Author: jim clayton

the strange case of the book and the banana

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

I’m sitting in a cute, bright kitchen on a plain wooden stool next to a washing machine on the dry cycle. For a small machine it’s making a lot of fuss: grinding revolutions, sudden hesitations, short beeps, longer beeps, slow backward rattles, more beeps, a noise like rizh-or-rizh-or-rizh-or-rizh – then back to the grinding revolutions again.

It feels like my mind. I’ve had such a day of it, racing from one thing to the next, and I’ve ended up on a job that – potentially, at least – had stress and delay stamped all over it.

We’ve had a call come through, darlink and I wonder if you’d go and take a look for us, sweetie. It’s an eighty year old woman, decrease mobility, stuck in chair. We haven’t got anyone to go with you, but there’s a live-in carer – named like flower or somethink? – Daisy? Petal? I don’t know. Somethink like that. Anyway, she’s on scene so you should be okay. We can’t make out from the lady exactly what might be going on here, but can you just go and see what you think? Okay, darlink? It might need an ambulance, it might not. Ring me and let me know. Thank you so much, sweetie. Bye, bye. Bye. Bye. Bye.

In the end, it was more straightforward than it sounded. Maureen has rheumatic joint pain, particularly in her knees. She’d been sitting in her new riser-recliner too long, and felt a bit shaky. All her obs were normal, so it didn’t look as though there was anything more sinister going on. Rose, the live-in carer, needed an extra pair of hands to help Maureen transfer safely to a commode, which we could use to wheel her over to the hospital bed that occupies one half of the room. Once that was done, Rose asked if I wouldn’t mind sitting in the kitchen whilst she changed Maureen into her nightie. So I took off my gloves, walked through, sat down on the stool next to the washing machine, and waited.

These days, in slack moments like this, I’ll take out my phone and check social media, or swipe through The Guardian, or maybe Google something I’d been thinking about. This time I thought I’d make a more conscious effort just to sit and do nothing – or, at least, a more mindful kind of nothing. Maybe by reviewing exactly what was happening at that time, what the kitchen was like, how things essentially were in that moment, I’d root myself in Time, and just breathe, and in that way release the stress of a long and busy day.

I survey my surroundings, my attention passing round the neat little kitchen as smoothly and neutrally as the second hand on the clock on the opposite wall.

At one o’clock: a tall, grey-silver fridge-freezer, magnet clips of shopping vouchers, a dog in a sailor hat, little magnet photo frames of people; between the fridge and the outside wall, a lap tray shoved in vertically; patio windows letting out onto a Mediterranean-style patio, red and white geraniums in pots, a climbing hydrangea hanging down over a flint wall, a metal bistro table with a half glass of orange squash in the middle and a metal chair at an angle next to it …. (I can’t help jumping when an Intercity express train suddenly hurtles past the end of the garden – but in a funny kind of way it actually helps, because it feels like my stress levels are definitively snatched away, and I’m even more settled as I continue to look round). At three o’clock, to my immediate right, a plastic, yellow, three-tiered vegetable rack, potatoes and sweet potatoes mixed together in the top, a nest of carrier bags in the middle, and gardening gloves and secateurs in the bottom. There’s a small, round, highly-varnished table with two matching chairs immediately in front of me in the centre of the kitchen. On the table is a stack of three paperback books: The Divided Self by R D Laing, The Interpretations of Dreams by Freud, and Lost at Sea by Jon Ronson. Next to the books is a wire fruit basket. The basket is designed a bit like a scorpion, with a long, arching tail rising up at the back with a hook on the end, presumably for bananas. In the basket are three apples. By the side of the basket is a single banana.

My focus settles on the fruit basket and the banana.

Does it mean that there was a hand of bananas hanging down, and this banana is the last one? Obviously you can’t hang a single banana. Although maybe there’s a special attachment for that. If you’re worried enough to have a basket with a separate banana hook, you might well like a single banana attachment, because having a single banana left over from a hand of bananas is something that’s going to happen quite a lot. Maybe the attachment got lost. If that’s the case, why not rest the banana with the apples? I vaguely remember something about people not mixing bananas and other fruit because it makes everything rot more quickly. Is that right? Maybe the banana was lain with the apples, and Rose took it out to eat – and read one of the books, probably Lost at Sea, because although they’ve all got bookmarks poking out, the Ronson is lying on the top of the pile. Maybe Rose took the book and the banana – which was lying in the basket – and sat down for a break. The other two books are quite obscure, probably part of some psychology coursework or something. Maybe Rose felt a bit guilty reading Lost at Sea, because she’s falling behind with her schedule, but this was her break, goddamn it, and if she hadn’t earned a quick banana and a bit of Ronson, who had? But if this was a break, where was her drink? You’d have a drink before a banana, wouldn’t you? Where was the mug of tea going cold? Then I remembered the orange squash out on the patio. So that was the sequence! Rose had poured herself a drink of orange squash, grabbed the last banana that – because of a lack or loss of a single banana attachment was lying any-old-how among the apples – picked up the Ronson (after a twinge of guilt looking at the other two books), gone outside to enjoy herself, and at that moment heard Maureen call out for help. So she hurried back inside with the banana and the book but not the squash. Because carrying three things is precarious, and although she managed it slowly when she had the time to take things easy, as soon as she was in a rush she took the two most portable things, the book and the banana. Or maybe they just happened to be in her hand when she heard Maureen shout – and she dropped them off on the kitchen table on her way through – because there’s no way you’d have a book and a banana in your hand if you were answering a cry for help. That would be ridiculous.

So why wasn’t the banana on top of the book on the table…?

‘Ready for you now!’ says Rose. ‘Sorry to keep you.’
‘No worries,’ I say, stretching. ‘It’s nice just to sit and do nothing.’

virgil the bullet

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

Glad lives with her husband John in the basement of a grand, Georgian terrace house on the coast road out of town. Originally I imagine the flat would have been the servants’ quarters for the entire house. The stone steps leading down to it are worn in the middle; you can almost hear the footsteps pattering up and down them, to meet a carriage, or to fetch wine from the cellar, or any of those other relentless, below stairs tasks. Still – the conversions in these buildings are all expensive, wherever they feature in the house, so as I descend I’m expecting a beautiful flat with varnished floorboards, ornate mirrors, fine works of art – the usual, high-end sensibilities of the residents around here.
It’s a shock when Glad answers the door.
‘Don’t let Virgil out,’ she says. ‘He’ll be up the steps like a bullet.’
She shushes me in quickly. There’s a fat tabby licking his paws over by some flyblown cat bowls. He reminds me of those cartoon cats, the fine diners around the dustbins, wearing napkins, sucking joke fish bones with a claw in the air.
‘I let him out the back, not the front,’ says Glad, shuffling through the gloom of the kitchen. ‘He can’t get out the back.’
Virgil stops licking his paws long enough to give me a stare, as if to say: What do you know about the front?
‘He’s a sweet cat,’ I say.
‘When he’s been fed,’ she says. ‘Don’t believe his propaganda.’
She leads me into the living room, a hellish space decked out all in red: red drapes and throws and velvet curtains, red wallpaper, deep red carpet, and worst of all, a gas fire on, four bars. It feels like I’ve been swallowed by a dragon.
‘Pete likes it warm,’ she says, lowering herself into a brown armchair (which I can only imagine was red when they bought it).
Other than the belly-of-the-beast theme, the other thing that catches my attention is a large, antique drinks cabinet in the shape of a globe. Arranged around the circular foot of it – in a pattern like a solar stream, or maybe space junk – are dozens of spirit bottles, everything represented, from gin, rum and whisky to the more exotic flavoured stuff. I don’t know why they wouldn’t throw the bottles out. Maybe they just like to see exactly how far they’ve got in their journey around the world in eighty spirits. Either way, it’s a terrible trip hazard.
‘Here any good?’ says Glad, propping her leg up on the cat’s beanbag.
‘What’s happened to the telly?’ says John, suddenly and inexplicably conscious again. I smile and wave. I can’t believe he’s actually lying on the sofa under a rug.
‘I turned it off so as not to disturb the nurse,’ says Glad.
‘I’m not actually a nurse. I’m a nursing assistant,’ I say, looking for something to sit on so I won’t have to kneel on the carpet. ‘It’s a simple leg dressing, though, so it should be fine. If not, I’ll call in the cavalry.’
‘What – more cowboys?’ says Glad. ‘Only joking. I’m sure you know what you’re doing.’

fix or nix

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

‘Here’s a list of my bowel movements!’ says Thomas, handing me a closely-written sheet of paper with all the dates and times, accurate to the minute, GMT. ‘I used to work in telecoms’ he says, settling back into his armchair. ‘I know how to keep track of output.’

Thomas is so old, I imagine telecoms at that time would have been horses, valves and copper wire. He must have been a useful figure, though, because they sent him all over the world – Sierra Leone, the Bahamas, Patagonia.
‘Four children, four continents!’ he says, with a practised flourish. He smiles broadly, like someone unzipped a work bag and a couple of old hacksaws fell out.

He may have travelled the world many times over, but these days Thomas’ advanced age and precarious mobility means he’s pretty much confined to his room. He seems happy enough, though. It’s all been set up very sensibly – as you’d expect – everything to hand, everything in its place according to need and frequency of use, as neatly and logically planned as a circuit diagram. From his dilapidated armchair he can look out of the window, watch television, or simply survey the multitude of family photographs spread across the walls. It gives his chair a strange kind of height, I suppose, that prominent point you might reach if you were to climb a tall telegraph pole, lean back in your straps, thumb your helmet back, catch your breath and wonder at the diminishing curve of the world.

‘What do you think?’ he says. ‘Fix or Nix?’

the white handkerchief

~ jim clayton ~ 2 Comments

As diagnoses go, it sounds pretty gentle. Mixed Dementia. Like a mixed fruit salad. Mixed bathing. A bag of mixed nuts. Casual, essentially benign.

There’s nothing benign about Mixed Dementia, though. Its devastating effects would be more aptly described as Dementia Plus, or maybe Dementia: Perfect Storm.

Joe has Mixed Dementia. To date he hasn’t been too bad, functioning at a reasonable level. Although he’s permanently confused, he tends not to get agitated. Most of the time he sits neutrally and quietly in his favourite armchair, going along with whatever his wife Joan wants him to do. He’s been able to mobilise reasonably well, steady enough on his pins for Joan to manage washing and dressing him on her own. He’s barely on any medication, so that’s not been too much of a problem either.

Unfortunately – for Joe, Joan and the rest of the family – his condition has taken a downturn, particularly his mobility. There’s a Parkinsonian aspect to it these last few weeks. He lists alarmingly to the left when he stands up, leans back to compensate, and if that wasn’t enough, his left leg gets stuck when he tries to move forwards. The result is that Joe’s been falling every day. Luckily for Joe he’s avoided hurting himself; unluckily for Joan, he landed on her a couple of weeks back and fractured some ribs.

The last fall was this morning. An ambulance attended, checked him over. His obs were as steady as ever. (‘He’s fitter than me’ says Joan, dabbing at her eyes with the white handkerchief embroidered with flowers she’s been playing with all this time. ‘Aren’t you darling?’ – Joe directs his grey-blue vacancy in her general direction; they share a hesitant smile; she loses herself in the handkerchief again). There wasn’t anything acute that needed hospital admission. The ambulance crew liaised with the GP, and then the GP referred Joe to us to see what we could do.

The obvious and most immediate thing is to get Joe a respite bed in a nursing home. The trouble is (always the rider these days), he needs an assessment by social workers first. They’re short-staffed, so a delay of a few days even for priority cases is unavoidable. Then, as Claire the duty social worker explains to me, there may not be any beds available. ‘Not much capacity in the system at the moment,’ she says. ‘Best case scenario – a week, maybe two.’
She sounds exhausted.

I’ve spoken to the GP. He tells me there’s been a multi-disciplinary meeting (the outcome of which hasn’t been communicated to the family yet, helpfully). The consensus is that Joe’s mobility problems are symptomatic of his worsening dementia. ‘It’s a palliative scenario,’ says the doctor. ‘And really, if his care is no longer tenable at home, we’ll have to start looking for a residential placement somewhere. We just need time to make that happen.’ We agree that our service can try setting up a micro environment to minimise the falls risk; to send in carers four times a day – for moral support if nothing else; a night-sitter at night to give Joan a break; nurses to keep an eye on things, and generally case-manage until the social workers can come up with a placement.

I’ve put this plan to the family. It hasn’t gone down well.

‘Look at us! We’re at breaking point. Honestly – this is hell,’ says Emma, the daughter. Her face is puffy and her eyes red. She’s struggling not to cry, especially now that Joan has her face buried in the handkerchief. ‘Look at her!’ she says. ‘She’s done her best but she’s at her wits’ end! We can’t go on like this.’

As gently as I can I go over the options, which at this point seem to boil down to two: stay at home with whatever support we can offer, buying the social workers time to find a residential placement, or go to hospital.

‘And sit around in A and E for hours?’
‘I’m afraid so. That’s where everything’s triaged.’
Emma looks at her mum.
‘This is what you get,’ she says, bitterly. ‘You struggle through. You take care of things as best you can. And no-one cares. No-one’s there for you. Maybe Dad needs to have a bad fall and really hurt himself, and then maybe someone’ll listen.’
‘I don’t want Joe to go to hospital, but I can’t cope with him anymore at home,’ says Joan. She gives me a despairing look. ‘What would you do if this was your dad?’
‘I don’t know. I’d try to think what was best. It’s hard to say.’
She sighs, then directs her attention back to the handkerchief.
‘What would you like to happen, Joe?’ I say, leaning forward and stroking his hand. He says a few random words, but it’s impossible to know what he means. His tone is light and disengaged. At least he’s spared the emotional trauma of all this.

I’ve been here two hours already. I’ve spoken to the social workers, the GP, the nurse in charge back at the hospital, but despite all the facts, all the reassurances and negotiations, the essential problem remains.
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry this has been so difficult for you. Something needs to happen now, so let me make the decision for you. Joe isn’t safe here at home. He’s highly likely to fall again, regardless of the things we might manage to put in place. I can see how exhausted you both are. It’s a terribly stressful time and I think you’ve done a wonderful job. Going to hospital isn’t ideal, but it’s the safest option. I’m going to call for an ambulance to take Joe to hospital on a four hour response. At the very least that’ll buy everyone some time to rest and get things sorted. Okay?’
I pick the phone up to dial.
‘Is the patient conscious and breathing?’ says the call taker.
‘Yes,’ I say, smiling at Joe.

Joan buries her face in the handkerchief again.

Amelia, the medium miniature schnauzer

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

There’s a Georgian mansion house and gardens occupying the spot where the Norman motte and bailey once was. These days, the only thing surviving of the stone castle that followed on from it are the vaults and tunnels beneath.
‘A little health and safety before I take you in,’ says the guide. ‘Can you hear me at the back? Shuffle up! No-one’s going anywhere until I’ve gone over the rules.’

I’m a little worried about mum. This is her ninetieth birthday party, after all, and although her health is pretty good generally, her right hip is beginning to give out, making her walk at a loping slant like a pantomime pirate. On the plus side, it might actually work to her advantage down there in the lopsided environment of the vaults. On the minus, she’s taking her miniature Schnauzer Amelia down with her. She won’t be dissuaded.
‘She’s sensitive to ghosts,’ she says. ‘It’ll be like taking a canary down the mines.’
‘Keep your hard hats on at all times,’ says the guide, tapping his head by way of illustration. ‘The ceiling is low and it curves in steeply either side. I estimate that each of you will bang your head four times. I’m never wrong about this.’
‘Is there a hat for Amelia?’ says Mum.
‘No,’ says the guide. ‘She’s low enough for that not to be a problem. Okay? If you’d like to follow me, then…’
And he turns and leads us down the worn stone steps, through the iron gates, and into the gloomy vaults that stretch ahead, lit by emergency lighting at spooky intervals.
Someone bumps their helmet on the lintel.
‘That’s one!’ shouts the guide.
‘He’s good’ whispers Mum.

Mum had her eightieth party at the castle, too. For some reason she didn’t go down the vaults then, which either suggests the older she gets the more risks she’s happy to take, or – more likely – that the poodle she had at that time was too elderly or sick to manage it. Everything Mum does is based on the dog of the moment. She refuses to put them in kennels, have a dog-sitter or leave them alone for a minute. Any family event, the primary concern will be the dog. It wouldn’t surprise me if she turned up at a wedding or a funeral with the dog carried in by four oiled slaves on a litter. Every dog she’s ever had has been utterly dependent with high-end requirements, existing on boiled rice and chicken, and pet soaps on the telly.
Funny thing is, Amelia is much less of a monster than you’d have any right to expect. Mum says she barks all the time, but she hasn’t barked once at the party. She’s quite content to sit in the shade under the table. She even lifts a paw and when I ask her – to shake, I thought, but I think she wants me to kiss a claw, like the pope’s ring.
‘She’s a very biddable dog,’ I say.
‘She’s protective,’ says Mum. ‘She won’t be parted from me for a second.’
Amelia puts her head on one side and stares into my eyes with that odd, gruff-wise expression Schnauzers have (or Schnau-tzers as Mum pronounces it, like it’s a make of machine pistol). Arriving at the party I half expected to see Amelia’s face on the balloons and banners when we came round the corner into the garden; as it was, she was prominently displayed on Mum’s lap, receiving tribute from the guests as they arrived, accepting all their strokes and tickles with the imperious and unquestioning hauteur of a president.

Bump.
‘That’s two!’ says the guide, calling out from the front.
‘He’s very good,’ says Mum.

‘Now then,’ says the guide, stopping by a particular vent off to the left and gesturing with his stick. ‘We’ve got a colony of bats in there. Please don’t disturb them with any flash photography. They’re a protected species. If they do happen to fly out, resist the urge to flap around. Just remain calm and stand perfectly still. They’ll do a couple of circuits then go back in to roost. But don’t worry,’ he carries on. ‘They’re the only animals we’ve got down here. Present company excepted. There aren’t any others, not even rats.’
‘Rats don’t like bats,’ says Mum. ‘Or is it the other way round?’
It sounds like a quote – Alice in Wonderland? – and adds to the dreamy feel of the whole thing. Mum’s holding tightly to the arm of my eldest brother as we carry on into the vaults, either because of her frailty or because she doesn’t want to lose him again. After all, no-one’s seen him for ten years or more, but against all expectations he’s turned up at the party with his daughter. No one knows why he disappeared for so long, and Mum’s party isn’t the place to ask. For now, proceeding in a shuffling crouch through these dimly lit vaults, it feels like we’ve been magically called together for one, last ceremonial journey into the underworld.

We emerge into a longer, larger hall. Off at the far end is a single plastic chair, eerily lit by the emergency lighting. In front of us is a camping table with more of the chairs. The guide sits down on one of the chairs.
‘Gather round’ he says. ‘Now – this is where the local paranormal society like to set up their equipment. As you may or may not be aware, the castle – and particularly these vaults – are some of the most haunted spots in the county. Every so often we let the paranormal society camp down here for the night with all their equipment, their EVP recorders, full spectrum cams and what have you. Myself? I don’t believe in ghosts particularly, but they seem to think there’s something going on down here. They’ve shown me pictures of a dark figure over there in that corner where the chair is. The Blob, they call it. I don’t know. It’s an interesting phenomenon, whatever it is. And the place certainly takes on a special feeling in the early hours. I’ll tell you a story. Last year the paranormals were down for one of their regular sessions. And there was this chap – nice guy, very down to earth – and he came along with his girlfriend, because although he didn’t believe in ghosts she was very into the whole thing and he wanted to show her support. So here we were, all set up, and it was about two or three in the morning, and it was time for one of our regular breaks up top. And this chap, he says “I’ll stay down here on my own”. “Oh” we say “Are you sure about that?” “Sure I’m sure” he says. “I’ll be fine. And turn out all the lights when you go.” I think it was bravado – you know. Showing off in front of his girlfriend. Anyway, we did as he asked, we all left the chamber, and the last thing I did before I came up into the garden was turn out all the lights with the master switch. Then I joined the others having a cup of tea on the veranda of the main house. Well – I don’t know if you’ve ever experienced perfect darkness? Absolute, perfect silence? It’s a strange thing, something you don’t often get. In fact, I’d go as far as to say it’s rarely experienced, because however dark it gets there’s always a glimmer of something, even if it’s just starlight. Anyway – about ten minutes after I shut off the lights, there was this terrible wailing scream from the vaults, and the poor chap came sprawling up the steps, staggered across the lawn, and literally threw himself at us on the veranda. When he’d calmed down enough he told us what happened. Apparently he sat there in the dark, getting used to it, feeling quite relaxed, sleepy even – when suddenly he heard a scratching noise from over in the far corner. He didn’t like it, but he dismissed it as a rat – which, as you know, we don’t get down here. The next thing was the feeling of a heavy hand on his shoulder, and someone’s face at his ear, making gritty grinding noises with their teeth. That’s when he screamed and ran – headfirst through the pitch blackness. How he didn’t knock himself cold, I don’t know. And the worst thing was, he said – the worst thing – was he could hear footsteps following close behind him. I said to him, I said “that was probably the echo of your own footsteps” “So how come they followed me across the lawn as well?” he said. And that was that.’
Mum looks down at Amelia.
‘How strange!’ she says. ‘She hasn’t barked once!’

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burt’s bees

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

We were on a mission / for hand lotion / burt’s bees, to be specific / because apparently it’s a cruelty free cosmetic / and there’s something about the company ethic / that makes them seem warm & empathetic / and, anyway / what can you say? / the whole bee thing / has an attractive buzz / a cute stripey jacketed fuzz / that definitely appeals to us / (ignoring / the whole sting thing / because anyway – bees aren’t like wasps / the psychos of the hymenoptera squad / bees are too busy stuffing pollen in their panniers / to bother you with their venomous derrieres / and at the risk of spoiling the poem’s momentum / here’s a handy little addendum / how to tell the difference between poison and venom / well, apparently, / it’s the delivery / that qualifies each for either category / for example – if you bite a snake and you die – it’s poisonous / but if a snake bites you and you die – it’s venomous / which is fabulous / it’s basically who’s got the fangs, who’s doing the jabbing / who’s attacking & who’s snack grabbing / so now you’ve got that clear in your head / you can come across as impressively well read)

but I digress
back to the quest

it was getting late
we had no time to waste
we marched into a department store post haste

there was an elderly sales assistant / watchful & efficient / in a tight blue jacket and slacks / like the abdomen and thorax / of some giant shop assistant insect / she was perfect / she reminded me of Dad’s sister Ollie, my aunt / who also wore her hair bouffant / so like a hive / I expected to see four or five / actual bees / buzzing round her insouciantly / I thought – if ever there was someone to help with our task / this would be the woman to ask / she was like an apiological Marie Antoinette / a high retail figure of the bee-keeping set / with a golden smoker and silver net / waiting in line for her queenly accession / we hurried over to ask our question

burt’s bees? burt’s bees? she sweetly hummed / as her hairy fingers on the counter thrummed / burt’s bees burt’s bees / that sounds so nice / especially when you say it twice / don’t you think? she said / with a tiny nod of her head / I suppose because any gesture too big / would risk upsetting that marvelous wig / I have a feeling…! she gave me a wink / there are one or two left in stock I think

she led us through a maze of aisles / that wound around for miles and miles / finding her way through the various zones / presumably by pheromones / moving so fast she lost us twice / (her hair was a handy location device) / burt’s bees! she suddenly stopped with a flourish / gesturing in earnest / to an impressive concession / a burt’s bees heaven / a promotional stand / from ye olden, golden honey bee land / weirdly & wildly grand / a comb-a-copia of honey themed stuff / from soaps and gels to powder puffs / balms and ointments, soaps, emollients / the grandest stand in the whole damned department / surrounded by a swarm of clockwork bees / circling on silver arms mechanically

the shop assistant surveyed it serenely / then gave us a look that was loving and queenly / when you’re done you’ll find me yonder she purred / feeding in a field of lavender / then she stretched out her arms and rose from the floor / and flew away through the department store / the whole thing causing quite a commotion / but anyway – we bought the lotion

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the wrecking ball

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

I knew the street – or thought I did. A utilitarian cut-through in an older part of town, with the sort of uniform civic redevelopment it makes you wonder whether the original buildings fell victim to town planning or the Luftwaffe. The street is dominated on the leading corner by a long, low, smoked glass office building, leading on to other, smaller offices, a single, more original building in a rotten-looking antiques warehouse – mobile phone number painted on the peeling double-doors where the cart used to go in and out – and half way up, a pristine meditation centre, operating out of the old telephone exchange, finding new ways to make connections.

Giles’ block is narrowly squeezed-in, set-back, anonymous, thrown together from the same Lego tin as its neighbours. The only thing that gives it away as a private address is the scrappy intercom console, the names of the people who live there scrawled in marker pen, stuck over with tape or missing completely. Two office workers vape and sip coffee, leaning up against the black pointed railings to the right. They’ve both got such perfect, Edwardian-style beards and moustaches, it’s a shame they can’t get vapes designed like long clay pipes. Before I can suggest it, Giles buzzes me through.

If the exterior of the apartment building looks flimsy and plastic, the conversion inside is even more extemporary. It looks so thin, if I tripped and put out my hand to save myself, no doubt all the walls would tumble down one against the other like a pack of cards, until I was left standing in the shell (with the two bearded vapers peering in at the window).

Giles’ door shows signs of a forced entry. I know he was admitted to hospital after an overdose, so I’m guessing that’s what it was. It wouldn’t have taken much putting-in, that’s for sure. A butterfly could’ve done it. With an ant as a battering ram.

No need for that today, though. Giles is waiting for me in the doorway. He’s gigantic – much too big for this place – a vast, fleshy monolith of a man, wearing an old Motorhead t-shirt and cut-off trackie bottoms. When he turns and leads me into his flat, his left shoulder slightly higher than the right, his palms swipe backwards to help him along, like a polar bear paddling for purchase in the floes. The whole building bounces.

His living room is a mess. There’s one armchair in the middle of it all, blackened and sagging in the middle. When Giles sits himself into it with a thundering sigh, he’s almost completely subsumed, like he’s dropped himself down into the maw of a particularly giant and noxious kind of fungus. He spreads his fingers on the arms – to stop himself disappearing straight through the floor, probably – and regards me with a baleful look.
‘What’s all this about?’ he says.
I explain what the team is and the things we do.
‘I’ve come for the initial assessment,’ I tell him. ‘It’s a formality, really. I think you’ve been referred to us by the hospital for very specific things. For physiotherapy – because I think you injured your shoulder? Is that right? And for some bridging care, to help you get back on your feet. Unless you think there’s any equipment you might need?’
He raises his eyebrows.
‘What do you mean? Equipment?’
‘Well – in the loo, for instance. To help you get on and off. Given your shoulder problems. To make sure you don’t have any more falls.’
‘I fell because of the overdose’ he says.
‘Yeah. But still…’
He gestures behind me.
‘Be my guest. See what you think.’
‘Okay.’

What I think is that the toilet is as terrible as the rest of the flat. I imagine the gateway to Hell might look similar – although I’m sure even Satan would be a bit shamefaced and throw something down there. The only equipment this place needs is a wrecking ball.

‘Hmm,’ I say, going back in to the living room. ‘Maybe I’ll get the OT in to see you after all.’
Giles nods and smiles.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says, making an effort to get up again, but defeated almost immediately. ‘I haven’t offered you tea.’
‘That’s kind,’ I say. ‘But it’s fine. I just had one.’
‘As you wish,’ he says.
We smile at each other.

Père Lachaise revisité

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

Of course – Jim Morrison’s not the only celebrity / buried in this vicinity / the park is more than 100 acres / with plenty of room for undertakers / even Moliere / is in there / somewhere / Delacroix, Chopin, Piaf, Proust / about every artist France produced / there’s even a spot for Marcel Marceau / (we didn’t find him so / I don’t really know / but I like to think there’s a memorial on his grave / a granite clown miming a granite cage)

It’s difficult when it comes to memorials / you don’t want to be too pictorial / but at the same time it’s nice to have something succinct / to act as an attractive, piquant link / something that you makes you stop and think / yep – that’s definitely the detail / that adds je ne sais quoi to that memorial / although / you’d probably be right to show / a degree of compunction / carving ANY kinda scarf for Isadora Duncan

 

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this is the end, beautiful friend

~ jim clayton ~ 2 Comments

We scanned the Q code from the board at the entrance / but the phone map turned out to be more of a hindrance / so in the end we decided to wander at will / up and down the crowded hill / of mausoleums and overground plots / where we’d stop for lots / of moody shots / wonderfully, hopelessly lost / in the mossed / and cobbled avenues / between the alabaster urns & sepulchral statues / the mausoleums and family crypts / rusting palm leaves, gothic scripts / the whole place like some village of the damned / with every household neatly planned / grilles on the doors, stained glass for light / and residents who only come out at night

I was starting to get a little worried / we wouldn’t get to see where Jim Morrison was buried /  I mean – we were making progress / more or less / through the necropolis maze / of Pere Lachaise / but there was still no sign of his last resting place

in the end / beautiful friend / it was the sound of a small crowd that led us to it
we joined the end of the queue to view it

a line of metal barriers screened the spot / I guess because the grave’s been damaged a lot / by thousands of visitors laying flowers / underwear, leather trousers / hand drawn dedications / mystical incantations / candles, cards & drug libations / chunks lopped off the original stones / as powerful relics to take back home / so I suppose it makes civic sense / to coral us all behind a fence / but it makes you feel disconnected, too / like we’re visiting a freak in a rock star zoo / and the best you can do / is pause a moment in the  queue / take your selfie & shuffle through

to the side of the plot there’s a maple tree / with a wrap for the trunk protectively / because people have been taking out their gum / and looking for something to stick it on / pressed it there with the other wads / until now the tree is covered in knobs / of multi-coloured, desiccated globs / like a visitors book in the 27 club / if nothing else a metonym / for the numbers of people visiting Jim / a real-life Orpheus y’think? / who famously liked a drink / and drank and drank / till he took a bath and sank / and found himself transformed / into a rider of a whole other storm / tragically reborn / as a rock n’roll deity / hip swivelling into infinity / eyes wild, lips curled / fuck you man, fuck your world / love me two times I’m goin’ away / forty-eight years to the day / and how they come to pere lachaise / through its weirdly other worldly ways / to stand at this spot / and talk about his songs a lot / and maybe death, maybe fame / the brilliance of a candle flame / chewing it over, making their mark / heading back home through the cemetery park

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letter from paris

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

Bonjour, mes amis. Ca va?

So we’ve come on holiday to Paris, staying in an Airbnb in the 18th arrondissement, about a mile or so down the road from Montmartre. Staying in these flats is always interesting. My impression is they fall into two camps: those that are bought and let specifically as holiday accommodation, and those where the family clear out for a time to make a little extra on the side. I prefer the latter, actually, although it is a weird feeling, letting yourself into someone else’s place. I keep expecting them to turn up, find us all sitting eating dinner, and scream. But it’s a homey experience, that’s for sure, friendlier, more like real life, with none of that stultifying uniformity you get in hotels. And you get a small flavour of what it must be like to live round here, shop in the local markets, drink in the bars, ride the Metro.

It’s the little details that really make it. I like the weird drawings on the wall in one of the children’s rooms, one of them a kind of cosmic pig’s head in a field of stars that look worryingly like pentagrams. I like the fact that when we were looking for matches there were children’s baby teeth in the matchbox. I like it that there’s a cupboard with a sliding door that when you open it a hundred things fall out and it takes you half an hour to put it all back. Including a zipped bag of knives. And I like it that over the dining table there’s a gangster film poster called ‘Everyone’s Going to Die’.

I know that last paragraph probably reads as if I don’t like these things, but – honestly – I do. The point is, you definitely don’t get any of this in a hotel, which tends to present its comforts with all the meticulous warmth of a crime scene.

So all in all I like the apartment. Except one thing I don’t particularly like are the electric shutters on the windows. It seems as if you’re supposed to close them at night, but to me it feels too much like being banged up in a maximum security prison. It’s airless and cheerless and a little claustrophobic. It makes me think of all those films where heavy metal shutters were needed – I Am Legend, maybe, or Forbidden Planet (I know, I know – that’s a stretch – but it’s not necessarily an indication of age. I mean, I’ve seen Nosferatu, but I’m not a hundred. And to labour the point, I’ve read The Tempest but I’m not five hundred). Point is, in Forbidden Planet (based on The Tempest, ironically), the house of Dr Morbius has these gigantic iron shutters that clang into position at night to protect them against the monsters of the ID. So I suppose what I’m saying is that sometimes you’ll book through Airbnb and find yourself going to bed in a fortress on another planet. But that’s good, because I like to get out and see other worlds. Shutters permitting.


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Flea markets are great places for taking pictures. There’s something poignant about the jumble of things, collections from other people’s lives – the ceramic hand that no doubt sat waving for decades on someone’s dressing table, now waving more in a drowning kind of way, struggling for a handhold in the tsunami of Mickey Mouse phones, crocodile boot jacks, thimble collections, spinning wheels, Meccano steam pumps, Chinese silk screens, hats, corsets, coins and rings and trays of lithographic stamps, and a hundred de-framed oil paintings, some good, some bad, some so completely terrible they’ve actually dragged themselves in the direction of the bin. It’s quite overwhelming.

It was raining. A drizzling start that grew in confidence and downright malevolence until finally we were sloshing heads down and hoods-up through the puddles, dodging cataracts of water falling from the stall tarpaulins. It was pretty miserable, and I was mindful of getting my camera wet, so we diverted to a more comprehensively covered area. The displays in this section were much more discretely spaced, as if the quality of each item and the subsequent price needed the extra room to breathe and properly be itself. The stall holders were different, too, more vigilant, less friendly. They sat on antique chairs brutally flipping through antique catalogues, regularly glancing over the tops of their bifocals, like security guards in a museum. It was pretty off-putting, I must admit. There was one cabinet that really caught my eye, though. It was beautifully put together in an oddly hypnotic way, the whole display like one of those grabber cranes at the fair, except instead of toy penguins, trolls and the like there was a delicately fabulous selection of things, a phrenology head, strings of amber beads, strange dolls, ceremonial daggers. I took out my camera and started playing with the settings. I felt a tap on the shoulder. It was a tall guy in a three piece suit and a three piece face (frown, flare, sneer). He leaned over and tapped the case, and a card taped to the top that I hadn’t noticed. No Photo. A hand-drawn picture of a camera with a red line through it.
‘Ah! Pardon!’ I said, very embarrassed, putting the lens cap back on and touching him on the shoulder in a friendly way. It was like touching a mannequin. He turned away to fuss with some shawls. He was mumbling whilst he did it, and even though I wasn’t entirely sure whether he was talking to me or not, I stayed to find out. My French is very bad, but this is what I think he said:
‘I get up early. It rains. I set up my shop. And for what? A photo?’
‘Je suis desolé,’ I said. ‘Au revoir, monsieur.’
I turned to see that my wife and girls had already moved on. A long way on.
The man watched me do the same.

*  *

You need a thick skin to do street photography. Or an adaptable one, like a chameleon. Up till now I’ve been too scared, and stuck to shots of nature, architecture, stuff that doesn’t move or protest. When I have taken pictures of people I’ve always felt a little furtive, trying to look as if I’m focusing on something else, then moving the camera to catch the real subject as an afterthought. I quite like hanging around places, to see what happens, though. It’s fascinating, the subtle changes to a place over time. Still, most of those shots are distant and a little too objective. I’d like to get a more intimate perspective on life in the streets – or wherever life happens to be happening – but I think I’ll need to work on my people skills first. In hindsight, maybe I could’ve made a start with that stallholder.

Although God knows what he’d have done if I’d tried to photograph HIM.

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