To see other chapters click here

1975 to 1978 and 2018

“All the world’s a stage,

And all the men and women merely players;

They have their exits and their entrances,

And one man in his time plays many parts,

His acts being seven ages”.

“Shakespeare” As You Like It Act II, Scene VII, Line 138

* * *

1975 – The Presence of Nightmares

Soon after going to live on Roundshaw, I’d often have nightmares where I’d feel a malevolent presence approaching me. The dreams would start with a tiny dot in the distance which would get bigger as it got closer and eventually, I’d feel I was being suffocated by it. From the moment I’d see it in the distance, I’d be filled with dread, and no matter how much I’d try to wake myself up, I couldn’t.

One evening as I watched a TV programme, there was a figure standing behind a door, its face couldn’t be seen, but the sound of its breathing continually increased in volume. As I watched I became filled with fear, just as I had been in those nightmares.

* * *

2018 – Archetypes

For this chapter, I’d been thinking about the Commedia de l’Arte, which was a form of theatre that originated in Italy and from which Punch and Judy was derived. I couldn’t help but wonder if it had possibly developed due to Italian society having very recognisable archetypes within its culture. Even now, Italian culture has a feeling of being larger than life, exaggerated and emotional.

While the wearing of masks goes back at least as far as 40,000 years, the Commedia de l’Arte, which became more established in the mid-1500s, was a relatively new advocate. The oldest surviving mask in the world today is around 9,000 years old and was most likely worn during rituals and ceremonies as a representation of dead ancestors – which in its way is a kind of theatre, and not creepy at all.

In Rome, the word persona meant “mask”, as well as meaning “a citizen of Rome”. The Greeks also used masks, especially as theatrical devices, and even today the commonly accepted symbol for the theatre or acting is the image of a happy and sad mask, the Greek Muses, Thalia (the muse of comedy), and Melpomene (the muse of tragedy).

Is it possible that as a society becomes more sophisticated it recognises its archetypes more readily, and as a consequence uses them more, especially within myths, storytelling and theatre?

In the UK, we have largely lost our connection with traditions which pushed us up against our archetypes. However, some vestiges remain. Close to where I live, there is a chalk fertility figure of a man, where ceremonies dating back hundreds of years take place each year.

If we look at other cultures around the world, they often still have a sense of community underpinned by traditions often involving masks and archetypal figures. In much of the West though, we’ve let go of those practices for a myriad of reasons, but has the consequence of doing so resulted in a sense of alienation from both each other and ourselves?

* * *

Recognising the archetypes present within us can be one of many ways to help us understand who we are. If I look back at my six-year-old self, marching around dressed up as a Roman soldier, I can’t help but see the presence of an archetype. Still, while it might be easy to identify what archetype is with us at a certain point, maybe the more important question is, why is it there, then? If someone plays the fool, or conversely the sage, then what are they telling us, and why do they want to be seen that way? That’s not an easy question to answer, no matter how well-qualified we are in psychology. Carl Jung, the psychoanalyst, realised in many ways he was in the same mental state as many of his patients, especially in the sense of being fragmented, divided, and ruled by unconscious dynamics. Similarly, nowadays many psycho-therapeutic theories revolve around seeing humans as programmable devices; however, as with computers, there’s only so much a programmer’s code can do. The hardware will always be a limiting factor, and if we’re hardwired to have archetypes within our internal world, we may well risk our sanity if we ignore them. If the Greek Myths helped people to understand themselves for millennia, why have we turned our back on them? The answer can partly be found in the dominant ideologies that came to the fore during the last century, some of which I’ll be looking at in the second volume of this series, but for now, I wanted to touch on the subject of archetypes given they play such an important role in helping us understand who we are.

* * *

The other day a friend asked, “So, what archetype am I?”

The answer is all of them. Not all at once, but different ones at various times and often we can switch between them seamlessly, sometimes flipping from one to its opposite within milliseconds.

* * *

A few weeks ago, I was talking with two female friends, and one was complaining her husband wants her to talk dirty to him, but she feels too self-conscious to do that and can’t let go sexually. The other friend looked at her and said, “You need to get more in contact with your inner whore.” When the other one stopped laughing, she said, “You’re right, I probably need to, but how?” When it comes to archetypes, they’re not so easily summoned and have a life of their own, way beyond our conscious mind’s control.

* * *

1977 – The Honeymoon is Over

After Mum and John returned from their honeymoon, our routine continued as it had done before, but as John tried to take on a more fatherly role, I became increasingly resistant. A pattern of conflict regularly resulted in full-blown arguments during which there’d be a moment where I’d consciously decide to flip. I’d feel it coming then choose to go into a meltdown.

On one occasion, I walked out and hid in the bushes to the side of the flats. I could see John come out to find me and heard him calling, but stayed still and enjoyed the power of being camouflaged. Eventually, as it got colder, I had to go back. Mum answered the door and without saying anything I made my way to my bedroom.

Mum came in a few minutes later and said, “If you can’t behave, we’ll have to stop your pocket money.”

I looked at her and not wanting to calm matters hissed, “Well, you would say that wouldn’t you, you fucking Jewish cunt,” Then, thinking that wasn’t quite hurtful enough, I thought I’d go for the jugular, so, added, “And by the way your cooking is shit, all you can cook is chips”.

Like you, possibly, there’s a part of me that’d like to beat that kid into submission now. At least you don’t have to live with the fact that I was that little… Unfortunately, in terms of classic storylines, this wasn’t the lowest point of the arc of my demise by any means, there’s plenty more to come. However, the seeds of my arc of salvation were also beginning to take root.

When people ask what it was that made me change for the better, there isn’t one answer. There were lots of factors, including many beyond my control, amongst which my genetic predisposition, the archetypes dominating my hidden internal mindscape, the kindness, and maybe cruelty of others, and all those coincidences that lead us to a multitude of life-changing intersections, all these things played a part.

* * *

1977 – Record Rendezvous

On days when I was bored or restless, I’d often cycle to Record Rendezvous, a record shop on Stafford Road in Wallington. A man who was balding, with greased-back black hair and a penchant for purple cardigans, owned it. He was in his 50’s or 60’s, although to a 12-year-old anyone over 30 looks at least 50, so he may have been a lot younger.

Across from the sales counter, there were several booths where customers could listen to their prospective purchases and find sanctuary from grey cloudy days and normality. Music tends to be very important to teenagers. Maybe it’s because it helps fill the empty spaces with an almost trance-like meditative state of mind, or perhaps it’s because it allows them to see their feelings are universal, which in turn helps them feel connected and accepted by others.

* * *

1977 – A Pregnant Pause in Hostilities

Within six weeks of being married, Mum became pregnant, but wouldn’t realise until sometime in November. I was struck by the feeling of how strange it would be to have a brother or sister and for a while the dynamics changed between the three of us, partly because a protective circle tends to be drawn around pregnant women, and on top of that, Mum and John started to look for a new place to live which allowed us to focus on something together. Change was in the air.

* * *

1977- Trip to Italy

Around the time Mum became pregnant, I went to Italy on the school trip.

I had never flown before. On the aeroplane, I sat next to Mr Jefferson, the teacher who’d given me the chocolate bribe not to go to Germany. He was also a clergyman and insisted on wearing his clerical collar because, as he said, he was, “closer to his boss”. We were also flying in an old Russian Aeroflot plane which had green flock wallpaper. Mr Jefferson was quite nervous, whereas I loved flying from the outset. Both the taking off and landing thrilled me, and back then, we were allowed to visit the cockpit. Even the turbulence was exciting.

As we disembarked in Rome there were soldiers and armed police around us, whereas in England, guns were rarely seen, so that along with the night air being so hot, this wasn’t so much another country as a whole new world to me.

When we got to the hotel, even the bathrooms had strange devices in them. I’d never seen a bidet, and when it came to breakfast, it wasn’t like anything I’d experienced before. As we sat on a large open-air balcony, the hazy morning sun warmed the air. A waiter introduced himself to us as Joseph as he passed us bread and jam, drinking chocolate and coffee. (I couldn’t believe that there were no eggs and bacon on their way). I don’t remember Joseph’s face, but he made us laugh, especially if any of the boys annoyed him. If they did, he’d grab the top of their arm between his thumb and finger and pinch it so hard they’d be in pain for quite a while, but still, they’d laugh at his audacity.

On our second day, one of the boys threw a thin sheet of cheese over the balcony and about 20 minutes later the police appeared because it had landed on one of the Russian Embassy security cameras below. I probably shouldn’t mention that, after all, we don’t want to give terrorists any ideas. Back then, even being told off by the cops was interesting.

This was the 1970s and school trip accommodation was rough. The bathroom was dirty when we arrived, the beds were uncomfortable and when I threw one of my shoes at one of the other boys in my room it bounced off him and hit the curtains which gracefully fell.

Twelve years old was a bit young to appreciate what we were experiencing. Rome was beautiful, but to many of us, it was merely a backdrop to us playing around. In the Sistine Chapel, we were blowing out candles, in the hotel we were playing dare with Joseph and his cow bite fingers, and when we went out alone, we’d end up in cafes drinking cappuccinos and playing songs on the jukebox. In one I tried to get it to play “Yes sir I can boogie” but instead it played an Italian song which seemed to make a few of the older customers happy. To us, the smell of chocolate, coffee and the feel of the Rome afternoon air was magical. There were even big posters up all over the city for a film called Star Wars but of course, they were in Italian. We hadn’t got Star Wars in our cinemas in the UK yet, so we had no idea what all the fuss was about.

* * *

After a few days in Rome, we journeyed to Sorrento near Naples. Our hotel was right next to a church bell tower. We got the hotels normal customers wouldn’t go near. Even so, this one was a bit cleaner. On our first evening, some sparkling red wine was given to us by our female guide who’d joined us. She taught me how to eat spaghetti and for once the wine was so sweet and rubbish, I liked it. After a few glasses I joked with her I might come to her room later, to which she stated clearly her door would be locked. Somehow as we made our way back to our rooms, I ended up trying my key in her door just to show her I could get in anyway. We all knew I couldn’t, however to both our amazement, it worked. I imagine she pushed a wardrobe up against the door that night.

Some of the boys discovered “bangers”, AKA “firecrackers”. So, along with the church bells at 5 a.m. and the bangers cracking till the early hours, very little sleep took place. Some of the boys met up with girls from other school parties and snogged them in the street, much to my utter disgust, envy and disappointment. As for the touristy stuff, we visited Pompeii, where the sculptural casts of figures who died almost 2000 years ago made a big impact on me, not as much as the ash clouds had on them though. Still, for many years afterwards, I was haunted to such a degree I created artworks based on them.

I didn’t take many photos but bought sheets of ready-made for tourists slides. They were so over-colourised that in their way, they too were artworks in themselves, albeit somewhat garish ones and again, years down the line maybe they subconsciously influenced me to make my photography lean towards paintings.

When we visited Vesuvius one of the teachers told me years later that I’d sat on the edge with my legs dangling in towards the crater and didn’t realise the earth was giving way beneath me, so, he grabbed me. He says he saved my life, but I don’t remember that at all.

Nowadays, in 2018, I regularly visit a Neapolitan café in Eastbourne called Mamma Mi. I’ve always thought I’d like to revisit Italy, but so far, my daily café jaunts are as far as I’ve got.

The Priests, the soldiers, Joseph the clown-like waiter, the naughty boys, the statues of death, the ruined cities, and the old men in the cafes. Now they are just faceless characters in my memory where, for moments, I visit them, vividly, even now, 41 years later.

* * *

1977 – Summer Plans

When I got back from the school trip, Mum and John’s house search was in full swing. Every house we visited I liked, except for the one they chose. It was on another main road, and I was worried that any cats we’d have would get run over.

I wasn’t going to be around when the move was scheduled to take place as Roehampton Hospital wanted me to come in for surgery to have my right foot amputated. All in all, I was booked in to stay in hospital for six weeks, so, this meant I wouldn’t be home for both the move and the birth of my new sibling.

* * *

1984 – Tavistock – Therapy

Mrs H: Do you think you planned to have the amputation at the same time as the birth of your brother so you could compete for attention when the baby was coming? Maybe you were saying something like, “Look I’m going through more suffering than you, Mum?”

Me: I don’t think so, I didn’t choose the dates, it was the hospital.

Mrs H: Well, it’s possible that even if you didn’t make it happen, you may have had those kinds of feelings anyway.

Me: I don’t remember feeling like that.

Mrs H: Well, it might be worth thinking about.

* * *

1978 – My Right Foot – Roehampton Hospital

There was a long corridor that ran across the top edge of Roehampton Hospital. As Mum and I walked along it towards the ward I’d be staying on, it was empty. It must have been late because it was July, and it was already dark outside. It felt like a dreamscape. The emptiness, the long corridor and walking on a foot that wouldn’t exist in a few days.

Mum kissed me goodbye on the ward after stopping for a cup of tea and left me in the company of the night nurse and a teenage guy, called James, a wheelchair user who I hit it off with immediately. This was going to be my home for some time, but that night, I felt a long way from home. I didn’t realise it consciously, but this was an echo of my past, you know, the one that didn’t have any effect on me.

The next day was a normal one on the ward. I got to chat with loads of the staff who I already knew and pretty much all my conversations ended up around the subject of how much the amputation was going to hurt. They all reassured me I’d be okay, and it wouldn’t be that painful.

The next day came around quickly and this time I didn’t fight the nurses when it came to having a pre-med. I probably behaved myself because the nurse who’d been assigned to look after me was Sandra, the same person who’d been the carer in Pastens. The one whose head I’d thought about kicking until she warned me of what would happen if I tried. I don’t think her opinion of me had improved especially as, the day before, I told her I could see her underwear whilst she sat on a bench near me. I thought it was hilarious, but the rest of the world thought it was rather crass and immature. Still, behind my comment was probably a feeling of attraction towards her which was a bit kinky really, although fortunately, it had been absent when I was six.

She came to the operating theatre with me and my last memory before passing out was trying to resist the anaesthetic and looking up at her face which was spinning around just the way it does in movies. After a few seconds, it became too much to cope, with so I closed my eyes and as I did, I heard a buzzing noise get increasingly louder until it stopped suddenly. I opened my eyes again and realised I was in the recovery room. I looked at a picture on the ceiling, then drifted back to sleep. When I woke up, I was in a bedroom on the ward near the sister’s office. John’s parents were standing at the bottom of my bed while a nurse sat on a chair next to me reading a book.

“Sorry, I can’t chat much,” I said, “I’m feeling very sleepy,”

Connie, John’s mum, chuckled and said, “Don’t worry, we’ve just come to check you’re okay. You go to sleep.”

So, I did.

I woke a bit later and asked the nurse sitting next to me if they’d done the surgery because I could still feel my foot so wondered if they’d tried to straighten it instead. She told me they’d cut it off, which was reassuring and frightening at the same time. I must have drifted off again because the next thing I felt was a lot of pain coming from my leg. I’d managed to kick a big heavy metal frame that was keeping the covers off my legs, and it landed on my new right stump, just where the cut had been made. The nurse was no longer next to me, so I cried out for help, and seconds later, a nurse ran in and helped me.

* * *

1978 – Roehampton Hospital – Initial Recovery

The next few days were spent in bed, being sick as I always am after a general anaesthetic, and slowly coming around. A few visitors popped in, mainly Mum, John, John’s parents, and his brother, Edward.

My leg constantly felt as if someone was squeezing my foot hard. The next day, I said to one of the staff, “I thought you said it wouldn’t hurt.”

She looked a bit annoyed, “I was just trying to make you feel better. Of course, having your foot cut off is going to hurt. What did you expect?”

“Well, I just wish you’d been more honest,” I said indignantly.

“Listen, Simon, if I’d been honest how would you have felt?”

“Scared.”

“And would that have made you feel better?”

“No.”

“Well, stop whining then!”

I’m surprised she didn’t say those famous Jack Nicholson lines:

“The Truth? You can’t handle the truth.”

But then again that film hadn’t come out yet.

* * *

A few evenings after the surgery a couple of nurses thought I ought to get some fresh air, so, they took me down to a pub in Roehampton. Every crack in the pavement reverberated up through the wheelchair, which hurt, so I was very glad to get back to the ward and my bed, no matter how cool it was to go to the pub with some nurses. Once I started to feel a bit perkier, I was moved to a room in the teenage department. Mum and John brought my stereo over, along with loads of my records and a painting by-numbers set which I painted over, completely ignoring the numbers and outlines, instead, I offered up my own version. Even back then, painting was never a numbers game for me.

* * *

It didn’t take long to start feeling at home on the ward. Maybe compared to the isolation I felt when I was home this was a welcome relief. There was also a turnover of people staying on the ward most weeks, so, I’d get to meet some old friends and make new ones too.

One guy who came to stay had short arms like mine and no legs. One day a pretty girl who was on the ward came to my room and this guy came in too. I don’t know how we got into this position but within minutes we were all on the bed together. I was snogging the girl while this guy, who I’ll call Colin, was on the other side of her to me. God knows how he got there.

So, there I was merrily having a snog with the girl, while “Colin” was undoing her top which had a kind of shoelace design. I was interested in his progress because, well, she had breasts, and I was 13 and wanted to see them. Slowly, using his mouth, he pulled the laces backwards out of their holes. When I say slowly, I mean fast, because obviously for Colin this was going to be a ground-breaking moment. Finally, he’d undone the laces as far as was necessary. He looked up at me, I stopped kissing, smiled and nodded affirmatively at him. At that very moment, the door to the room swung open and all of us looked towards it.

Sister Gwen Mears glared at us, assessed what was going on, and bellowed, “What do you think you’re doing?”

Colin looked at me, he had the same look on his face that the squirrel who almost gets the nut at the beginning of the Ice Age films has.

“Well?” Sister Mears demanded.

“Nothing,” I said.

Colin’s head bowed as he murmured, “Shit.”

Within about five seconds Sister Mears had Colin back in his chair which she then shoved down the corridor, the girl off the bed and out the room and her finger wagging in my face.

* * *

Other tellings-offs I got included playing my music too loud, which I thought was a tad unfair. After all, as far as I was concerned, there’s a duty to make sure the whole world is made aware of the brilliant music they’re missing. Just like an evangelical preacher I wanted to spread the songs of Elvis to the heathen masses trying to work on the ward.

I also got a stern telling off for telling the physiotherapist to “Fuck Off” when she was trying to get me to stand up. To be fair, the pain was excruciating when we tried. It felt like a burning heat and a scary build-up of pressure, and given I tend to live by the maxim of ‘a problem shared is a problem doubled,’ I thought if I was going to feel pain, then so was the physio.

“Listen,” she said, “you won’t get better if you don’t stand up, remember, no pain no gain”.

I looked at her and said, “I have a better version of that saying”.

She looked at me quizzically, “Really, what’s that?”

I smiled, “No pain… Good!”

I eventually decided to lower my leg and learn to stand on my one and only foot in my own time.

* * *

1978 – The Unravelling

I was beginning to get frustrated about being in a wheelchair, so the people who made artificial limbs said they could make some crutches that’d have sockets attached for me to put my arms into. Once they made these, I was able to propel my wheelchair by using them to push along the ground. As I started to get more confident with them, I stood up and began to move quickly. Unfortunately, at one point when I entered the lounge, James thought it would be funny to throw the contents of his teacup at me which got me in my eyes. This resulted in me landing on my stump and a few minutes later a small amount some blood started to show through the bandages. The next day a doctor checked it out and concluded my recovery had been set back a week or so.

There were advantages to not walking, for instance, being given a bed bath. One nurse who was probably in her late 50s, decided to give my penis a good wash. When I realised I was going to come, I got all shy and insisted I finish washing it. I don’t think she was being inappropriate, at 13 it only takes three up-and-down passes and it’s all over. Once I got older I could manage five unless I was in a hurry, then it’d take ages.

A week after falling on my stump, sister Mears wanted to take the bandage off so she could remove the stitches. She took me into a room where she got me to lie on my back then grabbed my stump firmly at which point I yelped. She then started to unwind the bandage which there was a lot of. As she got about halfway through, the material became completely sodden with blood. I am not one to feel faint at the sight of blood, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much of it in my life. It just went on and on until near the end there were mainly big black clots which had to be peeled off my leg. (I do hope you’re not eating). Eventually, it was all off, Sister Mears, who wasn’t particularly gentle, grabbed my stump again so she could have a closer inspection and removed the stitches. I think I shrieked, but I don’t think it registered with her. Still, at least I’d reached the next stage of healing.

1978 – Hospital Holiday

Aside from my guests, a few volunteers kept me and some of the others company when visited the ward too. One of them was a man I liked a lot. I wanted to be suave like him. It was the ‘70s, and suave was cool then. He had flecks of grey hair near his temples so I’d put talcum powder in my hair to get the same effect. He was friends with a woman who owned a boutique shop in Putney, and she invited a couple of us to a tea party there. One of her other guests that afternoon was an actress called Penny Irvin. She’d played one of the busty secretaries in a very popular series on TV called, Are You Being Served and was also a frequent topless model on the Sun’s page 3 feature. I was in my element, sandwiches, fizzy drinks, cake, sweets, and cleavage. I can’t remember much from that meeting except they were all very sweet and friendly to us.

I also had another volunteer visitor called Shirley. She was probably about a year older than me. We ended up having a snog, and after she went, I fell in love with her. We wrote a few letters, probably in which I announced my undying love for her. She kindly kept writing back now and again, and then one day I realised we’d stopped writing to each other, but that was alright because I’d probably snogged someone else by then, and I think even I knew it wasn’t going to go anywhere. Oh yes, and she told me she had a boyfriend, and that helped too.

There was kindness all around me. My mum’s cousin Paul and his wife, Ann, would come to see me a lot even though I hardly knew them. My form teacher Mr Shaw visited and brought along a card from my class which included taunts, but I laughed with them this time. In many ways, I was having a lovely summer holiday in the hospital.

* * *

1978 – The Birth

One evening, I got a message relayed to me that Mum had given birth to a boy, and I felt elated. I didn’t know at the time but she’d had a very difficult labour which included having an emergency caesarean because the umbilical cord had wound around my brother’s neck. When Mum was under the anaesthetic she had a few nightmares, one of which felt like the film 2001 A Space Odyssey. A few years later, she told me she was so traumatised by it all, she didn’t want to have any more children.

One of the social workers on my ward was concerned I ought to visit my mother and see the new baby as soon as possible, otherwise, I might feel left out. She kindly offered to take me to visit Mum the next day while she was still in hospital. The sister in charge of the ward my mum was on made it very clear she didn’t want a disabled person coming in and upsetting the mothers-to-be, so, I’d have to be brought in covertly with my arms covered up. The social worker was livid, but I don’t think I felt anything about it. I hadn’t got in touch with my disability politics archetype yet.

It was good to see Mum and the new baby who they named Stephen. Whilst I was there a photographer came around with a Polaroid camera. He took a photo of me with Mum and Stephen and left the instant photo with her. Later, when John turned up, he was annoyed I was in the picture and he wasn’t and after a few minutes of him grumbling, I was glad to go back to the normality of the hospital ward.

About my healing and getting back on two feet, things were beginning to move on. A provisional prosthetic leg was being made and a couple of weekend home visits were arranged to allow Mum, Stephen and I to connect.

* * *

1978 – Yorkshire Lee

Near the end of my stay on the ward, I got to Lee, you may remember I mentioned him earlier, he was the one who lost part of an arm and his foot in an incident involving a train carriage. Well, we immediately got on very well especially as we had the same interests, namely, breaking the rules and flirting with girls. He and I would hang around the psychiatric wards and chat the nutty/vulnerable pretty women up when they came out for a smoke. Sometimes, we’d get invited into their rooms until one of the nurses would kick us out.

Lee told me that one of the girls on our ward (so she wasn’t a psychiatric patient) liked kissing and having her breasts played with. The girl was called Lu-Ann and was very willing to play around. One day I said to Lee, “Are you going to see Lu-Ann tonight?”

He shook his head. and said, “Nae Simon.” [He was from Yorkshire]

But a bit later I could hear him hopping up the corridor to her room. The last few hop-steps didn’t sound right though, more of a slop than a flop. Then I heard him shout, “For fook’s sake”. He’d hopped right onto her urine bag which burst up his leg. I imagine some people would pay extra for that kind of experience, but for Lee, it was a step too far.

* * *

1978 – Moody Blue Peter

There was another guy on the ward from Barnsley, the same town as Lee, called Peter. There had been a program on TV about him titled “Our Peter”, which was partly made because of the severity of his disability and how well he coped with it. Peter and I had always clashed a bit and whilst we were civil with each other (sometimes), there was always a bit of a distance. That didn’t stop us from buying and selling things to each other over the years. This time I sold him my Elvis Presley blue vinyl limited edition LP of Moody Blue for £5 as I wanted to buy an LCD digital watch. For years, afterwards, Peter would tell me how much that album was worth, just to taunt me. So, just before writing this, I checked online and they generally go for about £10 on eBay, not that that’s important of course, but then again LCD watches aren’t too pricey nowadays either.

* * *

The weekends on the ward were very quiet, so, when I was just about to go back home for one, I asked Mum if Lee could come too, and she said yes.

When I introduced them to each other I felt I had to warn her he smoked. She looked at him and said, “Do you want one of mine?”

“Aw, thanks very much Angela,” he said.

* * *

27th September 2018 – Recognising

Tomorrow I’ll be driving almost 300 miles to see Lee. fort years have passed, and we are still good friends. You never know when you’re meeting a friend for life but in a way, you do, because you don’t find friends, you recognise them.

* * *

1978 – God, Give Me Patience and Give it to me Quickly

Whilst we were there for the weekend, John’s brother Edward, the priest, helped me walk to the record shop in Carshalton, as I was using crutches. He was very accommodating, well that was until I started taking ages to choose a record.

“Come on Simon, I haven’t got all day,” he said, chuckling the way one does just before one loses one’s temper.

Feeling rushed I opted for a pink vinyl Elvis album, which I thought was an expression of the trauma I felt having suffered an adult not understanding the complexities of choosing an album.

* * *

1978 – Playing Ball

The next time an adult took me out and didn’t play ball, things went a bit differently. One of the volunteer visitors offered to take me out to an adventure playground for disabled children in Bishop’s Park in Fulham. When we got there, it was closed. I don’t know what I said but for some reason, he thought it’d be a good idea to try sticking a bit of holly down the back of my T-shirt. My reaction was as expected. I lifted my shoulders and arched my back. Unfortunately for him, my crutches, which were attached to my arms, went upwards too and one of them caught him in the balls. He dropped to the floor and writhed around in agony. I apologised profusely, whilst feeling quite proud of myself.

* * *

January 2018 – Edward and the Burger

Thirty-nine years after Stephen was born, he and his wife had their first child. I’m pretty sure John was 39 when Stephen was born too, as was Boris when I came into the world. As we get older our minds can’t resist seeing patterns in our family histories, just like we can’t stop seeing faces in patterns, symbols in the stars, animals in the clouds and echoes of the past in our present.

Stephen and his wife Sarah have just held a Christening for their son George. On the way there I was to pick up Edward, John’s brother. He’s now a Monsignor in the Catholic Church and lives in a retirement home for clergy. I made my way to the reception where a nun was sitting.

She smiled at me, “Hello, how can I help you?”

“I’ve come to pick up Edward,” I replied.

She stopped smiling, “Don’t you mean Monsignor Father Edward?”

“No,” I said, “Uncle Edward.”

I laughed, she didn’t, maybe she’d taken a vow not to laugh.

After the Christening, I drove Edward back. The food at the event was finger food so we were all a bit hungry still, so, I decided to stop off at a McDonald’s en route and asked Edward if he wanted a burger too.

“No, I’m fine thank you,” he said very poshly.

“Are you sure?”

“Well,” he paused, “go on then, thank you.”

He stayed in the car whilst we got the food.

When we came back, we passed him his cheeseburger, which he cautiously unwrapped, then tenuously took a bite of.

“Oh, my goodness,” he said, mid-munch, “it’s delicious, it’s lovely!”

Me and my kids looked at each other thinking, “It’s just a cheeseburger”, but maybe in old people’s homes, the food is healthy, with barely any salt or sugar added to it, and anyway, it’d probably been years since he’d experienced the joys of rubbish food. I’m not saying McDonald’s is rubbish, but you know what I mean. I felt proud to have reminded him of a world he’d been protected from for far too long. Remembering the pink record incident though, I was a bit tempted to tell him to hurry up and say, “C’mon Edward, we haven’t got all day”, but even I’m not that cruel.

* * *

1978 – First Steps

Six weeks after the amputation, I took my first steps with a prosthetic foot. It fitted on by sliding my stump into a socket made of leather which in turn slid into an outer metal shell that had a foot on the end of it and stayed fixed to my leg by a strap that tightened above and around my knee. It took a bit of time to get used to walking again and I couldn’t help but worry my scar would split open, at which point I’d bleed to death. But in no time at all, I was almost back to normal, although I couldn’t skateboard anymore, which for a teenager back then was a major disaster. Still, buying another Elvis album helped me get over that trauma very quickly.

* * *

1978 – The House

Our new home was a standard suburban house. It had 3 bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs, a kitchen, a front and back living room downstairs, and a garage to the side. This one was slightly odd as it had been built on a corner plot so had a small triangular rear garden with some more garden to the side and front.

The man who had lived there beforehand was a keen Do-It-Yourself practitioner so in the back room there was a massive brick feature around the fireplace, and false beams on the ceiling, plus mock wooden panelling in the hallway and, best of all, furry flock wallpaper. I would sometimes stand there stroking it to make our new “old” cat, Shreddie, jealous. When we met the man during the house-buying process he’d seemed very nice, whereas his wife came over as a bit of a battle-axe.

One evening, soon after we’d moved in, we were watching TV in the back room when the window swung open, and the curtains billowed about in the wind for a few seconds. Mum said, “Ooh, that was just like a ghost coming in, you know, like the way they do in the movies.” Later that night there was a knock on the door. Two police officers were there and informed Mum and John that the previous owner had just killed himself by driving into a bridge at speed. The car was still registered to our address so that’s why they’d come there. Recalling the window incident sent shivers down our spines and from then on, I’d often wonder if his spirit was in the house. If it was, I hoped he was happier with us than with you know who.

* * *

2018 – My Right Stump

The weather is turning cold. Autumn is almost upon us. When the sea mists come in, the temperature drops and my leg stump gets very cold. A few years ago, I fell on it which caused some permanent damage. That in turn caused a lump to develop which had to be removed, which then took three months of not walking to heal. I’ve recently been diagnosed with micro-vascular disease, which in time will affect the bigger vessels in my limbs too. What this all means is that I may well have to have a bit more of my leg cut off in the not-too-distant future.

* * *

Time’s Up

The archetype for time is not a clock, especially as it has a face that changes. There is, of course, Father Time, but for me, I reckon my archetype for time doesn’t have a face, it doesn’t give much away at all. It’s like one of those mad revellers who didn’t want to be recognised so covered their face in soot or a mask.

* * *

To see other chapters click here