up on the parapet, that Joan and I were asleep in bed down there. I was looking down at our place. I was about to jump off, with a view to seeing whether or not I’m immortal, when I saw something out of the corner of my eye. I stopped and looked, and there on the corner, where two sides of the building meet in a right angle - there sat a blue cake. It was a plain round cake covered in blue icing - and I thought: I’ll take this cake and give it to Joan. That’s obviously the reason for it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I can’t remember why exactly, but it took me hours to make my way home. It was afternoon when I arrived, and Mrs Dennis, Joan’s old nanny, was in the kitchen.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Hello, dear,” she said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Then she opened the oven and removed from it a blue cake, which was exactly the same as mine, but somewhat smaller. It occurs to me now that you wouldn’t actually put a fully iced cake in the oven. But at the time this struck me as being perfectly normal.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Nor was I surprised when moments later those two policemen from The Sweeney, Regan and Carter, rang the doorbell and said that they had been instructed to deliver a package to our address, guv. The package contained a third blue cake, slightly smaller still, but otherwise identical to the first two blue cakes.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I walked though into the bedroom, which turned out not to be our extremely messy bedroom, but Joan’s parents’ bedroom in their flat in Albert Hall Mansions, where they lived until they died. Joan was reclining in splendour in the four-poster bed. A fire was burning in the grate underneath the twin portraits of the Hendersons. I went to the foot of the bed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Mrs Dennis then wheeled the blue cakes in on a trolley. We don’t have a trolley, but there you go.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“These blue cakes,” I said, “are a sign - that you should eat them and stop this ridiculous hunger strike.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Nonsense,” said Joan, “these blue cakes are in fact one blue wedding cake, and it is a sign that you should give into my demands and marry me.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I looked at the blue cakes on the trolley and saw that they were indeed arranged on a tier, as per one blue wedding cake.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">At which point, Miss Jackson stepped out of the closet, looking like the Wicked Witch of the West, when played by Alfred Hitchcock in drag, and said: “No, my pretties, you’re both wrong.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">She pointed a finger at me and cackled:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Blue cake, blue cake, blue cake for tea,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Three in one and one in three.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Now you sleep. Awake and see,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“He is you and you are He.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I awoke, and looked at Joan, who was licking her lips in her sleep. Then Joan woke up as well and the first thing she said was:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I’ve just had this most incredible dream.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What about?” I asked.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I promise you. It’s absolutely true. When I pressed her as to details, all she could remember was that there was this blue cake, and she was eating it in the dream, and it was absolutely delicious.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Was I in the dream?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I don’t think so, Ralph.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What about Mrs Dennis?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“No.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What shape was this cake of yours?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I don’t know. Square, I think. Or round. I can’t remember. Why?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Oh, no reason. I just wondered,” I said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I was thinking about this in the tube on the way to the bank. And I think I’ve come up with a rational explanation. It could have happened one of two ways. Either Joan was dreaming about blue cake first and spoke the words in her sleep, so that I, in my sleep, heard them and started weaving a dream about them - or it happened the other way around. There are other possible explanations, which are more fun and less convincing. Mind you, I’m fairly easily convinced.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">BLUE CAKE.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">There are ten tills in my local bank. Only one of them was being manned. And of course, I had to be behind some idiot who just happened to be paying in his last three years’ savings, in pennies. If I’d had a concealed poisoned spike in the toe-cap of my sneakers, this bloke would have got it in the back of the leg. The time will, believe me, when people will walk into banks toting shot-guns, not in order to rob them, but simply to get some kind of service.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">On the way back from the bank, I couldn’t help noticing the headline on the front page of The Standard, which was being read by one of my fellow passengers: BREZHNEV IS DEAD.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Well, well, well,” I thought.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I dropped in at the newsagents on the way home, to pick up one of these Standards, so I could glean the salient facts. While I was there, I stopped by the dirty magazine section. I wondered if Alison really was the kind of girl who appeared in magazines like this.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">She is. I found her in Club International. I bought a copy, slipped it into my Standard and went home.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Joan was in the wicker lounger, under the darts board, reading Marcella Hazan’s Italian Cookery. She was eating an imaginary osso bucco.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I don’t understand how you can read that and not eat,” I said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I’m still completely full from the blue cake,” she replied.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What!”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Remember this morning? My dream.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Of course I remembered.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“You found that filling, did you?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Well, I know it sounds odd, but as a matter of fact I did.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I just stared at her.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I wonder if that’s what breatharians do,” she wondered.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Who?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Breatharians. People who live off air.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Bollocks,” I said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“It’s true, Ralph. I read about them. They don’t need food or water or anything. They live off air, breath. That’s why they’re called Breatharians.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I’ll be very surprised if you turn out to be a Breatharian,” I said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“You never know,” said Joan and returned her attention to her written osso bucco.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Brezhnev’s dead,” I said, casually lifting up my Standard and leaving my Club International visible on the kitchen table.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Good,” said Joan, but did not look up from her book.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I just want you to know,” I said, “that as a result of your utterly unreasonable attitude to sex, food and everything, I have been driven to buying this pornographic magazine.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Poor you,” she said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I picked it up and marched toward the bedroom.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Wanker!” Joan shouted after me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I went into the bedroom and shut the door.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And, as I say, there she was. I could not believe my eyes. I mean, she was revealing all, but ALL. Everything. In close-up. Extreme close-up. On the first page, it said over her picture: “I’m Honey .... call me.” And then I turned the page and it said: “Ring me on either of these two numbers and imagine my legs wrapped around you while we talk ....” And then I turned over again and it said - over a two-page spread of Alison lying on her back with her legs in the air: “My pussy’s getting wet just thinking about what I’m going to say to you .....”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I could see Alison Pitney’s block through the bedroom window.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“My pussy’s getting wet just thinking about what I’m going to say to you ....”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I picked up the phone and dialled the first number. Engaged. Ditto the second number. I tried off and on for about fifteen minutes. Engaged. Engaged. Engaged. All over Britain, people were phoning in with Alison spread out in front of them, telephone in one hand, dick in the other. How could she do it? I decided that Alison, or Honey, must either be very stupid or very brave.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Joan traipsed in.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Who are you calling?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Nobody,” I said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Joan wandered up to the bed, and looked at Alison.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“God,” said Joan, “what a dog.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Why’d’you say that?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“You don’t mean to say you find that attractive?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I might do,” I said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Have you got a hard-on?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“None of your business.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Joan picked up the magazine. She thought “My pussy’s getting wet just thinking about what I’m going to say to you” was hilarious.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Is this who you’ve been trying to call?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“It’s engaged,” I said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Try again.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Of course, she was desperate to hear what “Honey” had to say for herself. But both numbers were still engaged.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Then Chloe turned up with Coco and Dylan. So I went out. I walked up the road to the call-box. I looked in the L-R, and there she was: Alison Pitney, Melrose Court. I rang the number, but there was no reply. Perhaps, I thought, she’s up on the roof. So I walked round there.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">There was no reply when I knocked. I tried the roof. No sign. I checked the corner of the parapet up there to see if there was a smear of blue icing or some other tell-tale sign. But there was not.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Seeing as I was up there, should I throw myself over the edge?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Not now. I wasn’t in the mood. I walked back down to Alison’s floor, tried the bell again. She answered it. Fresh from the bath. Hair in a towel turban. Steaming slightly.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Ah,” she said. “The MW. ”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I said: “Hello, Honey.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">She laughed: “I know what you’ve been reading, you naughty boy.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Can I come in?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“You can, for a minute. I’m on my way out. Got a job.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">She told me to make myself useful and put the kettle on, while she got dressed, so I went into the kitchenette and filled the kettle, found the mugs and the teabags and the milk.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Sugar?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“No thanks. Bring it through to the bedroom.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I don’t know what I was expecting, some kind of femme fatale-ish boudoir, black satin sheets, red velvet curtains, you know, but it wasn’t like that at all. It reminded me of my sister’s room, when we were growing up. Teddy bears and a rag doll on the primrose candlewick bedspread. Rod Stewart and Donna Summer posters on the wall. It was confusing. She was wearing a t-shirt. She may or may not have been wearing knickers</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Just stick it down anywhere,” she said, reaching for a pair of jeans.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“So, what did you think of my pix?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">She sat on the bed and pulled on the jeans. No knickers.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Well, I thought they were very nice.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">She laughed: “Did ya phone up?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I couldn’t get through.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“It’s always jammed,” she said proudly, buttoning up. “Chuck us them boots, will ya?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What exactly do you say?” I inquired, passing her the boots in question, which were the kind of cowboy boots that would have had Joan sneering “King’s Road Shop Girl”, had she passed her in the street.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“It’s not me. It’s recorded.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I gathered that. I mean, but it’s your voice.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Yeah.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The boots were on, cowboy boots. She stood up.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What do you say then?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Oh, you know.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“No I don’t. Come on. What do you say?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Well I don’t say all that much really. I mainly pretend that I’m coming, and then I pant quite a lot.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">She opened a drawer and pulled out a pullover and proceeded to pull it over her head.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Don’t you mind?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Well, you know, the thought of all those men ....”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What? Wanking off over me?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Well. Yes. Don’t you mind.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Would you mind if I told you that ‘alf the population was wanking off over a photograph of you?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I considered this. When I came to think about it, I didn’t think I’d mind in the least.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Well,” said Alison, “there you go. Why should I mind? It’s a laugh, innit? All those wankers.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Yeah,” I said, ambiguously, wondering whether I was included in this onanist army she found so amusing.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">She tied her hair into a pony tail, went into the living-room, pulled on a leather jacket that was hanging on the back of a chair, picked up a bag and was ready to go.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">As we were going down in the lift, she said she was going to a new club tonight and did I want to come too?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What kind of a club?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“You know. A night club. Few drinks. Bit of bop. Be a laugh. I’ll put your name on the door.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I thought about this for a bit, then said: “Not tonight, thanks.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">On the one hand, I can’t afford to go to night clubs. On the other hand, I hate night clubs. But on the third hand, I wouldn’t have minded going. Then, on the fourth hand, can you see me having a bit of a bop?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What are you doing tomorrow night?” I asked.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Nothing.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We arrived at the ground floor.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Shall we do something then? Maybe go to a film?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“That’d be fun.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I said I’d come and pick her up at sevenish. Then she gave me a peck on the cheek and strode off in the direction of the tube. Watching her go, you’d never in a million years guess what she did for a living. It really might be worth marrying Alison, just to see the look on my mother’s face, when she discovered what her daughter-in-law’s metier was.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I walked home.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Chloe had just left. She had to put the brats to bed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Joan surprised me by offering to cook me dinner.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Aha,” I said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Don’t get any ideas,” said Joan. “I just feel like cooking something.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Talk about brinkmanship.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I had a bath, and by the time I had emerged from it, Joan had produced a perfect soufflé. Astonishing.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I bet you licked the spoon,” I said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I did not.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Strangely enough, I believed her.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Then Joan went to bed. I tucked her in. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Back in the kitchen, I took the Club International out of my tuck box and opened it at Alison’s spread, but it seemed weird now that I knew the girl, and we had a date to go to the pictures.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So I put the magazine away in my tuck box and fetched this out - and here I am, at the end of yet another day.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">See you tomorrow for another instalment..</span><br />
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
Charlene Martelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08780533933122108482noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5343757567267889654.post-32845204949943314202014-11-10T09:00:00.001-05:002014-11-11T07:17:53.088-05:00November: The Tenth<div align="justify">
<img align="left" border="0" src="http://i168.photobucket.com/albums/u164/charlenemartel/November_zps21f6a849.jpg" height="160" hspace="10" />Our daily adventure continues right here with The Tenth instalment of November: Ralph Conway's Immortal Diary. If this is your first day with us, I'd recommend you click <a href="http://www.theliteraryword.com/2014/10/how-many-times-do-you-have-to-die.html" target="_blank">here</a> for links to the preface and previous instalments.<br />
The content appears here on The Literary Word courtesy of Table 13 Ltd<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">THE TENTH</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">With Joan away in Chiswick, I had the flat to myself today. It’s been a sunny day. Clement for the time of year. I had a bath around eleven. Did the crossword - all except four clues. Had breakfast around two. Read the paper and fell asleep. When I awoke, it was dark again. I looked at my watch. It was six fifteen. I had time to organise myself and settle down in front of the television for the Big Three - namely, Crossroads, This Is Your Life and Coronation Street, which make Wednesday from six to eight the high spot of my viewing week.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Pleasurable anticipation surged through me - then I remembered that the television was broken. I tried it all the same. One never knows. Nothing. It still didn’t work. I went downstairs and knocked on Orson’s door - but Orson wasn’t in.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I came back upstairs, sat down on the sofa and looked out through our roof, past the beam with its stub of dressing-gown cord, away and up at the nearest high-rise block, which stood like a glittering tower of Babel against the sky.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I made myself some bran eggs - scrambled eggs with bran and Worcestershire sauce. Then I ate a tin of lychees. Then I had a cheese and tomato sandwich. Then I decided to go over to the tower block and throw myself off the top of it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I put on my coat and hat. I don’t often wear this hat, as I’m nervous about it making my hair fall out. But on this particular occasion, baldness was the least of my worries.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The night air was crisp and dark. Joan’s car was parked outside, but I couldn’t be bothered to go back inside for the keys. I could see the summit of the building, which was my goal, away between our building and the one next door, through the now gaunt and indeed skeletal trees.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">As I walked, In My Life began to play inside my head. It’s my favourite Beatles song. Mark fucking David Chapman. John Lennon got married. So did Mahatma Gandhi and Bob Dylan and Shelley and Byron and Agatha Christie and Sigmund Freud and William Shakespeare and Oscar Wilde. Groucho Marx got married. I’m sure Thomas “Tom” Hood had a Mrs Hood - and their daughter Little Red Riding. Jesus Christ, I thought. The only person I could think of who never got married was Jesus Christ. <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I came even unto the building, which turned out to be called Melrose Court. As a building, it had nothing going for it except its height. I walked into it. If I hadn’t been wearing sneakers, my footsteps would have echoed eerily on the stone floor. As far as the interior design and smell of the common parts went, this was a diabolical edifice.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">As I went up to the twenty-second floor, courtesy of Otis, I began to think about the panorama which awaited me. Would I be able to see our flat? Had I or had I not left the light on down there? Ping! I stepped out of the lift, saw the door leading to the roof. It was open. I went through it, up some steps and there I was, standing on the roof - nearer to the sky than I’d been in a very long while.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It was terrific up there. I went to the parapet and peered over the edge. The wind snatched my hat and carried it off into the dark. But what a view! London spread away to the South before me. A passing astronaut might well have mistaken it for a galaxy. And there, when I moved round a bit, was our flat! I HAD left the light on in the kitchen. I thought to myself, if I die I will never have to go back there again. But if I’m immortal and survive, and revive, then I’ll ..... well, I’d think about that when the time came.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So I stepped up onto the parapet.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">You know how when you’re standing beside the pool, the high board doesn’t look all that high, but when you’re actually standing up on the edge of it - you feel as though you’re perched on top of a skyscraper. You do? Well, I was perched on top of a skyscraper.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Oi!” said a voice. “Wait!”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It was a female voice and it gave me the fright of my life. I felt myself falling forward - I stuck out an arm - I thought I was going over - she grabbed my hand and yanked me back onto the roof.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Jesus Christ!” I exclaimed. “You nearly sent me over the edge.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I like that. I saved your poxy life.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Look .... “ I started to say.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I should of let you jump.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Oh, I see. I see,” I said. “You think I was planning to jump.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Well wasn’t you?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Of course not,” I said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Well what are you doin’ up ‘ere then? You don’t live in this block. Do you?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My cue. I took it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“No, as a matter of fact, I live down there. Look.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And I pointed out our kitchen, explaining that I often looked up here through the kitchen roof and I just wondered what it would look like from the other way around. It was a perfectly feasible explanation, which she swallowed hook, line and sinker. On reflection, I think it was by far the best thing to say, a definite case of honesty not being the best policy. Of course, it would have been truer to say: “Well the thing is I think I might be immortal and I’m testing the theory out.” But this would have caused her to think that I’m a raving lunatic, which I didn’t want her to think - because she was incredibly attractive - in a down-market sort of a way.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Oh,” she said, “do you live down there?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Yeah.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Oh, I think that’s really sweet.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Our faces were quite close together. There was the November sky and the wind.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“It’s funny, innit, to think that often when you was looking up ‘ere, I was probably up ‘ere, coz I like it up ‘ere. Fancy a coffee?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In the lift, descending to the eighteenth floor, she told me that her name was Alison Pitney, and I told her that my name was Ralph Conway.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">While she boiled the water in her kitchenette, I asked her what she did. I may hate people asking me what I do, but I always like to know what other people do.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I’m a model,” she said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Oh yes?” I said. “Harpers? Vogue? Honey?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Nah,” she laughed. “Men Only. Penthouse. Club International.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I couldn’t help it. I tried not to look at her in a different way - but I could not help it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“You?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Me?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Yes, you.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Er. I’m an MW.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What’s an MW, when ‘e’s at ‘ome?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Master of Wine.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Sounds like fun.” .</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I shrugged and wandered over to the window. Two walls of the small living-room were windows. I looked for our flat. It took some time to locate it. Then I realised that the lights were now off: which meant one of three things. Either someone had broken in and switched off the light before leaving, or the light had blown, which was more likely, or Joan had returned home, gone to bed and put the light out herself. This was what struck me as being highly probable.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Milk and sugar?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Actually,” I said. “I think I better go.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Oh,” said Alison. She looked disappointed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I’m sorry.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">She shrugged: “Please yerself.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">As I let myself out of her flat, she was pouring my mug of instant down the sink.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Can you believe it? It WAS the fucking light bulb! I should have known - what with the TV and the kettle.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Check back tomorrow for a new chapter..</span></div>
Charlene Martelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08780533933122108482noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5343757567267889654.post-22275630778207758072014-11-09T09:00:00.000-05:002014-11-11T07:04:08.350-05:00November: The Ninth<div align="justify">
<img align="left" border="0" src="http://i168.photobucket.com/albums/u164/charlenemartel/November_zps21f6a849.jpg" height="160" hspace="10" />Our daily adventure continues right here with The Ninth instalment of November: Ralph Conway's Immortal Diary. If this is your first day with us, I'd recommend you click <a href="http://www.theliteraryword.com/2014/10/how-many-times-do-you-have-to-die.html" target="_blank">here</a> for links to the preface and previous instalments.<br />
The content appears here on The Literary Word courtesy of Table 13 Ltd<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">THE NINTH</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So there I am lying in bed, at five to four this morning – and I’m casting back through the murk of time, to see if there are any hints or clues. But I can’t see any. I mean, maybe when I was drunk, but the problem with all that period is that, well, I was drunk. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It’s not impossible, I suppose, that when I finally came to a halt in that gutter in Old Compton Street, I could have died a bit then and come back to life as myself. I don’t know. I can’t remember.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The only thing I think I remember is that pompous idiot, Rose, coming up to me in the street and spouting Prospero at me in his ridiculous fake Laurence Olivier voice. But that might not have actually happened. That could have been my life flashing before my eyes. And then I came to in hospital, all tubed up, and there was Joan, coming into focus by the side of my bed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Where was I? Oh, yes. And then, it dawned on me that there was only one way of finding out whether or not I’m immortal.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Careful not to wake Joan, I climbed out of the bed, reached for my dressing gown and tip-toed out of the bedroom, down the passage, past the bathroom - good-bye bathroom - and the lavatory - adios old bowl (Or is it au revoir?) and into the kitchen. I did not turn on the light. The London sky is never truly dark, apart from which, dawn was just around the corner. The light was sufficient unto the deed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Automatically, I switched on the kettle. Then I climbed up onto the kitchen table and pulled the chair up after me. The glass roof of our kitchen is supported by a metal framework, possibly even cast iron. I don’t know. The point is that one of the cross-beams or struts or poles or whatever the correct term for the bloody thing is was perfectly situated just overhead.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">To remove my dressing-gown cord, to effect a slip-knot, to lob it over the horizontal and secure it, and then to tie the noose, was for me the work of an instant. I had just finished tying the noose, when the kettle boiled and failed to switch itself off. Typical, I thought to myself, first the television and now this. Mechanical organisms never break down in isolation. They always do it in unison. So I had to climb down and switch the blasted thing off.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Having climbed down, I sort of automatically started making myself a cup of coffee, when I suddenly remembered this article I had been reading the other day in Eric’s “Omni”. As I recall, this article said that your circadian rhythms are underpinned by biochemical whatsits and coffee fucks this underpinning up - and does in fact slow you down if you drink it in the morning. The things that pop into your head. And then I thought, maybe I’ll have tea instead. But then I thought, what difference does it make? Well, for one thing, coffee’s a notorious laxative. And for another thing, so is being hanged. I suddenly remembered this. It’s a well-known fact. But what I didn’t know was whether it was specifically true of hanging - or did it apply to death in general. Does death, in general, make you, well, have an accident? Or is it only hanging? When I came back to life again on Westminster Bridge, had there been anything untoward in the toilet department? No there had not. Anyway, I went right off the idea of hanging myself altogether - and decided to stick my head in the oven instead.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So I got down on my hands and knees in front of the oven, switched on the gas, and stuck my head inside. But as I did this, it struck me how dangerous it was to leave the gas on like that. I mean, all I want to do is find out whether or not I’m immortal. I have no desire to blow up buildings in the process.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I turned the gas off - and finished making my cup of coffee instead. I went to the refrigerator to get the milk. I opened the massive door. The light flashed on. It caused a similar light to flash on inside my head. The refrigerator! Our brilliant huge old fridge!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I began emptying the contents onto the table underneath the noose. From the bottle of champagne Orson brought for Joan’s birthday, which for some reason no-one drank, to the pork pie which said “eat by October 9” on the wrapper. The final remains of the stew. I ate it up cold, using my fingers. The Yquem. Three eggs. Two tomatoes. A chunk of cheddar. Four cans of Coca Cola. Half a Perrier. The Flora had absolutely nothing to do with me. Joan’s the Flora man in our household. The pickled onions were Joan’s - ditto the slim-line tonic. As for the chutney, that’s made by Mrs Dennis, Joan’s old nanny, who is now retired to the country, whence she sends these dreadful preparations at regular intervals. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Then I removed the shelves and the salad boxes and all - and there it was. I picked up my coffee and, just as dawn started to break, I stepped, like Captain Oates, into the fridge.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I remember thinking, as I pulled the door to and the light snapped out: “Am I mad?” But at that particular juncture the question hardly seemed relevant, since the door had already clunked shut.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It was quite cramped. And very cold. All I had on were my pyjama bottoms and my dressing-gown, without the cord. I was wedged in there - but I found I could sip my coffee quite easily. I thought: This’ll keep me warm. Then I thought what a perfectly ridiculous thought this was to have under the circumstances. I think I became a little hysterical. I began to snigger. It then struck me that someone passing the fridge might hear this sniggering coming from inside it. So I tried to stop, which only made it worse. Then I set to worrying about whether or not I should have left some kind of a note. But then I thought: Well, anyone reading this up to yesterday would certainly get the picture. At which point it became incredibly cold and vague and stuffy in there and I became unconscious.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">There is, to my annoyance, some confusion as to the subsequent events. It’s all my fault. I forgot to check the time when I shut the fridge door - so I don’t know if Joan came into the kitchen for a glass of water mere moments after I blacked out - or whether a decent enough chunk of time had elapsed for me to have pegged it and then come back to life again as myself - again.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">As it was, Joan came into the kitchen, saw the noose, the contents of the refrigerator on the table beneath it, and did not exactly put two and two together, but certainly opened the door to investigate. Air rushed in. I opened my eyes.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Ralph,” said Joan, “what are you doing in there?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I don’t know,” I said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">That was quick thinking. If I’d said: “I’m testing to see whether I’m immortal or not,” she’d have begun to have serious doubts about my sanity. Joan has frequently threatened to have me committed to a loony bin - as a joke. Mind you, if anyone should be sent directly to a loony bin, and told not to pass Go, and not collect two hundred pounds, it’s Joan.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What do you MEAN,” I attacked, pre-emptively, “by going on hunger strike? It’s outrageous. I think I might be forced to have you committed.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Don’t change the subject,” she said. “What are you doing in there?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I told you. I don’t know.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What do you mean, you don’t know?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I don’t know. The last thing I remember is going to bed last night. I’m serious, Joan. I’m as astonished as you are to find myself in the fridge.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What about this noose?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What noose?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">She pointed to the noose.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“If I did it,” I said, “I did it in my sleep. Give us a hand out of here, Stinker, I can’t quite move.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Joan helped me out and, eventually, I managed to stand up and shiver.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I’m going to have a bath,” I said. “I’m freezing.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“You’re weird,” Joan remarked.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“You say that to me?” I raised an eyebrow as best I could. “I like that!”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I headed for the bathroom. I turned on the taps. The bath was bliss, in the middle of which I began to hear a rattling commotion, as of one hammering at the back door of our kitchen. Then a voice, which belonged to Orson, shouting: “No! Joan! Don’t do it! Stop!”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I astonished myself with the speed with which I was out of that bath, grabbed a towel and rushed into the kitchen. Joan saw me and laughed. She was standing on the chair, on the table, under the noose. She climbed down off the chair.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I was only trying to get it down,” she said. “It’s disgusting.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I let Orson in.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“God, Joan,” he blathered, “what’s going on?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Ralph’s been sleep-walking,” she said. “He put it up there in his sleep. I was just trying to get it down, but I can’t reach. I found him in the fridge.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Who?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Ralph. I saved his life.” She turned to me. “I don’t suppose you would care to consider saving mine?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Oh for God’s sake,” I said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Joan exploded: “Why the bloody hell won’t you marry me!”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I don’t see why I should. Give me a good reason.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Because I want you to.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“That’s not a reason.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“It seems like a perfectly good reason to me,” said Orson.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Look, do you mind?” I said. “This isn’t exactly any of your business. So stay out of it.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” Orson huffed. “I happen to love Joan, even if you don’t.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Tell me, Orson,” I sneered, “how come the only women you ever manage to fancy are either dead, married, or living with someone else?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I didn’t say fancy. I said love.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I said: “I’m going to get dressed.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Joan said: “Will someone please help me down off this table?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I let Orson do it and retired to the bedroom, trying to wear my towel with as much dignity as I could muster.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Yet another day stretched ahead of me. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When I discovered that Chloe was due round at eleven, I decided to make myself scarce. I went to St Catherine’s House at the bottom of Kingsway to order a copy of my birth certificate. You go into this room they have there and look yourself up in a huge red book. And there I was. My mother’s name and my name. June 18.1951. But no indication of who my father is. That I won’t discover until I get the actual copy of my birth certificate. I copied the details out of the big red book onto the form you have to fill out and handed it to the girl behind the counter. I can go and pick it up on Thursday. So there, that’s a positive thing I’ve set in motion, to investigate this question of the mystery surrounding my birth.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I must say, it gave me a strange, rather pleasant, rather warm feeling, to find my name written down in that room, along with everybody else’s name in the whole of Great Britain. It sort of goes to prove that I really do actually exist in the first place. I’m on the list.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">God, I’m tired. I’m feeling absolutely done in.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I came home. I let myself into the flat - which turned out to be empty. No Joan. Then I get a phone-call from Eric. Joan is going to stay the night with them. Will I be alright on my own?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Oh sure,” I say. “I’ll be fine.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Goodnight, man,” says Eric.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Yeah,” I say. “Goodnight.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Sure I’ll be fine. I’m only sitting here, all alone, in a kitchen, with a noose swinging over my head. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I discovered why the noose was still there. I couldn’t get it down either. The best I could manage was to cut it about six inches below the beam.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Now there’s just a little stubby bit of dressing-gown cord poking down there - up above my head. It still looks pretty sinister. But it looks a whole lot less sinister than when it was a noose.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Goodnight. Goodnight. Goodnight.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Check back tomorrow for The Tenth</span></div>
Charlene Martelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08780533933122108482noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5343757567267889654.post-30326856193189257122014-11-08T09:00:00.000-05:002014-11-11T07:04:29.749-05:00November: The Eighth<div align="justify">
<img align="left" border="0" src="http://i168.photobucket.com/albums/u164/charlenemartel/November_zps21f6a849.jpg" height="160" hspace="10" />Our daily adventure continues right here with The Eighth instalment of November: Ralph Conway's Immortal Diary. If this is your first day with us, I'd recommend you click <a href="http://www.theliteraryword.com/2014/10/how-many-times-do-you-have-to-die.html" target="_blank">here</a> for links to the preface and previous instalments.<br />
The content appears here on The Literary Word courtesy of Table 13 Ltd<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">THE EIGHTH</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Oh by the way,” said Orson, as we drove out of town this morning.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What?” I asked. I was sitting there in the passenger seat, savouring that wonderful feeling you get when you leave London after not having left it for some time. It’s a dual sort of feeling. The feeling of relief and liberation. And the feeling of panic, as of one who suddenly finds himself cut off from his life-support system. I was also experiencing a considerable sense of relief and liberation as the gap between me and Joan widened at about eighty MPH.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“You know that pill?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Yes. What about it?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I’ve been thinking about it,” said Orson.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Oh yes?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Was he going to ask for it back? I found I did not want to admit to having taken it. The fact of the matter is that I seem to be a little bit ashamed of having tried to bump myself off. <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Orson was obviously having second thoughts about giving me that pill. Whether he feared I would take it myself, which would have been spot on, or whether he feared I would slip it to Joan – as if - I don’t know. As it was, I put his mind at rest, by telling him that I had disposed of it myself. I implied that this was the real reason I had asked for it in the first place, that now the threat of fifteen years inside no longer loomed over him, I had taken it upon myself to confiscate and destroy the offending agent of doom. I think Orson was rather touched at my concern. He responded by being concerned about Joan and me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Supposing she dies,” he said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“She won’t.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“But supposing she does. You’ll feel awful.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I probably will,” I agreed, “but her going on hunger strike wasn’t my idea.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“True,” said Orson.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“And anyway,” I said, “look at this way, Orson: suppose I did give in to Joan’s demands, for fear of her dying, what then? It’s a slippery slope.” </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I think Orson was on the verge of making some rejoinder. As it was, he nearly ended up on the literal verge, as some on-coming overtaking idiot failed to take us into consideration.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Shit,” said Orson, “that was close.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">As our pulse-rates returned to normal, I deftly switched the subject away from Joan to the object of our journey.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Orson has to find a location in which to shoot a commercial for women’s tights. Daredevil tights. They’re going to film this girl jumping out of an aeroplane wearing these Daredevil tights. The plan is that she is going to land on an island in the middle of a lake.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We turned off the motorway and came in due course to Dempster.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Dumpster,” commented Orson, when he saw the sign, and summed the whole place up.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">You go through Dumpster, and after a couple of miles you come to Sidewood Lane on your left. You drive up Sidewood Lane, and just before you reach the end of it, you see some gates and a drive winding away up through the trees.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“You’re my assistant,” said Orson.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Why can’t I just be your friend who’s keeping you company?” I wanted to know.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“It sounds more professional if you’re my assistant. And I’m warning you now, so you don’t giggle, the woman who owns the house, Miss Jackson: Alfred Hitchcock in drag.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I chuckled.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I told you not to giggle. Ralph.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“That wasn’t a giggle. That was a chuckle.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The front door of Sidewood House was opened by a severe-looking female with grey hair, in a grey dress, with a starched collar. This person turned out later to be Aggie, the housekeeper.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Hi there,” said Orson. “Remember me? Orson Lawson? Orson Lawson Locations?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I was standing behind him on the crunchy gravel. To my left there were barns, which formed a kind of wing. To my right, there were trees, through which I could see a hard tennis court, with a lot of fallen leaves on it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We entered the house. Gleaming floor-boards, interspersed with rugs, led away to a glass-paned door through which I had one brief exciting glimpse of the lake, before we were ushered into Miss Jackson’s study.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Why, Mr Orson Lawson,” she said, in a somewhat high-pitched, sing-song and strangely coquettish, American voice. “How very pleasant to see you again. And who might this be?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“This is Ralph Conway, my assistant,” said Orson.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Charmed, Mr Conway, I’m sure.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Orson was right. Alfred Hitchcock in drag.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Her hair was done in a sort of bouffony beehive, which was held in place by an Alice band, which matched the dress she wore. The dress she wore was of an inoffensive paisley material - but the effect on her was outrageous. This was because of her shape. She was extremely short, and just as wide and deep. In fact, she was like a cross between Alfred Hitchcock in drag and some kind of Munchkin</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Miss Jackson told us to go take our photographs and whatnot, then we could discuss terms over a nice cup of tea.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We followed Aggie down the hallway, through the door and out onto the verandah, which runs along the entire length of the back of the house. The view from this verandah is quite wonderful. We found ourselves looking out over the lake. The lawn runs from the house down to the lake, in a steep slope. At the side of the lake, there is a quaint jetty, with a little rowing-boat moored there. And on the island, in the middle of the lake, there is a small hut.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">This hut was not there, when last Orson came to photograph the place. He was very upset about it. But I didn’t care. I loved the little hut - and the gentle sound of water falling into the lake, from the waterfall that streamed down through the trees to our right - and the whole place. I was enchanted.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We climbed into the rowing boat, and I got to row us over to the island. We tethered the boat to a handy stump </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“God, this is beautiful,” I said. “I can hardly believe that I’m actually standing on an island in the middle of a lake.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Oh, this is no problem,” said Orson.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">He was peering into the window of the hut. He tried the door and went inside. I followed him in. It was just a simple hut, like a garden shed. There was a table in there, a chair, and the window. The window looked out at the waterfall.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“We can just take it down,” he said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">He was referring to the hut.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I sat on the chair and stared out of the window, while Orson wandered round the little island, taking shots with his Pentax and his Polaroid.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Then we rowed back to the mainland.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I slipped, climbing out of the boat onto the little jetty, and my right foot was soaked. Orson set off on a circuit of the lake, snapping as he went. I hopped and squelched onto the verandah.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I tapped on the door.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Aggie came and let me in and showed me into the living-room. I removed my soggy shoe and sock. She took them off into the kitchen. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Miss Jackson was sitting by a blazing fire. She seemed amused by my misadventure. She told me to sit by the fire and warm my naked foot.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">She said: “So, Mr Conway, how long have you been in advertising?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The idea that this woman, however bizarre, should think that I was in advertising was too much for me. I told her the truth, that I was simply a friend of Orson’s, who had come along to keep him company.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“So what do you do then?” she asked. “What are you in?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">There’s nothing I hate more than people asking me what I do or what I’m in. Because what I do, or what I’m in, is not, in my book, who I AM. Who I am is the Great Me, and I do wish that people would see that and stop asking me what I do all the time.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I’m not in anything,” I said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Oh, you’re unemployed.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I suppose I could have explained that I was a Master of Wine, who had a very good job in the wine department at Christie’s and a small roster of rich clients of my own who I advised on wine buying, until I inadvertently became an alcoholic and blew everything, but I didn’t.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I just said: “You might say that.” </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Then I looked about me, and added: “This is a very beautiful place you have here, Miss Jackson.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Yes, you’re right. It is.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Some sunlight came in over the lake, across the verandah and through the French windows. I fancied I could see harmless winter gnats dancing in the air out there.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I turned my attention to the fire and toasted my toes. I could feel Miss Jackson staring at me, while I stared at the flames.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Suddenly, she started reciting a poem in her funny little Munchkin voice:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">No!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">No sun - no moon!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">No morn - no noon -</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">No dawn - no dusk - no proper time of day -</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">No sky - no earthly view -</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">No distance looking blue -</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">No road - no street - no ‘t’ other side the way -</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">No end to any row -</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">No indication where the Crescents go -</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">No top to any steeple -</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">No recognitions of familiar people -</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">No courtesies for showing ‘em</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">No knowing ‘em -</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">No travelling at all - no locomotion,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">No inkling of the way - no notion -</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘No go’ - by land or ocean -</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">No mail - no post -</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">No news from any foreign coast -</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">No Park - no Ring - no afternoon gentility -</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">No company - no nobility -</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">No comfortable feel in any member -</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds, -</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">November!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Hey,” I said, “that’s great.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“It’s my current favourite poem,” said Miss Jackson. “I love the way it makes you think that it’s going to be the most depressing poem ever written, and then it turns out to be a joke. Oh, come in, Aggie.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Aggie was standing in the doorway, bearing a tray full of tea things. She brought it in and placed it on the table in front of the fire.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Who’s it by?” I asked.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Tom Hood,” she replied.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">She hopped up onto her feet, waddled over to the piano, took a small leather-bound volume from a pile on the top of it, and handed it to me. It was a collected works of Thomas Hood, 1799 - 1845.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Milk? Sugar?” asked Aggie.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Yes, please. One sugar.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">She handed a cup of tea to Miss Jackson. Then she handed one to me. She started to leave the room.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Wait a second, Aggie, don’t go. If Mr Conway has no objection, you can read his hand for him. Do you mind?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Well, I don’t know,” I said. This was very surprising.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But I agreed. Why not?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So Aggie came and sat herself on a footstool in front of my chair.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Give me your hands,” she said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">She took possession of them. She bent them back and peered at them and wiggled my fingers.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“You’re right-handed,” she said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I am,” I said, moderately impressed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">She then explained to me that my left hand was the hand I was born with, my virgin hand - and that my right hand was the hand on which the story of my life was indelibly written. She took my right hand, palm upward on her lap, and began to study it intently. While she studied it, she continually passed the tips of her fingers over it. It was an agreeable sensation.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">After a while, she looked up at me and said: “There’s a mystery surrounding your birth.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“You mean, his father was the milkman,” said Miss Jackson, amused.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I don’t know. It’s a mystery.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Then it was as though Aggie suddenly saw something in my hand that astonished her.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Have you been ....?” She looked puzzled. “Have you been ill recently?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“No.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Are you sure?” she insisted. “I mean, really ill. Near death.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">You can imagine how my heart reacted to this inquiry. It started leaping about and banging against my ribs.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I shrugged and said: “Not particularly.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What is it, Aggie?” Miss Jackson wanted to know.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Nothing,” said Aggie, in the hurried tones of one who means the direct opposite of nothing. “I’m sorry. Excuse me. Excuse me.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">She let go of my offending hand, stood up and retreated from the room.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">As she exited, Orson entered, in his stockinged feet.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Excuse my feet,” he said, “I left my shoes out on the verandah.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Help yourself to tea, Mr Lawson.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In the event, I poured a cup of tea for Orson, while he launched into his location-finder spiel, explaining how he’ll have to show the photographs to the director and the agency producer and the copywriter, and that if they like them, then he’ll have to bring them down to have a look at the place.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Never mind all that,” said Miss Jackson, “how much are you offering?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Well,” said Orson, in the manner of one dispensing largesse, “I am in a position to offer you a facility fee of £200.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“If I remember rightly, Mr Lawson,” said Miss Jackson, “the last time you were down here, you offered me the same £200, and that was four years ago.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Was it that long ago?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Yes it was. I’ve checked our correspondence. And I’ll tell you right now that my fee for a day’s filming here has now risen to £1000.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Ah,” said Orson, “well, I don’t know about that. I’ll have to get back to my people. I think, obviously, the best thing would be for me to bring them down here first, then provided we agree in principle .... “</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“There’s no principle about it, Mr Lawson,” said Miss Jackson. “I know all about commercial filming, and if you want to do it here, it’s going to cost you a grand a day.” She smiled at him. “In cash.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Which, more or less, brought the conversation to a close.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We said our goodbyes. Orson rejoined his shoes on the verandah.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Aggie brought me my sock and trainer from the kitchen, where she had successfully managed to dry them out.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I said to her; “So, what was it you saw in my hand?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Nothing,” she said</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">She hastily put the cups back on the tray, which she gathered up, and bore away.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I stood up. Miss Jackson stood up. She was a good head or two shorter than me. I looked at my right hand. Miss Jackson looked at it too. I put it in my pocket.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A toot told me that Orson had made his way round the side of the house and was now waiting for me in the car.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Miss Jackson picked up the Thomas Hood and walked with me to the front door.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">At the front door, she said: “Would you like to borrow this?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">By “this”, she meant the Thomas Hood.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I meant to say no thank you very much, but it came out as: “That’s very kind of you. Thank you.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">She said it was a pleasure, wished me au revoir, and I climbed into the car.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Orson was amused.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Well, well, well,” he said. “She obviously fancies you. You’ve pulled. God, can you imagine doing it to her?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“That would be quite a challenge.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Don’t you love the wig?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Do you think it’s a wig?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I know it’s a wig. I’m telling you - that is a wig.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I fell asleep on the motorway and woke up when the car stopped and we were back home in London. Orson went down to his flat. I went up to mine.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The bloody television has broken down. Can you believe it?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But more than that, I am now sitting here in the kitchen and I find that I can no longer dodge the following vital question: Am I immortal? And if so, what am I going to do about it? What AM I going to do?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I love that this was such a lengthy chapter. Check back tomorrow for The Ninth.</span></div>
Charlene Martelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08780533933122108482noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5343757567267889654.post-7159139770180283842014-11-07T09:00:00.001-05:002014-11-11T07:04:38.637-05:00November: The Seventh<div align="justify">
<img align="left" border="0" src="http://i168.photobucket.com/albums/u164/charlenemartel/November_zps21f6a849.jpg" height="160" hspace="10" />Our daily adventure continues right here with The Seventh instalment of November: Ralph Conway's Immortal Diary. If this is your first day with us, I'd recommend you click <a href="http://www.theliteraryword.com/2014/10/how-many-times-do-you-have-to-die.html" target="_blank">here</a> for links to the preface and previous instalments.<br />
The content appears here on The Literary Word courtesy of Table 13 Ltd<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">THE SEVENTH</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Envelope Sunday!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Earth has not anything to show more fair:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> Dull would he be of soul who could pass by</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> A sight so touching in its majesty:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The City now doth like a garment wear</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> Open unto the fields, and to the sky;</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Never did sun more beautifully steep</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> In his first splendour valley, rock, or hill;</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Ne’er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> The river glideth at his own sweet will:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> And all that mighty heart is lying still!</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I really do not know WHAT to make of all this. I seem to have died and come back to life as myself. I mean ..... oh dear ..... oh dear, oh, dear, oh dear, OH DEAR.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Now hold on.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Since I was about to die, I decided to open the 1971 Yquem. What difference would it make?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I opened the bottle and poured an inch of the wine into a glass.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I looked up through the roof, to see the waning moon, clumsily suspended in the sky - over the high-rise blocks. I half expected something in the nature of a portent or a sign. Nothing. I turned my attention back to the Yquem in the glass on the round kitchen table before me. Château d’Yquem. 1971. Sweet golden perfection. Nowhere near ready to drink, of course. This was a wine that would outlive me even if I wasn’t about to die. Even so, as a last sacrament, in a suicidal situation, well, I can’t think of a better wine pairing, can you?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I extricated the tiny tablet from its plastic envelope (Envelope!), held it between my forefinger and the ball of my thumb, and placed it on the back of my tongue. I picked up the glass, raised it. Intense aromas of butterscotch, caramel, peel, peach and plum - honeyed happiness assailed my wine-starved nostrils.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Then I swallowed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The last thing I remember, I was sitting there wondering what …. and how ….. and then ……..</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">How can I put this? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">As the Instant Death dissolved inside me, it was as though it started turning into a huge sort of laugh - which began to roar around and completely fill me up, as though I was hollow, with this vast giggling hurricane of amusement, hurricane of hilarity. And I do actually remember thinking: Death is a laugh. Death is a laugh. Perhaps I even muttered it aloud.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But then - you know how you normally think of yourself as one thing, and the air as another thing, and the furniture as something else, and the walls and whatnot as something else again .....? Well, suddenly, I began to see, literally see, what one knows to be true, that all those separate things, including me, are made of atoms, which are all exactly the same. The television is made of the same stuff as the dresser, on which it stood, which was made of the same stuff as the door and the sofa and the window and the moon and the sky and the Yquem bottle and me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And as the Instant Death dissolved into laughter, the laughter spread out through the atoms of my body, touching and tickling them, through my skin, and touched and tickled the atoms of the air, infectiously, so all the air began to move and giggle, in turn infecting the atoms of the fridge and the telephone and the dart board and the moon and the whole house and everything. Terrific!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The next thing I knew, I was standing on Westminster Bridge, shivering.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I did not have the faintest idea how I came to be standing there. The only way I could explain it was to say that I had dissolved or dematerialised or whatever it actually was that I did do - and that I had come back together again on Westminster Bridge.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">What was I doing there? The phrase “Earth has not anything to show more fair” popped into my mind by way of an answer. Well, fair enough. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I looked up at Big Ben, which started to chime. Six o’clock on a damp horrible Sunday morning. I looked down at the Thames. A lot of words have been written about the Thames over the years, and I have nothing overly profound to add at this juncture – except that, well, apart from the fact that I had never seen anything that looked less like a river and more like a species of glittering reptile. But leaving that aside, the thing was, you see, whereas up until this moment the Thames had always had its source somewhere off in the Chilterns, or wherever it was, this new reptilean river’s source seemed to be situated inside me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Then, when I came to think of it, I realised that this applied to everything. I once read this story by that Brazilian writer, Borges. Or is he from Argentina? I can’t remember. Wherever he’s from, it’s an extremely short story, and it is called “Pierre Menard - Author of the Quixote”. At least, I think that’s what it’s called. It’s about this character, Pierre Menard, who rewrites Don Quixote - and although his version is word for word exactly the same as the original, it is however completely different and new, because it is now by him, Pierre Menard, instead of by Cervantes.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I mention this, because I was feeling extremely Pierre Menardish vis-a-vis the entire universe, which, it seemed to me, I had just recreated. It was mine. Mine. All mine. The bridge. The Houses of Parliament. That bench. That tramp. That boat. That policeman. That car.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">That policeman! That car! That approaching policeman! That car, which looks incredibly like Joan’s car. Joan always tells me to call it our car, but I always think of it as Joan’s car. And indeed it does belong to her. But what was it doing here, illegally parked on Westminster Bridge? There was no time to dither. I walked round to the car. The door was open. It WAS our car. The key was in the ignition. I looked in the mirror. The policeman was a matter of yards away. I started the car and drove sedately off the bridge.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I was driving past Buckingham Palace and wondering what the Queen, who was in and probably asleep, would think if she knew that I had just recreated her, when it struck me that I was wearing my raincoat. I hadn’t been wearing my raincoat when I was sitting at the kitchen table. I had been wearing my grey flannel trousers, very dirty, an even dirtier pair of tennis shoes, a T-shirt and my pink cashmere pullover, which Joan gave me last Christmas. I was still wearing these items of clothing. But I can’t remember donning my mac. I must have put it on before leaving the house, which I don’t remember either, and climbing into the car and driving to Westminster bridge. So when did I die? I don’t know. This is all extremely confusing.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I pulled up outside the house, parked the car, climbed out, and shuffled my way through the fallen leaves that littered the pavement, in through the gate, and up the steps which lead to the front door. I let myself in with the key, which I was relieved to locate in my raincoat pocket. The hall, common parts, was dark and damp. Sunday papers on the mat. The paper boy had been and gone. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I opened the front door of our actual flat and stepped into the kitchen, hoping for one brief moment that it might by some further miracle be transformed and tidy. It wasn’t. Indeed, through my new-born eyes, it seemed to be much much worse than ever I remember it being before. Maybe I should tidy up?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I dropped the Sunday papers on a chair and nipped through to see how old Joan was doing. Still asleep. I went back to the kitchen.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I decided to do the washing-up. There was the Yquem. I did not tip the rest of the bottle down my throat, then pick up my corkscrew and raid the remaining cellar and drink myself into a stupor. I put it away in the fridge.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Now for the Marigolds. I found the left one, pulled it on, but could not see the right. Looking about the room, I noticed a stack of envelopes on the kitchen table, piled up on top of this book - this one here in which I am now writing this. There was the little plastic envelope, which had contained the Instant Death, which had been no bigger than the full-stop at the end of this sentence●</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I sat down and looked at these envelopes. They were pink envelopes. I glanced over at the drawer in the dresser where these envelopes are usually kept. It was pulled open. I went and checked. There were no envelopes in the drawer. I deduced that I must have taken the envelopes out of the drawer. I sat down and inspected them.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Don’t ask me why - but I seem to have written the word Envelope on the front of each envelope and then sealed it. They were all sealed. And each one had the word Envelope on the front, written on the pink in blue ballpoint ink. Envelope. I felt each one of them. I ascertained that I had not put anything in these Envelope envelopes before sealing them.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I counted them. There were thirty-one of them. Joan bought fifty in a sale a few months back. I wondered what to do with them. What I did with them was I found another envelope, a big buff one, and put all the pink Envelope envelopes in this one big envelope, and sealed it, and, after some consideration, wrote Envelope envelopes envelope on the front of it. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Envelope envelopes envelope.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I stared at this for some considerable time. These three words filled me with a huge amount of pleasure.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Envelope envelopes envelope.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Envelope envelopes envelope.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I was on the verge of submitting to total palilalia with regard to envelope, envelope, when I saw a book lying open on the sofa and wondered what it was. It turned out to be Joan’s Oxford Book of English Verse. It was open at page 615, poem 534. “Upon Westminster Bridge” by William Wordsworth: “Earth has not anything to show more fair ....”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Well, there you are. For some reason, I had had recourse to this book - and so on and so forth.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Then I looked at the note which I had left Joan at the end of my last entry here, and I must confess that I could not help feeling glad that I was not lying dead at the kitchen table, and that Joan was not going to wake up and walk in and find me and read the note - and that I had instead come back to life again as myself …….. if that is what happened. Obviously, the first thing to do was to speak to Orson. But how was I going to put it? What exactly was I going to say? Anyway, it was too early to disturb him on a Sunday morning.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I picked up this book and the envelope envelopes envelope - envelope envelope envelope envelope - Stop it! Shut up! Stop it! Envelope! And put them away in my private tuck box down beside the sofa.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Then what did I do? Not the washing-up. Too banal. And suddenly I was tired. I pulled off the left-hand Marigold, tossed it into the sink, went into the bathroom and brushed my teeth. While I was brushing them, I found myself looking at myself in the mirror, and I noticed that I was grinning. In fact, I looked as though I was quite happy, which came as something of a surprise.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I went to bed, slipped in beside Joan. It was another world in there, a small warm animal world. In her sleep, Joan, the small warm animal, snuggled up to me. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It was three in the afternoon when I awoke. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Joan was in the kitchen watching “The Prisoner of Zenda” with Ronald Colman, the good one. I attempted conversation, but she was engrossed and unresponsive.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Well, I’m going to see Orson,” I said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I went out the back door, down the steps into the garden, where it was raining, and knocked on Orson’s living-room door. He was also engrossed in “The Prisoner of Zenda”, and he had company: a young man, whose name I think was Steve. Or Phil. I can’t remember. So Orson had pulled last night.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Take a pew,” said Orson. “This’ll be finished in a bit.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I sat in a chair and stared blankly at the antics on the screen. I glanced at the occasional table on my right. On it was a sheet of white paper to which were adhered four black and white Polaroid photographs of one of the most enchanting country houses I had ever seen - set on a hill, sloping down to a lake, surrounded by woods. And in the middle of the lake there was an island. The information on this sheet said that it was called Sidewood House.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I sat there, imagining what it would be like if I could live in a house like that. If I was rich, if I owned such a place, I thought, if I called the financial shots, I thought, if Joan was financially dependent on me, I’d soon put a stop to this children and marriage and hunger strike business. Perhaps though, if I owned a house like Sidewood, I would feel very differently about the whole thing. Perhaps I would want to have children. A house like that needs children - about four or five of them. I saw myself and Joan in this house, surrounded by our three boys and two girls. Number one son. Number one daughter. Number two son ……. and the Twins. Not to mention the dogs, the nanny, the gardener and Mrs Whatever, our utterly treasure-like house-keeper.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The film ended, and Orson, male chauvinist pouf that he is, sent Steve or Phil into the kitchen to make some tea.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“He’s cute, isn’t he?” said Orson.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Whatever turns you on.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">He stood up and wandered into the kitchen.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Alright?” I heard him saying.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Orson’s guest answered in the affirmative.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What’s this place?” I asked, referring to the Polaroids of Sidewood House.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“It’s a bit of a drag actually,” said Orson. “I’ve got to go down there tomorrow.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“For a location?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Yeah. Why don’t you come with me?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Well, I ....”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Come on. It would be great if you came.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Alright,” I agreed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Thingy entered with the tea.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I think I’ll leave you two to it,” I said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Joan was reading “Joy of Cooking” in the kitchen, when I came home.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“How are you exactly?” I asked.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I’m perfectly well, thank you,” said Joan. “How are you? You look dreadful.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“It’s from worrying about you.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Huh!” snorted Joan.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Aren’t you hungry?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“No. Not really.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Well, I’m going to read the papers.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I took the Sunday papers into the bedroom, flopped down on the bed and began to read them. Zonk! The Mogadon press strikes again. In seconds I was fast asleep.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When I awoke, it was dark, and Joan was in the bed beside me - asleep. I extricated myself from her and snuck out here into the kitchen. I heated up some of the left-over stew, put it on a piece of bread, and ate it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Then I wrote this. Any second now it will be midnight and the end of Envelope Sunday. Envelope envelope Sunday. Envelope envelope envelope Sunday. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Ralph!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Envelope.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">How are you liking the chapters so far? Check back tomorrow for the Eighth</span></div>
Charlene Martelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08780533933122108482noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5343757567267889654.post-85776402023923049722014-11-06T09:00:00.000-05:002014-11-11T07:04:52.597-05:00November: The Sixth<div align="justify">
<img align="left" border="0" src="http://i168.photobucket.com/albums/u164/charlenemartel/November_zps21f6a849.jpg" height="160" hspace="10" />Our daily adventure continues right here with The Sixth instalment of November: Ralph Conway's Immortal Diary. If this is your first day with us, I'd recommend you click <a href="http://www.theliteraryword.com/2014/10/how-many-times-do-you-have-to-die.html" target="_blank">here</a> for links to the preface and previous instalments.<br />
The content appears here on The Literary Word courtesy of Table 13 Ltd<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">THE SIXTH </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">For the old boot’s birthday, I bought a dozen red roses and a copy of Anthony and Araminta Hippisley Coxe’s “The Book of the Sausage”, knowing full well that there’s almost nothing that Joan can resist less than a sausage.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">She opened the book and grunted - barely glanced at the flowers. She went straight for the attached card with a hopeful look on her face. It read: “Happy Birthday. I love you. Ralph.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“You termite,” said Joan, having read this message.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What did you expect,” I asked, guessing what was in her mind, “a proposal?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“If you had any class at all, .....” said Joan and left the conditional clause hanging, like a pickpocket on the gibbet turning in the Tyburn breeze.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It was no good saying that I had actually considered saying this, although I had actually considered it. Really. In the florist. In a romantic upsurge that practically had me in tears there in the shop, it came to me that the only present that would really be appreciated was a card with the words “Will you marry me?” on it. But, and here’s the nub of it: Joan knows full well that I don’t want to get married. I mean, if I was going to get married to anyone, I’d doubtless get married to her. But I don’t want to get married to anyone.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But strewth. Come the dinner party.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The guests were supposed to be Eric and Chloe, Orson and A.N.Other, and Fiona, Joan’s boss from the restaurant, with her boyfriend, Dick. Well, Dick’s one of the millions who now work for Channel 4. He’s some species of writer and he claimed he had some deadline breathing down his neck. The fact of the matter is that he thinks we’re all beneath him. Dick the dickhead! And what with Joan being off work, and one of the other girls being sick or something, Fiona had to cover for her. So, so much for them.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And, despite the fact that Orson has been diligently slutting off to the Subway for the last few nights, he failed to come up with an A.N. Other, so it was just Orson, Eric, Joan, Chloe and me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">While the five of us were sitting down, and I served the first course, Eric was telling us about this fireworks party he went to last night, where, instead of setting off fireworks, they burned money.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I was shocked. “That’s disgusting.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“No it’s not,” said Eric. “I mean, Dave reckoned he’d spend about two hundred quid on fireworks, which is two hundred quid up in smoke anyway, so he reckoned it would be more of a gas to burn the actual money.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I put Joan’s starter in front of her.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Who wants mine?” she said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“But darling,” I said, “it’s shrotted pimps. Your favourite.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Look,” said Joan, “you may as well all know, I’m on hunger strike.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I’ll have them then,” said Eric, who is phenomenally greedy.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Eric!” Chloe remonstrated, as he tipped Joan’s portion onto his own plate and tucked in.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Then Chloe said to Joan: “What is this? What’s going on?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So Joan explained that she is on hunger strike until I say yes or no to marriage and children and all that crap. Chloe’s reaction was typical. It was all my fault. She laid into me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Oh come off it,” said Eric, through a mouthful of shrimp, “she’s not serious.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I am,” said Joan.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Why don’t you want to marry her?” demanded Chloe.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I don’t see why I should get married, if I don’t want to,” said I.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Well why not?” Chloe persisted. “What have you got against getting married? Everybody gets married. We’re married.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Oh Lordy, Lordy,” said Orson, who becomes markedly camper after sundown “you breeders are so defensive.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Please don’t call us breeders, Orson,” Chloe snapped. “I find it incredibly rude.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“QED,” said Orson, archly.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“You should get married, you know,” said Eric.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Why?” I wondered, standing up and clearing the plates.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“The presents,” said Eric. “That’s why we got married. We really cleaned up on the presents. You’d be amazed how well you can do if you invite the right people.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“That’s it, is it?” I inquired, testily. “The only reason you two got married? So you could get lots of presents?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“God, Ralph,” said Chloe, flicking her expensive fringe, “you are so bourgeois.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“That’s pretty rich,” I said, “coming from you.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Hey, man,” said Eric, “what happened to your sense of humour?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I don’t have a sense of humour,” I replied. “All I have is a sense of ……..”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I stopped, and they all looked at me, expectantly.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What do you have a sense of, darling?” Joan prompted.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Doom,” I said. “Impending doom. Tinged with disgust.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">That shut them up, while I dumped the plates in the sink. I switched off the oven, and the gas beneath the potatoes. My timing was perfect. I drained the spuds in the colander, put some milk in the now empty saucepan and boiled it. Then I put the potatoes back in the milk with a couple of ounces of butter - and mashed the fuckers to perfection.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">While I was doing this, Eric, typically, rolled a joint.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Now, my dear,” said Eric, “I’ll bet you anything you like you can’t smoke this joint without succumbing to overpowering munchies.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Eric lit the joint and handed it to Joan.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“No thanks,” said Joan.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“She doesn’t need dope,” said I. “I defy a man who has just eaten an eight course dinner at the Dorchester to be able to resist a portion of my stew.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I placed the casserole on a mat on the table and removed the lid. Ambrosial fumes rose into the atmosphere. A rocket exploded in the sky above us - we all looked up through the kitchen’s glazing and watched the stars fall down.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Chloe had one helping. Orson and I had two helpings. Eric had four helpings. Joan’s only comment on the stew was that she thought it looked too oily. This was an outrageous statement.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“You always make it too oily,” she said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I always make it exactly how I like it,” I said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Look, I’m sorry,” she said and stood up and went to bed. Chloe followed her through into the bedroom.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What I suggest,” said Eric, who was busy rolling another joint, while Orson cleared away the plates, and I retrieved the cake from its hiding place on top of the fridge “is that you make a suppository of this excellent Red Leb and slip it up Joan’s bum, when she’s asleep.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said. “She’d wake up.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Not necessarily. You could borrow some of Orson’s K.Y.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Up yours,” said Orson.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I put the birthday candle on the cake.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Chloe marched back into the room.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“She really is on hunger strike,” she announced. “She hasn’t eaten since Monday night.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Shit,” said Eric. Then he said: “Mind you, it’s not all that long. She’ll never last.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What are we going to do about it?” asked Chloe, glaring at me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“We?” I wondered.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Alright, what are you going to do about it?” </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll deal with it.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Don’t interfere,” said Eric <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“If you think ....,” Chloe began.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Eric, give me your lighter,” I said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Chloe went on: “If you think that I am going to stand by and do nothing while my best friend in the whole world .... “</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I thought I was your best friend in the whole world,” interrupted Eric.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">He handed me the lighter, and I lit the candle on the cake.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“While my best friend in the whole world, “Chloe persisted, “starves herself to death, because this wimp is too wimp-like to make up his mind, you’ve got another think coming.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“There is no way,” I said, “that anybody is going to let Joan starve to death.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What are you going to do, Ralph? Force feed her?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Look,” I said, “she’s bound to realise that I’m right, long before we reach that stage. Come on.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I led the way through into the bedroom, carrying the cake. They followed me. There was Joan, propped up against the pillows. We sang Happy Birthday To You, then I took the cake over to her, and Joan blew out the candle.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Orson said: “I hope you made a wish.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Of course,” said Joan.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What did you wish?” Eric demanded.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“She can’t tell you that,” said Chloe, “or it won’t come true.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Ralph knows what I wished for,” said Joan, wistfully, “don’t you, darling?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Orson came to the bed and kissed her. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“You look like La Dame aux Camélias, darling. Happy birthday. Must dash.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Where are you slutting off to?” Eric wanted to know.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“None of your business” said Orson. And off he went.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I don’t suppose there’s any chance of actually eating any of that cake is there?” asked Eric.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I think we should just go,” said Chloe.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I want some cake!” Eric complained.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Why don’t you take it with you?” I suggested. “You can give it to the kids.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Well, Joan wasn’t going to eat it. And I’m not really a cakey person.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I put the cake back in the box and handed it to Eric, and they left. I saw them out.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">By the time I returned to the bedroom, Joan was asleep.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So I came into the kitchen and surveyed the mess. A firework exploded not far off. I jumped. It’s bad enough having to put up with them on Guy Fawkes night - but this day after business is too much. When I take over, I shall put a stop to it. I began thinking about this party that Eric went to yesterday, and this friend of Eric’s - the money burner. The more I thought about it, the more depressed I became.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I took this book out of my tuck box, sat myself down at the table, and now I’ve written all this down. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I thought that writing things down was supposed to cheer you up, put things in perspective, get them off your chest.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Well maybe it does. Maybe it does make you see things more clearly. And what do I see?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Nothing. I see nothing.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">You know, I’ve been following the harvest in Bordeaux. All indications are that 1982 is going to be a mother of a vintage. Great early flowering in June. Hot July. Slightly shaky August, admitted, but then an absolute cracker of a heatwave in September. So, super-ripe fruit and fantastic tannin levels. The way I see it, 1982 could be another 1961 or 1966.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And I won’t be able to taste it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Because I’m a fucking alcoholic.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And I know that just one sip and I’ll be back in the gutter from which I was rescued by Joan.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I thought that I was the Master of Wine, but wine became the Master of Me. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">If I was a pianist, and devoted my life to becoming the world’s greatest pianist, and then Mozart came back to life again and wrote his finest concerto just for me, and then some mutant gene caused me to walk into a saw mill and chop off my hands …… well, you get the picture.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I have decided to take the Instant Death pill. I’ve just stood up, crossed the room and reached it down from the top of the dresser. It’s now sitting there, in its little plastic bag, in the egg cup, on the table here in front of me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My darling Joan - This has absolutely nothing to do with you. I have simply decided that I no longer want to be a member of a species that burns ten pound notes as a joke. Be happy to live - as I am more than happy, nay eager, to die.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">All my love. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Ralph.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I am so eager to see what tomorrow brings...</span><br />
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
Charlene Martelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08780533933122108482noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5343757567267889654.post-27118756590306255232014-11-05T09:00:00.000-05:002014-11-11T07:05:01.498-05:00November: The Fifth<div align="justify">
<img align="left" border="0" src="http://i168.photobucket.com/albums/u164/charlenemartel/November_zps21f6a849.jpg" height="160" hspace="10" />Our daily adventure continues right here with The Fifth instalment of November: Ralph Conway's Immortal Diary. If this is your first day with us, I'd recommend you click <a href="http://www.theliteraryword.com/2014/10/how-many-times-do-you-have-to-die.html" target="_blank">here</a> for links to the preface and previous instalments. I'm enjoying this serialization!<br />
The content appears here on The Literary Word courtesy of Table 13 Ltd<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">THE FIFTH</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Fireworks night. Big deal.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Horrible weather - grey, damp and soupy.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I drove up to Waitrose in Finchley Road, parked in the car park, bounced up the stairs and commandeered a trolley.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I wondered whether I should include Joan in my calculations. Of course I should, and I did. In the end, I opted for potted shrimps, because Joan can’t resist them, the ingredients for my famous stew and fresh fruit. I chose one beautiful bunch of grapes, then had to put them back when I realised they were South African. So I chose another bunch, which were not South African, but which were Colombian. I don’t actually have the foggiest idea what the political situation is in Colombia - but all those South American countries are highly suspect, so I also put back this second bunch of grapes. Then the oranges were Israeli, and I remembered that Joan was boycotting Israeli produce for some reason or other – mainly, I think, to annoy Eric. Bananas? We could have banana custard! I love banana custard. But could I then be accused of supporting banana republics? I began to have a nervous breakdown. Fucking fruit. It’s a minefield. Then I looked into my basket and wondered if my potatoes were in any way connected with the IRA, and should I put them back? But you can’t have stew without mashed potatoes, so I thought, sod it, and went to buy a cake. And a candle.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When I staggered in with the provisions, Joan was snoozing in the wicker lounger with the latest Jane Grigson open on her lap. I thought it was an encouraging sign that she should be reading a cookery book, but looking around I saw no hint of any food having been consumed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I placed my provisions quietly on the kitchen table and started to prepare my famous stew, while Joan dozed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I hid the cake and the candle on top of the fridge. Being fairly short, Joan would have to climb onto a chair to find it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It’s really very simple, but it’s astonishing how many people are incapable of making a decent stew.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I chopped up the onions, nice and small, and bunged them in the oil and butter which was sizzling away in the bottom of the casserole. Right. Now I put some flour in a bowl. Seasoned it. Chop chuck steak into chunks, dunk chunks in seasoned flour, give them a good old fry up in the frying pan and transfer the sealed meat into the casserole, on top of the onions, which were clarifying nicely. I looked across at Joan, and it seemed to me that her nostrils were twitching.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I opened a can of tomatoes and drained off the liquid. Very important this. Drain off your liquid. Salt and pepper. Then the wine. Oh shit. I should have bought a bottle of something suitable, when I was in the supermarket, but I wasn’t about to go back or out. I needed wine then and there, so hey-ho, needs must and all that.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I went to my cellar. Well, it’s a cupboard, inbetween the bedroom and the loo. It’s also my bank.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The cupboard is almost bare. I’ve been selling off the contents in dribs and drabs over the past few years, mainly to Eric. And when what’s left is gone, that will be that. The flush will be truly busted. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">There’s a magnum of 1978 La Tâche from Domaine de la Romanée Conti, a couple of bottles of 1979 Louis Roederer Cristal, one bottle of 1971 Yquem, one case of 1975 Bâtard Montrachet from Etienne Sauzet, a half dozen bottles of 1978 Hermitage la Chapelle from Paul Jaboulet Aîné and a case of 1961 Petrus. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I picked out a bottle of the Hermitage, took it back to the kitchen, found a corkscrew at the back of the cutlery drawer, removed the capsule, inserted the screw, twisted and pulled. Out came the cork with a gentle pop.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Joan opened her eyes.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I hope you’re not planning to drink that, Ralph,” she said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Of course not,” I replied, “it won’t be ready to drink for at least another twenty years.” By which time, who knows, I might be cured.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And then, God help me, I poured the bottle’s beautiful contents onto the meat, put the lid on the casserole and the casserole into the oven.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Is that safe?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“By the time this is done,” I assured her, “there won’t be a trace of alcohol remaining.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Good boy,” said Joan – and yawned – and went back to sleep.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So now, I’m sitting here, writing in my Flying Eagle, with my stew simmering away in the oven there - and Joan’s snuggled up, tucked into her hunger strike.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I have to say this. She looks absolutely adorable. And I might marry her at that. But I certainly will NOT marry her if she remains on hunger strike. And that’s final. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Check back tomorrow for The Sixth...</span></div>
Charlene Martelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08780533933122108482noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5343757567267889654.post-81642667788544984802014-11-04T09:00:00.000-05:002014-11-11T07:05:23.133-05:00November: The Fourth <div align="justify">
<img align="left" border="0" src="http://i168.photobucket.com/albums/u164/charlenemartel/November_zps21f6a849.jpg" height="160" hspace="10" />Our daily adventure continues right here with The Fourth instalment of November: Ralph Conway's Immortal Diary. If this is your first day with us, I'd recommend you click <a href="http://www.theliteraryword.com/2014/10/how-many-times-do-you-have-to-die.html" target="_blank">here</a> for links to the preface and previous instalments.<br />
The content appears here on The Literary Word courtesy of Table 13 Ltd<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">THE FOURTH</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Let’s face it,” I said to Joan, “this is obviously your latest and most desperate bid to lose weight.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Joan has one hell of a track record in her quest for skinniness. She’s tried them all. Grapefruit, Scarsdale, F-Plan, Low Protein, High Protein, you name it. She’s tried everything from hypnosis to health farms, from colonic irrigation to weekly injections in the bum up in Hendon with some mysterious clear fluid that was supposed to alter her metabolic rate. I mean, we are talking here about a woman who once ingested a tapeworm. I kid you not. A beef tapeworm. I wouldn’t go near her for three months. Who knew where the damn thing was, and where it might emerge, and what we might have been doing when it did? And what if it ended up inside me? I don’t think I’m particularly squeamish, but that tapeworm – yuck. And did it work? Well, of course it didn’t. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I went to see Larry this morning,” Joan said by way of a reply to this dieting accusation of mine.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Larry the lawyer?” </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I’m getting him to draw up my will.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Oh for God’s sake.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“If we were married, Ralph, you’d get everything automatically. On the other hand, if we were married, I wouldn’t be on hunger strike. Anyway, I’m leaving everything to you.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Thank you very much.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We looked at each other for a long time. A long time. I looked at her speculatively, wondering whether anyone who looks as dotty as that could possibly be serious. It was something to do with what she was wearing. What with all this dieting, Joan’s wardrobe falls into two categories - those clothes out of which she has just dieted, and those into which she is just about to diet - with the consequence that everything she has is either one size too big or one size too small. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Then an extremely interesting thought struck me and I said: “You know what’s just occurred to me? Have you ever considered that if you take the letter t off the word diet you get die?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“No, as a matter of fact, Ralph, I haven’t,” said Joan.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Talking of which, I wonder how old Orson’s getting on.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Why?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“It’s his trial today.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Oh my God. Poor Orson.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I know. Do you know what .... ?” I was about to tell Joan about the Instant Death pill and Orson’s plan to take it, if found Guilty - but, for some reason, I decided to keep it to myself. <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Know what?” Joan wanted to know.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Oh nothing,” I said. “I was just going to say that I’m sure he’ll get off alright. I mean, it’s ridiculous to suggest that Orson would want to murder anyone.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I’ve frequently wanted to murder you.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“There’s a big gap between wanting to murder me and actually murdering me,” I pointed out.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Well, please call me as soon as you know,” said Joan, gathering up her things.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Where are you going?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“To work. Where do you think?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Surely,” I said, “it must be fantastically difficult being on hunger-strike and working in a restaurant at the same time.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“It’s a question of motivation, Ralph.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“How do I know you don’t have snacks when you’re there?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Sit on it,” she said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What about Saturday?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What about it?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">She knew perfectly well about it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“It’s your birthday. And in case you hadn’t remembered, we’re having a dinner party.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“So?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Oh nothing. Nothing at all.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Well,” said Joan.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We looked at each other. Then Joan left. The front door of our flat leads straight into the kitchen. There is no ante-chamber or hall. I mean, there is a hall, but the hall is common parts. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I went and reclined on the wicker lounger beneath the darts board, which is on your left as you enter the kitchen through the front door. On the right as you come in, there is the dresser with the television and the telephone on it. Then there is the end wall, with the door that leads onto the steps that go down into the garden. Against the wall opposite the dresser is our mammoth fridge, the gas cooker and the sink with its double drainer. Next to the sink and directly opposite the front door is the door through to the rest of the flat. And against the fourth wall, the one on the left as you come in through the front door, the one that is opposite the back door, is our sofa. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I don’t know. I like the way I’m describing this, as if I don’t know what it looks like. Who knows? Someday maybe, when I’m dead, someone’ll find this book and read it. And then you’ll know precisely where I am, won’t you? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Hello there, whoever you are.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I lay back and stared through the roof - which is made of glass, this being, once upon a time, a conservatory. Through the mess of wet fallen leaves, I looked up and away toward the west where the high-rise blocks loom against the sky.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I must have fallen asleep. Well, alright, I fell asleep. It was dark when a tapping at the back door awoke me. A grinning Orson was visible through the glass panes in the door.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“The judge threw the case out of court,” said Orson.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I was very happy for him.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I promised to phone the rezzie and tell Joan as soon as I knew,” I said - and suited the action to the word.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Joan could not come to the telephone, so I left a message with the barman, whose voice I recognised, but whose name for the life of me I can never remember.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Just tell her Orson got off.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I could hear the sounds of the restaurant in the background at the othe end of the line, clattering and chattering.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Orson got off?” the barman was repeating, when I heard some kind of huge crash at his end.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What the hell was that?” I asked.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I don’t know,” he said. “I’ll give Joan your message. Bye.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">He hung up. I put the kettle on.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Tell me, Orson,” I ventured, “when it came to it, would you actually have taken that pill?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Well I certainly think I would have done. I mean, maybe at the last moment I wouldn’t have. But I think I would. Remember that series on Strangeways we once watched?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I did. It was gruesome.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Well, there you are,” said Orson. “I just didn’t fancy it.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The telephone rang. This time it was the restaurant calling to say that the crash I had heard, at the end of my previous telephone call, was in fact Joan keeling over under the weight of a trayful of orders. They were sending her home in a cab.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Why don’t you just marry the girl and have done with it?” asked Orson, when I told him that Joan had fainted.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I don’t want to get married.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“The fact of the matter is that if you get married and Joan gets pregnant, she’ll have to give up working and you’ll have to get a job like everyone else.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“That’s got nothing to do with it,” I protested.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Bollocks,” said Orson.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I sipped my tea. Orson gulped his down.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Well, I can’t stay,” he said. “I’ve got to see my accountant tomorrow and everything’s in total chaos.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">He rose to go.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Look, er, tell me, Orson, mon vieux, what were you planning to do with that pill?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I don’t know. I suppose I should dispose of it.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Can I have it?” I asked.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What for?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I just thought it was a very amazing kind of a thing,” I said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Orson paused, then put his hand in his pocket and drew out the tiny black pill, Instant Death, in its little plastic envelope.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“If you want,” he said, and put it on the kitchen table. I looked at it. It seemed to throb slightly - like a small black hole.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I tell you, Orson, I’m glad it never came to it.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“So am I,” said he - and left.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I sat and stared at the pill for some time. Then I thought of Joan heading home. I put the pill in an egg-cup and hid it on the top shelf of the dresser, behind the Charles and Di commemorative Minton wedding plate, which Eric bought me for Christmas.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Do you really mean to tell me,” I asked of a shaky Joan on her return, “that you really haven’t eaten anything since, when was it?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Midnight on Monday,” she said, yawning and heading for the bedroom at the same time. “Can I have a hottie, please?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The weather has been remarkably clement for the time of year, but Joan was shivering.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I made the hot water bottle and took it in to Joan, who was already in bed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“You’re out of your mind,” I said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Joan did not reply. She closed her eyes and subsided into the pillow.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I’d like a glass of water.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I got it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Look, Joan,” I said, setting it down on the bed-side table, “this is bonkers. You can’t expect to be able to do a job like you do and not eat.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">No reply.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“This whole thing is cock-eyed,” I persisted. “Listen, what you said about having children - about deceit being no basis on which to build a human life. So what kind of basis is blackmail for a marriage? Just you tell me that.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But she didn’t, because she was already asleep.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So here I am, sitting at the old table in the kitchen, while Joan snores gently down the passage, and I’m wondering what the hell I’m going to do.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">What do I think of the fact that Joan is leaving everything to me in her will? Well, I don’t think of it, do I? Well, obviously, I am thinking about it. Well, don’t. Just stop it, Ralph.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The Instant Death is in the egg-cup, there behind the royal wedding plate, on the top shelf of the dresser and the more I think about it - the more I think .... oh, I don’t know what to think. I just don’t know. I really don’t.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I don't know about you but I'm looking forward to tomorrow's instalment. Any thoughts so far?</span><br />
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
Charlene Martelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08780533933122108482noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5343757567267889654.post-29239903561515673322014-11-03T09:00:00.000-05:002014-11-11T07:05:41.797-05:00November: The Third <div align="justify">
<img align="left" border="0" src="http://i168.photobucket.com/albums/u164/charlenemartel/November_zps21f6a849.jpg" height="160" hspace="10" />Our daily adventure continues right here with The Third instalment of November: Ralph Conway's Immortal Diary. If this is your first day with us, I'd recommend you click <a href="http://www.theliteraryword.com/2014/10/how-many-times-do-you-have-to-die.html" target="_blank">here</a> for links to the preface and previous instalments.<br />
The content appears here on The Literary Word courtesy of Table 13 Ltd<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">THE THIRD</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Orson popped up this evening. Joan was reading in the bedroom, and I was playing darts with myself in the kitchen, when he tapped on the back door. Joan wandered in when she heard Orson’s voice.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Hello, Orson.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Hello, darling,” said Orson, “how’s the hunger strike going? Have a jelly baby.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">He produced a packet of jelly babies from a pocket, which Joan refused.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Look,” said Orson, “this is ridiculous. Forget Ralph. He’s a busted flush. Marry me instead. You can move in downstairs. You deserve better than this tip.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Busted flush? Is that what I am?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“It’s very sweet of you, Orson,” said Joan. “The trouble is that I love Ralph, even though he’s an amoeba. I wish I didn’t, but I do.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I like the way you’re inviting my girl-friend to come and live with you. Since when did you want to get married? I thought you were supposed to be the last of the red hot homosexuals. What about thingy?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Thingy has been given the claw. Don’t change the subject. What you fail to realise, Ralph, is that I actually love Joan - I really do - which is more than can be said for you.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Look, I love Joan,” I said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Why don’t you marry her then?” retorted Orson.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Oh yes, please marry me, Ralph. Please. I’m absolutely starving.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“That’s not my fault.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Well, is it? I ask you. Is it?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Do you feel alright?” Orson asked of her.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I feel fine”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“You look fine,” he said. “I suppose, if the worst comes to the worst, you’ll lose a few pounds.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“If the worst comes to the worst, I’ll be dead, and then you’ll all be sorry.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Well, I’m famished,” said Orson, “I’ve been driving all day.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“So am I,” said I.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Curry?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Excellent notion. Joan can come and watch.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“It wouldn’t make any difference,” she said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I bet you ...” I began to say and paused to think of a suitable wager.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“You can bet me anything you like. There’s only one thing that can make me eat, and it’s you having the balls to make a decision.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Shall we go?” said Orson, rising.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I stood up.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Joan said: “I’m going back to my book. I’m tired.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“It’s my trial tomorrow,” said Orson, snapping a poppadom in two.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I’d forgotten all about Orson’s trial.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Shit,” I said, “you look amazingly unconcerned.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I’m a fatalist. Pass the chutney.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We ate awhile in silence. Shit chicken khorma. Chickenshit kharma. Orson’s being tried for running over and killing this bloke called ....</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What was the bloke’s name?” I asked.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Tookey.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">This happened last January. And Orson claimed, claims, that he never saw this Tookey before in his life and that Tookey just ran out in front of the car. Tookey, however, with his last gasp, in front of witnesses, accused Orson of murder - and the police eventually decided to prosecute - which presumably they wouldn’t have decided to do unless they had something of a case.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Orson stuck his hand in his pocket and said: “Look at this.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What is it?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Instant Death,” said Orson.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Come again.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It was a tiny black pill in a tiny clear plastic envelope.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“If they think they’re going to stick me in some fucking prison for fifteen years for something that wasn’t my fucking fault, they’ve got another fucking think coming.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Where’d you get this?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I can’t tell you.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What exactly is it?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“All I know is that the quickest, the most painless and the most efficient way of bumping yourself off is to swallow one of these little fellows,” said Orson, helping himself to the last of the improbably technicolour rice.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“How many have you got?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Just the one,” said Orson.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Can I have a look?” I stuck my hand out.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I took the bag between my thumb and forefinger and looked at the Instant Death pill through the plastic. It looked not unlike the full-stop at the end of this sentence.• </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">See you on the fourth!</span></div>
Charlene Martelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08780533933122108482noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5343757567267889654.post-25981536635691377242014-11-02T09:00:00.000-05:002014-11-11T07:05:53.833-05:00November: The Second<div align="justify">
<img align="left" border="0" src="http://i168.photobucket.com/albums/u164/charlenemartel/November_zps21f6a849.jpg" height="160" hspace="10" />Our daily adventure continues right here with The Second instalment of November: Ralph Conway's Immortal Diary. If this is your first day with us, I'd recommend you click <a href="http://www.theliteraryword.com/2014/10/how-many-times-do-you-have-to-die.html" target="_blank">here</a> for links to the preface and previous instalments.<br />
The content appears here on The Literary Word courtesy of Table 13 Ltd </div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">THE SECOND</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Joan tottered in from work at half past twelve this morning and said: “Well?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I looked up from There’s Always a Price Tag by James Hadley Chase and said: “Well what?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Well, for a start, it’s well past midnight.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“How did it go at the clinic?” I asked.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Have you made up your mind?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Look,” I said, “I don’t see what’s wrong with the status quo. We’re both perfectly happy.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Will you or will you not marry me?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Joan, this just isn’t fair.” </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“It’s perfectly fair. You’ve had years to make up your mind. Will you marry me? Yes or no?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“And if I say No?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Then we split up.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“But I don’t want to split up. I like living with you. I love you,” I said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Does that mean you will?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“No, look, wait. Joan. I need more time. Why can’t we just carry on as we are?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Because I want to get married and have children - and you don’t.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Well, I know I don’t now, but I might - later on.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“That’s not good enough, Ralph. I want an answer, yes or no, now.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I glared at her. My teeth clenched. So did my fists.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Well?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Look,” I said, “I know it may sound pathetic, but I really can’t make up my mind and ...” (I summoned up some wrath) “... I don’t see why I should have to make up my mind about something I don’t want to make up my mind about.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Let me put it this way, Ralph. You don’t have to do anything. But I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I am, as of this moment, going on hunger strike.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I thought this was very funny and started to laugh.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I am going on hunger strike, Ralph.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Alright,” I said, “You do that.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">She said she would, and then she went to bed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Hell’s bells. I mean, really.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">At nine o’clock this morning, when Joan awoke, she poked me in the ribs and said: “Ralph, can I have breakfast?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">For a moment, what with having been woken so abruptly, this struck me as a ridiculous question. Then I caught her drift. I remembered that she was on hunger strike.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">There came a knocking at the kitchen door. I slipped out of bed. It was Orson, popping up from down below. Orson came in, sat down at the kitchen table, and I put the kettle on.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Enter Joan from the bedroom.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Well?” she said to me, and: “Hello, Orson.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“So, how’s tricks?” I asked him.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Excuse me,” said Joan, stepping into the proceedings and grabbing them by the scruff of the neck. “Ralph. I want to know whether or not I can have my breakfast.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What’s it got to do with him?” asked Orson, reasonably enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I’m on hunger strike,” said Joan.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Orson laughed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“It’s true,” I said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Since when?” asked Orson.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Since last night,” said Joan.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Oh yes,” said Orson, “what are your demands?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“The demands are that Ralph make up his mind whether or not he wants to marry me.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I retreated to the loo, taking the newspaper with me, and installed myself beneath the Ceiling of Damocles. I was already bored with this hunger strike business, which, apart from anything else, was seeming more and more to me to be a joke in very poor taste. Channel 4 starts today. Whoopee! </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We really must do something about the dry rot in our loo, or one of us is going to end up on the Channel 4 news. Man Killed In Bog Shock Ceiling Horror!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Joan was dressing when I re-emerged, and Orson had gone. I went into the kitchen and checked on the level in the Sugar Puffs packet. She did not seem to have used a bowl. The milk had not gone down.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What have you eaten?” I shouted.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I haven’t eaten a bloody thing, you blurt!” Joan’s sweet voice floated in from the bedroom.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I wandered in there and watched as Joan struggled into her clothes.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I said: “You’ll never do it”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“You’ll be sorry when I’m dead,” was Joan’s reply.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“No, I won’t.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“You don’t believe me, do you?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Of course, I do,” said I. “Come on, give us a kiss.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It was something in the way she wiggled into her skirt that got me going.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Don’t start something you’re not prepared to finish.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I had forgotten. But apparently she really did go to the clinic yesterday - and she really did have her coil removed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Really really?” I enquired.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I’m telling you, Ralph. Now get this straight. There’s going to be no more idle fucking in this house. You either fuck to propagate or you fuck off.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Crikey,” said I.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Crikey indeed,” Joan replied.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">See you tomorrow for The Third. I can't wait!</span><br />
<br />Charlene Martelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08780533933122108482noreply@blogger.com0