Dr. Something and Dr. Nothing

I sit myself down, avoiding the seat with a nasty brown stain on the fabric.  Dr. Something is to my left, and his superior: Dr. Nothing is to my right.  We are in a bare room, with an institutional feel to it; containing cheap, fake brown furniture, and not so comfortable chairs.    On the battleship grey wall opposite me, hangs the type of picture that you would expect to see in a Mental Health Centre: a view of the sea across sand dunes; and a broken wooden fence, of which I expect symbolises something to a psychiatrist.  In the air drifts the smell of sharp disinfectant which should make the place feel clean, but instead makes it seem as though it’s hiding something bad. 

We talk for an hour about history.  The history of me.

It feels easy to talk to him - just a stranger - about the past and present.  He has done this all before though, and I can tell he’s slightly bored; has heard it all from someone else.  How many folk have sat and poured their hearts out to Dr. Something in this sterile room.  I take a sneaky look at what he’s writing and note that he’s filled two A4 pages with my words, all in red ink.  I gaze out of the window and the earlier winter sun has been replaced by snow, a blizzard in fact - or has more time gone past than I thought. 

All of a sudden we are finished: Severe depression brought on by low self esteem and feelings of guilt.  No medication.  Counselling will be needed.  Thank you and goodnight.

Dr. Something and Dr. Nothing shake my hand as I leave telling me that our meeting has been ‘very interesting,’ and that they will be in touch soon.  ‘No it hasn’t, and no you won’t’ I think to myself as I walk back down the lane to my car, which is now covered in snow, my office shoes letting in icy cold water, and me left none the wiser. 

[Originally posted in December 2009.]

  

London

Early evening London;

threading our way home.

Through foreign tourists;

indistinct voices.

Strange sexual languages.

Covent Garden market:

The smell of cooking food;

overwhelms my senses.

Sausages and fried onions.

I breathe in the aroma;

stomach roaring,
like a Trafalgar lion.

Lights all around, shine out;

reminding me of my past.

Crossed eyes;

the blur of crystal bulbs.

Pubs spewing people.

Vomiting them out;

onto cold pavements.

Past dark corners;

feet sticking out of boxes.

Skinny dog, tartan blanket.

Crossing Waterloo Bridge,

unseen below, the grey water;

moves like a snake to the sea.

Concrete eyesores,
on the South Bank.

Pretty coloured lights,

that don’t disguise,

the ugliness of London.

Faces

”Did you see what I did there?” I ask comically, while stupidly pointing at my smiling face.  “Honestly honey, you’re mental; only mental people laugh at their own jokes,” she replies, whilst pulling a stupid mental face herself.  Suddenly, she stops getting dressed and stares at me, “—are you writing that in your note book?” she questions me.

      “No.”

      “Let me see,” says Louise, as she moves across the bed towards me.

      “Tell you what, I’ll write the answer on the back of your hand,” I suggest to her.  I don’t put the answer, but instead write Louise loves Dick on the back of her hand; black ink on pale skin.

      “No honestly,” she asks; now half laughing, half looking serious: “—did you write that in your note book?”

     “Yes,” I answer sheepishly.

     “Yea I thought so.  I know you so well. I know you,” she says pointing at me, her smile not mental: just natural, and beautiful.

100 Words: Bed

9:47am

Lying in a warm bed, sheet pulled out at the edge, listening to the gentle hiss of the motorway. The swoosh of hot rubber on wet tarmac sooths me at this time of day; apposed to the angry rush hour roar from two hours ago.

I feel her body gently slip out, as though into water; and I drift away for a while, floating on an ocean raft. When she returns, it is with a plate of lovely yellow and white scrambled eggs, and a cup of strong tea.

We hide under the covers, and are in heaven.

The Old Man and the Sofa

‘Basically it’s about a man; the sea and a huge fish,’ I reply to my girlfriend’s question, as I lay sinking into our comfortable sofa.  I’m on page 50 of the thinnest book I’ve ever owned, and Santiago is being pulled further and further out to sea - and I have to say; I’m slightly concerned for him.  I so wish the boy had gone with him; Santiago is way too old to be out there fishing alone.  And now he’s hooked this huge Marlin that he desperately needs to catch, but which might not even fit into his boat. 

You should know; that this is the first book by Hemingway that I’ve ever read.  Criminal:  fans might think?  How the f**k has a guy in his 40s, who loves reading, never read any Hemingway?  Or maybe, if you truly love EHs works, you’re feeling insanely jealous towards me?  After all, I have read none of his books – it’s all still virgin to me.

To be honest with you, I just don’t know why I’ve never read any of his books, but here I am now, being towed out into the wide ocean with Santiago, and I’m scared for him.  I’m scared because I can’t tell what’s going to happen.  Is he going to get the fish in; or will it escape, breaking the line, and Santiago.  My money at the moment, is on the weather changing.  The old man seems confident it will hold, but in the distance, I’m sure I can see a storm building on the horizon.

This is what I love about reading non fiction: the escapism, the way you assemble another reality in your head, regardless of your surroundings.  I could be squashed on a busy train; or waiting for a hospital appointment on a hard plastic chair, or even laying on our big comfortable sofa after a day at work.  I could be anywhere in the world, in any circumstance, but a great writer will transport me to another time or place, or even another life.  He can show me things I might never see - great armies fighting each other as the gods look down from above, or two lovers sharing secret, hidden moments together.  I can travel with him to places I will never see in my life; or even histories past that no one will ever see. 

My girlfriend starts to cook tea, while I stay put on the sofa (don’t worry, we take turns at cooking).  At some stage - as the sun dips and darkness creeps in from the east, filling the room with long shadows - she turns the house lights on.  The jangling of pans and cutlery, and the smells of Indian food drift in from the kitchen, as I rejoin poor Santiago, afloat on the sea, which I can hear lapping against the side of his weathered skiff.