[bad end posting] tazia probably sends melanie something for her video too tbh. g-d. someone who knew what his childhood was like. the only person who was even a little bit present for it. she would have so much to say about her friend.

Think of the one who looked after your every need - who taught you to walk and picked you up when you fell. Who took away your hurt and showed you the right way and loved you and bought you shoes.

Miss Nabb Miss Nabb taught us to use the dip pen. It wasn’t easy for any of us but before long her class of nine-year-olds were producing agonised, blotted versions of copperplate script, laying the foundations of adult handwriting. She then - (perhaps as a compensation to the painful slowness and constrictions of this type of writing) - gave us large exercise books which we were to use for ‘rough work’. The idea being that we had total freedom with our rough books; we could use pencil or crayon or whatever we liked. We could write or draw; there would be no rules and no inspections - we could choose any subject and if nothing occurred to us we could write about our home, our family, our hobbies, or what we thought of her - Miss Nabb. We all became writers; we all found our voices and spent our spare moments scribbling about our lives, our pleasures, our displeasures. Miss Nabb never intruded into our privacy by reading our rough books and she would smile when told that a book was full and another one requested. Of course I wrote a lot about Stella - probably saying more than could ever be spoken - and maybe she wrote about me too. As for Miss Nabb - well, she was a genius.

On The Train Mother and daughter - definitely. Daughter, fourteen or so, has her left wrist in some sort of surgical support. Probably broken, or at least seriously sprained; she keeps looking at the plastic clamp with an expression of thoughtful curiosity, as if thinking of improvements in the design. Her mother is watching her - watching her and saying nothing!

Miss Caultart She lived in a beautiful house in the most beautiful street in Warwick - and Warwick has many beautiful streets. Near to the river and the castle. Canaletto, leaving behind his beloved Venice, was a regular visitor to Warwick and he painted many scenes of the town - he said that the river and the castle, from a certain angle, were the most perfect view in England. So Miss Caultart - she was the old lady who spotted me helping an injured sparrow in an earlier story - lived alone in her lovely house. It was unchanged from the Victorian period. I remember it had a tiny room off the hall for visitors to sit and wait to be received. It was a house that was designed to be run by servants, but there hadn’t been servants for seventy years or so, not since Miss Caultart’s girlhood. But she managed. The house had been bought by her father - a Birmingham industrialist, who had sold his factory at the end of WW1 and invested massively in land development. His children did all the right things - the boys went into the military and the civil service and the dim one ‘took the cloth’ i.e. became a minister. Miss Caultart excelled in watercolours and pianoforte. She never married, remaining in the family house as one by one her siblings moved on, and one by one, her parents died. Eventually her brothers and sisters died and she was the only one left. Her father’s trust-fund fell entirely into her lap. As her brother - the clergyman - said to her from his sick bed - ‘It’s all yours now, my girl!’ Each Friday she had her friends in for tea. This was a group of women her own age, who had buried their husbands decades ago. They were all bright-eyed old birds worth zillions. As far as I know she had only one other social activity and that is where I come into the story. She said that she was fond of cricket and one lovely summer we went together to matches at the local club. This wasn’t county standard, it was village cricket, which is England at its most picturesque. Sunny afternoons, smell of mowed grass, men in white, ladies in summer dresses, shouts from the players and a thin applause - perhaps five people clapping. They made a fuss of her at the club - she had her own ‘special’ part of the bench, covered with a nice cloth. I would pass her my field glasses from a leather case worn over my shoulder, and she would follow the action, although mostly vague about the score and certain obscure technical terms. She would raise a hand - a steward would rush over and she would indicate another beer for me and another glass of stout for herself.

From 2016 He came in on Interstate 26, through Jamison and Sangaree - Goose Creek off on the left, and finally Charleston. He had a beer overlooking the Wando River; the waters sparkling in the afternoon sunshine, reminding him of his girlfriend's eyes - the girl he loved - the girl back in Volunteers Ridge, Daufuskie Island, just east of Savannah.

Dr. Stephen Ward’s appointment book would have made interesting reading - many of his patients were public figures, politicians, show-biz, film stars like Sophia Loren. He was the best osteopath in London, certainly the most celebrated. There is a story of how he achieved his top position, how he attracted this illustrious clientele. In the early days, newly qualified and often facing resistance from orthodox medical practitioners, he was struggling to make a living. One afternoon he visited a doctor friend - I think he was a rheumatologist - at a London hospital. His friend was called away and Ward found himself alone in the small office. The telephone rang; he ignored it at first but it continued and eventually he picked it up. The hospital receptionist thought she was speaking to the rheumatologist and asked if she could put the call through. It was someone representing Winston Churchill, asking if he could recommend someone who would examine the great man who was troubled with back pain. Ward replied that the best man in London for back pain was a brilliant young chap called Stephen Ward - ‘and if you can hold on a moment I think I have his phone-number somewhere.’

Pimlico Daydream ......(1968) Afternoon sun shining through dirty windows. A scratched record plays Schubert’s ‘Rosamunde’. Danny appears to be finishing a drawing; not much bigger than a cigarette packet and he’s spent days on it. From the kitchen Big Pete can be heard singing as he overcooks something. And me? I am trying on a new shirt; taking time off work - let them wait - they are lucky to have me.

Stella and the Normans The class was divided down the middle - boys one side, girls the other. Miss Kaye seated her favourites towards the front, presumably it gave her pleasure to see them when talking to the sea of faces. I remember them as very pretty, incredibly neat little girls (we were eight-year-olds) with their pig-tails and pencil boxes. Stella was towards the back. I liked to keep an eye on her. Miss Kaye was an expert in the use of sarcasm. She never needed to raise her voice - that might have caused the head-teacher to look in - instead she would incite ridicule at her victim. We had been studying Norman castles. Our history books showed with words and illustrations what life had been like following 1066 and all that. Miss Kaye told us to close our books and pay attention. She stood at the blackboard and asked the class to describe a Norman castle. A boy put his hand up and called out - ‘It was surrounded by a moat!’ Miss Kaye replied - ‘Yes, very good, a moat.’ She wrote the word ‘moat’ on the blackboard. ‘What else?’ Another boy put up his hand and said - ‘It had slit windows so that you could shoot arrows out!’ Miss Kaye smiled and replied - ‘Yes, they had special windows. What else?’ A girl called out - ‘It had a keep in the middle, and there were kitchens.’ Miss Kaye replied - ‘Very true Tina, they had to have kitchens, didn’t they? Now - let’s hear from someone who never contributes - Stella - tell us what else it had!’ I saw Stella shrivel with terror. She hardly ever spoke, except to one person. She couldn’t get the words out. ‘It...it...it had a well as well.’ Miss Kaye looked at the ceiling. And then she started to laugh. The entire class instantly aligned to her mood - eager to enjoy seeing a victim get it. ‘“It had a well as well!” We must rewrite the history books! It had a well as well!’ All the class was laughing. Miss Kaye set up a chant, conducting, waving her arms. ‘It had a well as well!’ ‘It had a well as well!’ ‘It had a well as well!’ Stella was looking at her hands. And I couldn’t do anything to help her.

As a child Elvis decided that as soon as he left school he would find a way of lifting his parents out of poverty. The fame arrived and the money poured in. He bought his mother a mansion and a pink Cadillac and she watched in dismay at the frenzy of his new world - the management, the boys, the press, the nonstop noise. He loaded her with jewels and fashion but she didn’t want to go out, wouldn’t wear make-up. Her pleasure was feeding her son and her husband; cooking the simple meals - black-eyed peas and cornbread - she had learned as a girl. She remembered how Elvis used to sit in the kitchen with her - but he was no longer around - he was too busy. She used to call her friends in Mississippi and tell them all about her new life - saying that she wished - ‘the family could go back to being poor again.’

Jean......(1966) She worked at the bookshop for about three months. Each morning she would quietly turn up and sit at her table (in the office) very nervous and only speaking about matters relating to work, nothing else. Most of us tried to strike up conversations but she would smile and look down. I began to think she was ill or had been ill. At the start we were curious - only one thing was evident; Ben the manager was respectful and gentle with her - and this promoted the idea that she was the daughter of one of his friends - but no one was sure. She never gave anything away that might have revealed her personality; just a blank mask, a distant hard-to-hear voice, no opinions. She alone is a vivid memory.

Summer ....(the first part got in the newspapers) The school was on fire and we had to get out of the building as quickly as possible. The electric bell was ringing continuously- it was the same bell as the lesson change, but it sounded much louder, so loud that we couldn’t tell what the teachers were shouting. Everyone was running about and the main exit corridor was blocked so children were climbing out of the windows. Once outside we were herded into the playground and sorted into our classes. All the teachers were doing head—counts. It was a lovely sunny day and we were beginning to enjoy ourselves - after all this was better than being indoors. Then word got through that it was a ‘false alarm’ and again we were herded into groups to wait our turns at going back to our lessons. The first batch were marched inside - and then - they came running out, screaming. Apparently there was a fire. Again we stood in our groups and the firefighters arrived. They connected their hose-pipes to the terminals and rushed through the doorway. I had to laugh because over the door was a Latin inscription advocating calmness in all matters. The headteacher started shouting again. There would be a calling of the class registers and then would be free to go home! It was early afternoon and in all the drama and confusion, it hadn’t crossed anyone’s mind to get the school buses sorted out. Rather than wait, and face the possibility of having to stay at the school until normal finishing time, most of us set off walking. But all this about the fire (which turned out to have caused minor damage in the physics lab) is insignificant. The real excitement was the walk home. Russell was with me, along with our friends; we were all in the same class, all fourteen-years-old. We made our noisy way along the country lanes, and the sky was cloudless and farmers were in their fields. And directly in front, always keeping the same distance, was a group of girls - with one of whom - and unknown to my friends - I had sparked off a closeness! She was with her friends and they were laughing about something or other, but the magic was there for me alone. She was communicating with me in her exaggerated gestures and the way she was shaking her head and then turning round and walking backwards. I knew that she liked me because of the way she swung round - no one had ever done that for me before - no one had ever walked backwards.

Russell’s Mother And The Piano Occasionally, when Russell was out, but due home at any moment, his mother - his elegant, charming, distant mother - would come into the room and talk to me. Perhaps she thought that by getting to know her son’s friends she would get closer to her son - to better understand the way his mind worked. Or she would just talk to me, not expecting much in the way of reply. I remember her saying that she was sorry that Russell had given up his pianolessons. She put her hand flat onto the polished top of the piano, as if consoling a dear friend. He was good on the brass, but to her the piano was supreme and she started to explain why. ‘There is no other instrument that can match the piano for range of dynamics and range of expression. A simple phrase by Chopin can be as rich and emotional as anything played on a violin. Listen to this chord - now listen to this one - and this one! I am playing the same chord, just giving extra percussion to a different finger each time. I can change the whole meaning by stressing a different finger! Or if I repeatedly play this same chord with the same pressure - like this - each chord is slightly different - I could play it a thousand times and each would be different.’ And I sat and listened. My head was full of a wider wisdom - I knew - at the age of thirteen - an even greater truth than this. That the arrangement of the furniture would never be repeated - that nothing would be repeated - she would never again stand that way in front of the piano - nor look or sound the same - nor have that vague amusement in her eyes - nor would the afternoon sunlight shine the same way on the glass-fronted cabinets - nor my slight hunger - nor the sinking excitement, the tingling, the banked-down exhilaration at the thought that Caroline was in the house - and might walk in at any moment.

Russell’s Mother Buys a Car Russell’s dad used to be away on business a lot. He wasn’t around all the time, he wasn’t there to do the sort of things husbands and fathers are expected to do – and Russell’s mother made known her complaints. They decided that it would help if she had her own car – she would buy a car and learn to drive – and then she would feel less restricted. I first saw the car when Russell asked me back to his house near the end of the school summer term. It was a fabulous Armstrong-Siddley Sapphire, cream and gold, brown trim, bright chromium grills and a rather grand badge bolted to the front bumper. I stood, lost for words – and Russell laughed and said - ‘My dad will go mad when he sees it.’ - dad was away on business. I don’t think Russell’s mother ever learned to drive, or if they kept the Armstrong-Siddley for long. But one day, during the school holidays, I was invited to join the family on a ‘run to the seaside’. Russell’s dad was wearing tortoise shell sunglasses and his mother looked like a fashion model in cropped slacks, sleeveless top and a wide-brimmed hat. Russell jumped onto the back seat behind his dad, his mother sat at the front and then – joy of all joys – Russell’s older sister Caroline (with whom I had been painfully in love for a long time) came running from the house, followed by two school friends. Russell groaned. Caroline, dressed in sandals, shorts and baggy gingham shirt, loaded stuff into the boot – picnic baskets, beach balls, collapsible chairs and such like. The girls then piled in - squealing and giggling - not a word to me, not even a glance. Five of us on the long leather seat, and by divine permission Caroline was next to me. The car-door was still open and Russell’s dog leapt in and landed heavily on my lap. He was barking with delirious happiness and everyone shouted at him to shut up – he then bunched up and gave ‘half barks’. The sun was shining and Russell’s dad drove fast and the windows were down. I was lost in the chime of the girls voices – the smell of new car and cigar smoke – and the hot pressure of Caroline’s bare thigh against mine. At some point Russell’s mother turned to face me and asked – ‘Are you comfortable, David?’ – and I adopted my ‘Double-lesson of Geography’ face - my ‘Our team lost, but we played well’ face. I replied I was ‘fine, thank you’ and the dog slobbered over my neck and the girls rearranged their tangled legs and Russell muttered about being sick and tired of being squashed and I wanted the ride to last forever – or to crash and die there and then - smiling and choking with happiness.

Very impressed with a young person! Mid to late twenties, astute social observer, cool dresser, humorous and affable; born in Trinidad - a Trinidadian - a complicated upbringing, partly in USA, partly in London - some sort of big deal job in the city - married to an English girl and buying a house ‘by the river’ (it actually has a boat mooring). We chatted non stop for quite a while. He is one of those rare people with whom you can talk forever - endlessly engaging. He was curious about the attitudes of the English during the periods of black immigration; how the public responded etc. He has researched the subject but wanted a ‘live’ view from people who saw it happening. He also wanted to know how we (the public) felt about Malcolm X and James Baldwin and figures such as Lenny Bruce. I came away hoping that I might see him again. But as I was driving home, a thought crept into my mind - ‘Was he taking the piss?’

The Artist.....part 2 Very rarely have I tried to intervene (help) friends with their relationship difficulties but, being young and foolish, I tried to get The Artist back with his adored girlfriend. It was a strange meeting, sitting under the foliage in a Baker Street coffee bar, clutching a shallow glass cup and trying to look wise and conciliatory. It was strange because I was so familiar with her sculpted head - a sublime lump of shiny clay on a rotating platform in the studio. It was as if she had found herself a body, dressed in an abbreviated mini-skirt, tight jumper and wide-brimmed hat. She listened, took in what I said, and replied - ‘Do you want to know why I ended it?’ I didn’t answer. ‘It was all those milk-bottles full of his piss. I told him I couldn’t stand it, but he kept pissing in them and leaving them all over the floor.’

The Artist It was good fun while it lasted but eventually, wearied by his chaotic way of living, she had to finish it. Behind the anarchistic humour and deadly serious creativity, lay a world of despair so powerful that it would engulf and destroy her. So, as gently as she could, she ended their relationship. At first he was extravagantly upset - he moped about, muttering his misery. He had recently completed a sculpture of her head; and I must say, it was brilliant. It had been done in clay and then cast in plaster, impaled on a sturdy iron and mounted upon a stone block. With the head wrapped in a dirty bath towel, he set off in a taxi and gave it to the girl’s mother. From that moment things changed. He said that she hadn’t ‘gone’ - she was still here and always would be. He would never stop painting her.

The Gulf.......1999 The café was crowded so I shared a table with someone who turned out to be a US Marine. This was in Bahrain, in the Persian Gulf, and it wasn’t unusual to see US servicemen, as there is a huge military base on the island. So we got talking about this and that as I looked at his incredible physical presence. He had the body of a wrestler and the face of a twelve-year-old boy - thick neck, thick eyebrows, thick forearms and a watch as big as a tin of shoe polish, fastened with a khaki webbing strap. He started to tell me about his hometown, a small place with a French name, I think it was in Arkansas. He talked about how he missed his family and his mother’s cooking. He missed the friendly waves in the streets - everyone knew everyone else, and how they looked out for each other. The people were decent and honest - they didn’t cheat anyone - children were safe - doors weren’t locked - they lived plain lives - they married girls who would be good mothers - they respected the old people. I listened to all this - aware that he was asking me a question - in fact he was pleading with me. It was in his eyes, his cornflower-blue eyes. His question was:- ’Tell me…what is wrong with this?’

She has a way of sitting - of crossing legs, of tilting her head, of palm-cupping her elbow - and I surprised her (she certainly sat up!), when I gently told her that the way she sits is identical to the way her mother sits, and the same way that her grandmother sits and the same way as her grandmother’ mother used to sit My words had the effect of an unknown, yellowed photograph, a love letter on paper so old that it crumbles, a lost song that was once sung for you.

This is the blessing you can say when you see someone of unusual appearance. Of course you don't need to say it in Hebrew - English is fine but I offer transliteration for the really keen. And you only say it once - the first time you see them! ​בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה יְיָ אֱלהֵינוּ מֶלֶךְ הָעוֺלָם מְשַׁנֶּה הַבְּרִיּוֺת. Baruch Atah Adonai, Eloheinu Melech Haolam, m’shaneh habriyot. Blessed are You, Adonai our God, Ruler of the Universe, who makes people different.

Stella’s House I think I only went into her house once - at least I can only remember the one occasion; not that I remember this one occasion because something memorable happened, because nothing did. We were simply in her house together; two seven year olds. Stella was a solemn little girl who hardly ever spoke but there was absolutely no tension. In the same way, everything she did had a mature purposefulness. Her family were very poor, you could see that, everything looked worn-out, but they did their best to make it look nice. She asked me if I wanted a drink of tea. I asked her if she had anything else, and she replied - ‘No’. She made the tea and filled a teacup - I remember it was chipped and had flowers, and she spooned in a lot of sugar because she wanted to make it nice for me.

This is the Blessing you should say when you see an elephant, an ape, or a long-tailed monkey: ‘Blessed is He who makes strange creatures.’ If you see beautiful creatures and beautiful trees, the Blessing is: ‘Blessed is He who has such in His world.’ (Talmud, Tractate Berakoth 58b)

Development They have built houses - 3,4 even 5 bedroom houses - on the fields of a small farm I knew as a child. Impressive large houses with tiny gardens all huddled together; family homes for happy children. There used to be only one house; black stone and a leaning slate roof; occupied by a mysterious man who, according to my parents did ‘dreadful things to children.’ So I was told that I must never go near. The words ‘to children’ got me - it inflamed an indignation at what was right, and what was wrong. Why was I being warned? It was apparently okay for the man who did dreadful things to children to live in his horrid house and keep sheep and cows and have his beer delivered in a lorry. Would it not have been okay for him to live there if he did dreadful things to grown-ups? I tried to express this line of thinking but was told to shut up and keep away. So I avoided it. Thinking of the man was frightening and I gave him a position of prominence in my Parthenon of Terror - he was up there with my dread of being kidnapped by cannibals or seized by an octopus, or sinking into quicksand, or being squashed and swallowed by a huge snake.

This is the Blessings to be said when you see the first blossom on trees:- 'Blessed are you, Lord our God, King of the Universe, Who did not leave a single thing lacking in His world, Filling it with the finest creatures and trees, So as to give pleasure to all of mankind.' (Talmud, Berakhot, 33.2)

The Watchmaker In his tiny shop, he spends most of the day fitting batteries into customer’s watches. Not very skilled work – for someone who trained at Omega and once repaired high quality timepieces – but he makes steady money. I once asked him how he got started – did he want to be a watchmaker from an early age? He answered me - ‘I never planned being a watchmaker – I didn’t know what I wanted to do. At the last year in school we used to get employers coming round and giving talks. Once a silversmith came and I thought it was interesting – I asked if I could be a goldsmith, but they didn’t do that – I am glad now because gold isn’t easy, it is very soft. So I became a silversmith; mostly doing repairs or commissioned pieces; I also learned engraving. Later, I applied to go over to watches and my firm paid for me to live in Switzerland and I learnt French and German. Years later, I set up my shop and worked on watches, but then quartz came and people stopped using mechanical watches. I do fairly well out of battery replacements – people cannot open their watches themselves. And I deal in scrap gold and when there’s a decent amount in the safe I go to Birmingham and sell it on.’ I think he will retire soon. He’s not that age yet but he looks tired. Not long ago, as he was locking up for the night, he was jumped by thieves. He refused to open the safe and they knocked him unconscious. The shop was closed for three weeks. I have known him for many years and he looks ill – the jewellers glass slips down his face and his hands shake. I have noticed the tricks he uses to steady his hands, pressing his forearms against the counter-top cabinets, but his hands still shake.

I was at an event once - the sort where you sit down at a table for eight and they feed you. On my right a twinkle eyed oldster in a Daks blazer who started to tell me about the business he had founded in textiles. In his wheezy, heavy-smoker - (‘but-given-up-now’) voice he croaked out the words ‘couture’, and ‘fashion‘ and ‘Paris’ and ’bespoke’. I naturally made the appropriate ooo’s and aaah’s and smiled when needed. On my left, an octogenarian woman - sun tanned nut brown - tried to whisper to me. Her eyes narrowed conspiratorially! I put my head to hers - and caught the hot thunder of her voice in my shell-like. ‘Don’t believe a word he tells you - his stuff was market stall schmatter!’

Something Wrong I once saw a rabbit hit by a speeding car - it was thrown up in the air; then rolled; then settled roadside. One second later I saw his/her mate - ears raised, looking back, confused, aware something was wrong. All the laws of day and night broken - as broken as that scrap of warm fur lying roadside.

Love At The Ritz He was in love with her! Right from the time when he was a boy and had kept photograph cuttings of her from magazines tucked inside his bedroom books. Pictures of her concerts pressed between the pages of ‘European Birds - An Essential Guide’. And then he met her; face to face. He interviewed her for his university newspaper. Gushing and nervous, choked by her perfection, he told her that this was a dream and that he had followed her career all his life (he was nineteen). They got along very well. A few months later he received two tickets for a London concert, plus a little note inviting him to tea at her hotel. And so they sat together in a cushioned corner, under chandeliers, glass and gold and glitter, a buzz of conversation, clicking china, a waiter’s squeaky shoes on the marble, a pianist in a bow tie which made her smile. In fact a lot made her smile - she was smiling all the time. He was happy beyond words, happy beyond his dreams, happy to be so close to her, happy to be sharing the same air!

Presence I stamped the snow off my shoes and climbed the eight steps up to the row of doors. The doors were unchanged - still the same heavy mahogany frames and brass push rails; the same polished glass. I thought of my friend Geoff Marshall who, long ago, used to work in this building. Some intuition made me stop and stand still - holding onto the handrail as if time itself was standing still - and all I had to do was breathe very slowly and close my eyes. It is as simple as that...you just have to breathe slowly and close your eyes.

Only Once Countless others will look at this same beautiful coastline and say, in many languages, roughly the same things. As will countless others - millions of them along the chain of the centuries. But we both know, even as we say these same things, that we have had our share and are grateful and accept the sound of the waves saying - ‘For you, never again.’

Man On The Bus I’ll limit myself just to his appearance - just to his hair! Hair that has gone thin and bears no trace at all of its original colour; developing, in advanced maturity, into a yellowish grey, tinged with ginger. Everything will be this colour one day - following an (accidental) nuclear war. His hair is the non-colour of our nuclear winter. The hair, thin and unruly, has been greased into submission and forcefully combed in directions which it would not have voluntarily chosen. The man retains his loyalty to a style that was adopted by the late film-star Tony Curtis - in fact the style was named after him and was hugely popular in the 1950s. Unfortunately, the style requires a fullness in order for the bouffant to be successful and while this may have been the effect enjoyed by the man over many decades, it is no longer achievable. Instead of the luxuriant ripple of hair from each side of his head, meeting and merging at the back like two rivers, or a bird’s wings - instead the strands stand off as if resisting. The strands look like a mesh of metallic wires surrounding the man’s head, rather like some sort of protective helmet.

A Little Boy With A Wise Face! Every afternoon he is with his parents on the terrace. They have their drinks and cakes and ice-creams. The little boy sits and watches - everything! His mother and father aren’t all that young so the little boy must have been a lovely surprise for them. His parents are at the age of seeing the end of their own youthfulness - and because of this they actually understand what being young means. Of course when people are young they have no idea of the meaning of the word. And so his parents are recreating their interpretation of youth - lots of laughter, ‘knowing’ looks, knee-nudging intimacy, secret jokes and oblique references. The little boy is pleased and watches them like a parent.

Balcony Thoughts The balconies have a partition wall on each side to give you privacy. Next door cannot see into your balcony and you cannot see into theirs - unless you lean out, perilously, which isn’t easy because the walls project slightly. The partition walls are about five inches thick; no doubt cheap cinder-bricks skimmed over with cement and then painted. The other purpose of the partitions is to stop a burglar from accessing your room; or making his way along all the rooms in the row. And yet he could still do it - in fact you or I could do it. You would have to stand on the low balcony wall and grip the partition firmly between your palms - and then swing your leg across onto the wall on the other side. Hugging the partition wall tightly you can then manoeuvre your body outwards and across; and then your other leg. Gymnastically this is not too taxing - at ground level! It would feel different on my own third floor, with a leg-breaking thirty feet drop onto grass - and more different still on the ninth floor. Why not try it? Of course there is no need - so why even think of it? But you do think of it, and being a male an odd sort of machismo can start to creep into the mind. - ‘You don’t want to do it because you are afraid - admit it! If you don’t do it you will feel bad about yourself, because it will bring back memories of that work you once did on a roof and everything started to bend and the sky wasn’t straight and they couldn’t get you down. You’ve got to do the things you are afraid of - all the self help books tell you that.’ Anyway...I’m going down for a drink.

Afternoon Adventures Being stalked by the hotel bore - he’s after me because I wouldn’t be drawn into conversation with him last night. He’s English (of course) newly retired, red-eyed, bay-window belly, braying voice deceptively reasonable but ready to pour out the hard opinions. I am sitting in my balcony, at tree top level, watching birds choosing partners - it’s that time of year and they are making odd movements. Every so often he appears - looking for a victim - and I duck behind the balustrades. French children are playing a chasing game on the lawn - I peer over the potted plants and I can hear them chanting - ‘Vite, Vite, Vite!’

Tunisia 2018.......#7 Odysseus docked near here - he dropped anchor and tried to work out where he was. He must have looked at these same rocks and bays, and the same blue/green sea. The sea that had taken so many of his friends - all lost forever - nudged by sea creatures, nibbled by fish, pushed and pulled, helpless and eyeless, losing their weapons and their beads - never again will they kill those they do not hate - never again see those they love.

Love. .....(1962) She was the boss’s daughter; he was the lowest of clerks. She would call at the factory most afternoons, straight from school, and would do her homework or read magazines in a small office near to a loading-bay. And then go home with her father. The boy worked in the loading bay and he fell in love with her instantly - devising pretexts for going through the small office. Sometimes he would linger, pretending to be searching for delivery notes and the like, but secretly eating her with his eyes. And then they started to speak; at first shallow comments but she understood the depth of his compulsion, the force of his need which wiped away caution. He interpreted her stillness as an indication of acquiescence - and would stand beside her and they would talk (one eye looking out for the boss!) and not knowing what to say he would whisper how beautiful she was and how much he loved her. When the big school holidays came round he was very unhappy. She feigned unconcern. Having shared her secret with a friend, this was viewed as the best tactic. The boy explained his plan - every night at 11.00 they would go somewhere to be alone and think of each other. So that is what she did. Bedroom door firmly shut - lying on her bed - just the sound of her breath as the excitement increased - imagining him - not letting him speak - blinking - shocked and delighted.

Visits A very early memory! I was about four or five and I would go with my mother to visit Helen, her eldest sister. On one occasion she asked me what I was doing and I replied that I was... ‘playing with glass.’ Being partly deaf she had misheard me - what I had actually said was...’playing with grass’. There was a minor panic and then everything was sorted out. Thirty years later I was again visiting her - this time she was in a nursing home. She had survived several strokes and could no longer speak and her hearing had gone long ago. The secretary at the home needed to fill in certain details on their paperwork - they wanted to know her date of birth. I told them - 4th April 1888. And then I sat beside her and I remembered that early incident. I wrote down on my pad - ‘I’ve been playing with glass’. She looked at me and raised her eyebrows, and started to nod her head and there was a smile - an unmistakable smile - in her 19th century eyes.

Ablutions He enjoys his cold showers although to be honest he is a bit of a cheat. A real cold shower is when you step into jets of icy cold water and it is the shock that makes you feel good (afterwards). Instead he has a conventional hot shower and then, in bearable graduations, he adjusts the regulator until the water is chillingly cold. Stepping out, feeling pleased with himself, he’s ready to face the world - so to speak. It is so different to how he feels when getting out of a hot bath - emerging shivering - broiled and bleached - dull minded and despondent- staring at his grey/white skin and hearing the voracious gulp of the released plug sucking away his thoughts and energy, sending all his fond dreams down the drain. 

Skill I like watching snooker, particularly the drama of the opening shots. This comes over on TV, but there is nothing like being in the atmosphere of a sports hall and seeing it live. I particularly like the opening shots when the strict formation of the balls is shattered and multiple patterns of possibilities flash across your eyes. And then you marvel at the mastery of the player’s plan - at his skill and intelligence. It was similar when Ian ended his relationship with Lorna. We didn’t understand what was happening. One eye closed to avert distraction, he sent off a perfect screw-ball curling around a delinquent red and knocked a pink on a straight run towards the cushion - where it wobbled deliciously and then plopped into the pocket.

Snow Two people walking in the snow – getting on in years - linking arms – unsteady. Freezing cold; a dusting of snow blowing across their legs. I can see them passing a picnic area and the man is pointing to something. Perhaps they once used it – perhaps a summer day long ago – and started a fire with snapped twigs and watched them crackle and hiss in the flames – yellow and red flames, hardly visible in the sunshine.

Тимошенко Степан Прокопович In the 1960s it was unusual for girls to study engineering - but I do remember one! She came into the bookshop quite regularly, lingering in the sections marked - ‘Engineering, Civil and Structural, Mechanical, Fluid Mechanics, Materials Management...’ and so on. My colleague Frank, gazing at her in wonderment, would sidle up and ask if she needed help. If thinking about someone continuously, and being disinterested in nearly everything else - and if the focus of each day is the possibility of seeing that person are to be taken as symptoms of being ‘in love’ - then Frank was truly in love. At the start of the new academic year I would set up tables and load them with titles on the student’s book-list - many published in the International Student Editions of John Wiley and McGraw-Hill. Frank’s dream-girl would leaf through certain ones, sometimes smiling to herself, sometimes frowning. Once she came to the desk and spoke to Frank - I moved away. After she had left the shop I went across to him. ‘If only you had heard her! He said. ‘Heard her - what do you mean?’ I asked. ‘If only you had heard the way she said “Timoshenko”’.

Cross Street, Manchester I sometimes pass a doorway and the memory comes back, bringing mystery and pleasure across a gap of over fifty years. In that doorway (I’d be happy to take you there!) I came face to face with Benjamin Mendelssohn; an important figure in my early days. He was coming out; I was going in. As usual he was resplendent in dark-blue pinstripe and polka dotted tie, looking every inch an ‘old-world man of letters’ and gentleman-publisher (which he was). There was a young woman with him - mid twenties, very thin and frail, as if recovering from a serious illness. She was so thin that her head appeared to be disproportionately large. She was holding onto Ben’s arm, as if her legs, wobbly as a newly born calf, couldn’t support her. I remember she wore a sheepskin coat with the collar up, and a bright tartan skirt fastened with a huge safety-pin. When Ben spoke to me she looked at me and smiled - but only her mouth smiled, her eyes were dull - smiling wasn’t something she found easy. And I felt that I knew her - she seemed vaguely familiar- but didn’t know how, or why, or when. Because of traffic noise, I couldn’t properly hear what Ben was saying, except it was something like ‘...and let me tell you Anne, David is one of the busiest young men in town. He is so busy that we must not detain him!’ I walked along the corridor struggling to recall how I might have known the young woman.....that tilt of her head...the dark hair that should have been thick and strong, but lay lank and flat....the intelligence in her gaze...the few accented words...the spindly fingers...a writer’s fingers! I didn’t dare seriously to let my mind enlarge any more on this - I felt my legs becoming as unsafe as hers. Was it possible that there had been a miracle - that she had survived - that Anne Frank was alive.

Pret a Manger She’s just finishing her second French Butter Croissant! Why don’t people eat breakfast at home? Anyway, she’s enjoyed it. Delicately dabbing at the corners of her mouth, checking her phone – her face resumes her normal expression. Young people are difficult to read, but she isn’t young – youngish, but not young. She has the face that she has worked for, the face she deserves – she settles, as she sips the last of the cafe au lait, into her true face – the one that the dormant artist in me would like to draw. Instead my heart goes out to her and I wonder if there is someone who can say to her – ‘Tell me what’s wrong.’

‘Who is Sylvia? what is she, That all our swains commend her?....’ (Two Gentlemen of Verona) Well, I could tell him! Sylvia Hulme was twelve and she always had a swarm of younger children around her. I was the same age and was part of a gang and we spent the long summer holidays playing in fields and woods near the lake. Somehow, one sunny day, our two groupings met up, and sat on the ground and talked. One of Sylvia’s friends organised the younger ones and although I couldn’t see them, I could hear them laughing and shouting – and then they started to sing nursery songs. Sylvia was very much the boss but she was also gentle and understanding; she spoke to everyone and used their names – she had a forceful personality. I don’t know how it happened – was there a pretext, had words been exchanged, had I given an audacious signal or had we mesmerised each other? Whatever it was, Sylvia and I got up and walked together into the half light of the trees - the mushroomy smell – the moss and dampness – the sky no longer above and earth no longer below - if you get my meaning. The next time I heard of Sylvia was through a friend who told me that she was having private lessons in book-keeping from the superbly named Mr Byron. Mr Byron was an early-retired teacher – a tormented Romantic figure, fulfilling the promise of his name – from whose house came an endless parade of seventeen-year-old girls, all paying their four shillings an hour to get good ‘O’ level results. I was eager to make contact with Sylvia so I waited across the road, facing the iron gates of maison Byron. She was very beautiful and was amused to see me waiting. Yes, she was having lessons in basic accountancy and no, she didn’t like it. She had other plans – she was joining the Navy, although her parents didn’t know that – yet. And that was it. I never saw her again, or heard about her. I went home, thinking about what she had said – she was going to sea – going to sea, sea, sea. And then THAT afternoon came back – full force. With the wet grass and the smells and Sylvia taking hold of me like someone who knew what she was doing. And beyond our own breathy noises, how we could hear the children singing a clapping song:- ‘A sailor went to sea, sea, sea To see what he could see, see, see But all that he could see, see, see Was the bottom of the deep blue sea, sea, sea !!!’

Sketch of Ricky He is trapped in his house - the centrepiece of complex family disputes - standing at the open fire, sucking on a cigar, discussing business. Talking of the future opportunities! Ignore the multiple bankruptcies, divorces, the ‘pending legal actions’, and the adult children who don’t speak to him. Seeing him like this - you cannot help but be won over. You are drawn into the mood of everything around you - the charming house - (despite the rotting window-frames) - the ticking clocks - the second large brandy - the music of his voice - his yawning cat called Vashti and the sly glances of his flighty young wife.

As Told to Me....#5 ‘When I was young I was ill. How ill? That is impossible to answer. I cannot talk about it because remembering how ill I was could make me ill again. I know some people say it helps to talk about it -‘share it’- and so on, but it doesn’t work for me; quite the opposite. ‘There’s something that really gets me - if I had known the right person at the right time I might not have become ill. I needed something but there wasn’t anything for me. It would have made such a difference - I would have not become ill. ‘But today, when I see someone suffering the way I had - and with all my direct personal experience, I’m sad to say that I am as remote and cautious and useless as everyone else.’

Alex and the Interview...........for Leyla Shortly before the summer of love Alex was shortlisted for a position with MICA (Manchester Institute of Contemporary Arts). They wanted a poet and Alex certainly ticked that particular box. He, and a short collection of other poets were invited to appear before a committee and explain, in twenty minutes, their case for being chosen. Alex was apprehensive about what might be expected of him if he landed the job and we all did our best to reassure him - everyone bought him drinks and said that it was purely topshow - at the very worst he might be summoned if the Queen was visiting the university, of if a janitor won a Nobel Prize. The selection panel was headed by a twinkly-eyed professor who wore corduroy and woolies. In my one and only conversation with him he actually said (I am not joking) that he found young people ‘stimulating’. There was also a female academic who frowned when speaking to a male, but her face illuminated into a ghastly tennis-club-dance smile when speaking to a girl or woman. I cannot remember the other team members. By the way...the good ship MICA sank with all hands in 1992 and a few survivors were washed up on beaches as far apart as Boston and Botany Bay. Some lived on to become visiting professors of this and emeritus professors of that. We all advised Alex to have an ‘early night’ before the morning of his interview. Alas he didn’t listen to our appeals - instead he drank his way down all the pubs as far as All Saints and at some point collapsed. He woke up in his bed-sit room with no memory of how he got there. During the previous evening he had been sick several times and had lost his false teeth. A club he used for after hours drinking, refused him entry and there had been some sort of fight - not serious, but there was an exchange of punches. He turned up, sans teeth and with a swelling on the side of his face darkening ominously - smiling through his hangover and ready to discuss poetry.

Ian again ! It’s a characteristic of young people to take things to extremes - friendships, loyalties, drinking and so on, including of course, romantic activities. Lorna shared a house with a varying number of friends, friends who hardly saw her at weekends because she stayed in her room with Ian, her tireless boyfriend. Occasionally she would emerge, disheveled and heavy-eyed, to load up a couple of plates, mumble a few words and then elbow the door closed. Then there would be a resumption of the various sounds of agony and ecstasy - the thudding of bare feet, of straining furniture, of objects being knocked over. Once, Ian talked about how he wanted to get to the very limit of intimacy; to get ‘beyond’ Lorna’s physical beauty and reach her very soul - her essence. He felt this might be possible by becoming satiated with her body, by reaching so far into his obsessions and compulsions he would find a liberation and cruise on the plateau of a sublime contentment. His efforts were doomed of course. I looked at his haggard face and wanted to tell him not to worry - that everything he searched for was conveyed to him each time Lorna squeezed in next to him, flicked back her hair and gently placed a hand on top of his.

London Night 1964....‘ The French Pub I was standing in the crush at the bar next to a group of ex-Legionnaires (Légion étrangère). Still bolt upright, still with shaved heads, still with fellow soldiers who would die for each other - all roaring with laughter at the mustachioed charm of Gaston Berlemont. Guttural French, harsh desert French - not the Cointreau warmth of Baisers Voles. And then I saw him coming through the door at the top end - the Poet! Blinking (although blind) - shocked by the noise and smell and smoke, hesitating, as if about to change his mind. His friends gathered in the corner, against the wall covered with photographs. They all claimed to be writers but to be accurate not one of them actually wrote anything - instead they got drunk every night and argued about what literature should be about. I saw the Poet shouldering his way through the crowd. Layer after layer of Soho regulars - the loved and the unloved - those who felt at home and those who had no home - the drunk and the diseased - the dough-faced prostitutes - the Cypriot pimps - the unfrocked priests - the newly discharged and recently released - the Trinidad newspaper vendors - the boxing referees - the club dancers clutching their bags of costumes - the fat and the thin - the women dressed as men - journalists - film stars - worldly Americans in tweeds and rimless glasses - a belligerent visitor demanding a pint glass - a wrestler with a young man who looks like a choirboy - a man with scars who (despite the danger!) you cannot help staring at - the loner who desperately want to talk to someone - the blazered bore telling war stories. I put hand on the Poet’s arm and say who I am; I guided him to the poet’s corner.

Learning Our Lesson Whatever she wanted we got her. Whatever she asked for we doubled it. Whatever one of us got for her the other one added to it. Whenever she wanted our time, time stood still for us. Whenever she needed specialist help we begged the services of friends, some of whom have dropped us. There was no end to what we would do for her, but there was an end - and it shocked all of us. People now say - ‘Well, I bet you’ve learned your lesson!’ And we have to agree, and we nod wisely - (knowing that we would do exactly the same again.