Author: jim clayton

the bsd gene

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

It’s not that I have no sense of direction. I definitely have a sense of direction. It’s just – it doesn’t seem to work round here.

And by round here, I mean Planet Earth.

I get lost coming back from the shops. Driving’s worse. Even with Satnav. Despite the stern make a u-turns, I can’t resist taking lefts or rights instinctively – almost as if some unseen force has leaned in through the window and grabbed the wheel.

And given the strength of that feeling, how wretched is it that it’s always, always wrong?

I suppose I should take comfort from the fact it’s probably genetic, as much a part of me as my short legs or big-footed laugh. I bet a few hundred thousand years ago, a Neanderthal guy looked out of the cave and said something like: I’m just going outside for a bit – and wasn’t seen again for three moons.
I thought you were just going outside for a bit?
– I was
We thought you’d been eaten by a sabre-tooth
– No. I mean – I saw one, but it didn’t seem that bothered.
So what happened?
– I got lost
Lost? How could you get lost? You stepped outside…
– There were these rocks that looked like faces... (blushes / scratches his head / laughs in a big-footed way that makes the ears of a nearby sabre tooth prick up).

Or the Napoleonic Wars. Ordinary Seaman Clayton, said something like: I’ll just nip ashore and give ‘em a hand with them barrels – and wasn’t seen again till Waterloo.
You stand before this Court Martial accused of desertion, sir. How d’you plead?
– Not guilty yer honour.
Not guilty? How so?
– I got lost, sir
Lost? The deuce! Lost, d’y’say? You walked to the end of a gangplank, man! Barely half a cable. You got lost?
– Yessir. I became disorientated.
What nonsense! What on earth by?
– Well, there was this seagull waggling his feet…

Funnily enough, I used to think working by the sea would help. You’d think a hundred and eighty degrees of water might improve the odds. Turns out it has the opposite effect, intensifying the confusion.

The other day I had a patient assessment in a residential care home, one of those endlessly sprawling conversions with corridors, passageways, rooms and offices sprouting randomly one from the other like some nightmarish burrow, excavated around the roots of a giant tree. Anyway, the auxiliary who showed me through bustled along by scent more than anything, I think, her eyes squeezed shut, vigorously wiping her hands on a Birds of the Garden tea towel.
‘When you go, go by that exit there,’ she said, nodding blindly but firmly to a door back of a hair salon. Three ancient women were sitting under static hair dryers that looked like upturned jet engines and just as noisy. The women stared back at me, magazines poised.
‘Hello’ I said, waving. They carried on staring, so I turned my attention to the door, frowning and nodding at it in the kind of mime that was supposed to demonstrate to anyone who cared to see that here was a man marking out his territory, making a mental plan of it all, figuring out the whys and the ways. Of course, the three wise women saw straight through it. They laughed, divining my fatal flaw.
‘Don’t get lost!’ the nearest one said, raising a crooked finger. ‘Or you’ll end up like us’
‘I wouldn’t mind!’ I said.

They laughed longest at that.

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grand designs

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

there was none of this: where are you mate?
you’re already a day late with them bluestones
I can’t afford to have everyone
standing around scratching their arses with antler picks
there weren’t no portakabins, no snobby accountants
sipping their earl greys, shaking their heads
over a scale model so hokey my sheila’s dwayne
coulda done better with his tub of lego
they didn’t have no kangol cases
no telescopic cranes, no geezers in yellow jackets
hard hats, unlaced Caterpillars,
lolling about, laughing
raising their mugs, shouting oy-oy saveloy
when the gaffer leans out of his landrover
red faced, tapping his watch

there was none of that

it’s like that kevin mcloud off the telly
I can imagine what he’d say

‘when they told me
they wanted to build
a temple to the sun
a vast stone wagon wheel, if you will
slap-dab in the middle of Salisbury plain
using monstrous, nine ton blocks
hewn from the earth
with the simplest of tools
floated down from Wales
hammered into shape with rocks
hauled into position with a bunch of mates
and a few hundred feet of homemade rope
I would’ve said to them
with the greatest of respect
Are you completely insane?
But here we are
five thousand years of Grand Designs later
the old stone wheel’s still standing
the rays of the solstice sun still
tip over the horizon
to illuminate the hub of this mad,
magical, monumental construction
really, you’d have to say
in anyone’s book
what, in fact, you’re presented with,
is nothing short of a triumph’

tangled

~ jim clayton ~ 2 Comments

Fitting a convene over Geoffrey’s penis is like trying to roll a condom on the snout of some retiring and wildly hairy creature. I’ve used the hair guard – essentially a piece of gauze with a hole in the middle – but still, his wiry pubes get tangled in the sticky gel of the convene, and the whole thing’s a tragic mess.
‘I felt that,’ says Geoffrey.
‘Sorry.’
‘You’re doing your best. Thanks for trying.’
‘You’re welcome’
I give up on this one, unpack another, and have a re-think.

The simple jobs always turn out to be the worst.
You couldn’t just swing by Geoffrey’s and sort his convene out?
I haven’t much experience, but working for a community health team means being prepared to turn your hand to most things, including ninety-year old penises.

‘One more go,’ I tell him.
‘Righto.’

The builders next door have their radio on full-blast. Kissin’ in the back row of the movies on a Saturday night with you…

I’d spent ten minutes at the hospital reading through the instructions that come with the convene. It seemed pretty straightforward, and I’d set out with every hope of success. Although, of course, I had it in mind that probably the real world experience of rolling on a convene might not tally exactly with the neatly labelled illustrations in the pamphlet.

Geoffrey lives at the very top of a narrow block of flats. He hasn’t been out for three years, spending all his time sitting in a riser-recliner with a view out over the city, one carer first thing in the morning to make sure he has some food and water, at least. Geoffrey has steadfastly refused any increase in care, and certainly has the mental capacity to make these decisions, even though anyone could see it’s not in his best interests. He’s doubly incontinent now, and really needs more regular pad changes. Still – he doesn’t want to spend the money, and he understands the consequences of his actions. And to be fair, he seems pretty happy. I’ve cleaned him up already, fetched him tea, and according to his very specific instructions, two slices of ham and four chocolate biscuits, all on the same plate.

‘What did you do before you retired?’ I say, as he eats a biscuit and watches me down below, wrestling with the convene, getting as tangled up in the coarse thicket of his pubes as the prince in the brambles round Sleeping Beauty’s castle (and, by the way, I’d like to put it on record, I think I’d have way more chance of success putting a convene on that).
‘Insurance!’ says Geoffrey, reaching for his tea. ‘Everyone needs insurance!’
‘That’s true. It’s an interesting business…’ although to be honest, I can’t think of a single thing to say on the subject.
Geoffrey comes to my rescue.
‘I was in the war,’ he says.
‘Navy?’
‘Army!’
‘What was that like?’
He shrugs.
‘Oh. You know,’ he says. ‘People try to shoot you. But what can you do?’

last stop before the motorway

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We start back early, skipping breakfast to beat the traffic. A couple of hours later and we’re desperate to stretch our legs and get a coffee. Unfortunately I miss the slip road for the service station we planned to use, the next one doesn’t have a sit-down area, the one after that is closed for refurbishment – and then eventually we see a sign: Last stop before the motorway.  I take it.

It’s like driving back in time fifty years.

Despite the hot weather and the heavy traffic, the parking lot is almost empty, apart from a BMW parked in the furthest corner. It looks like it’s been there some time, covered in leaf tack and bird shit.

The cafe itself is a long, low, prefab, with glass on three sides, panelled wood beneath the windows, a glass door with yellowing squares of plastic on the panes and a handwritten sign saying push. The interior is regularly laid out in canteen style, formica tables and curve-backed wooden chairs, a toast rack on each table to hold the menu cards and hide the ketchup, brown sauce and sugar cruet. There are strings of plastic Union Jack bunting curling across the ceiling. A radio plays quietly behind the counter, which has a curved glass display mostly empty apart from a couple of plates of dark squares under cling film. Beside the counter is an ice cream freezer. A waiter is leaning against the freezer with his arms folded and his mouth open. He has a mass of scribbled hair and crenellated teeth, looking exactly like the kind of waiter a child would draw with crayons.
‘Eating in?’ he says.
‘Yes, please.’
‘Take a seat.’
The only other people in the restaurant are – presumably – the couple with the BMW.

‘Is the bunting for the World Cup, d’you think?’ says Tessa, looking round.
‘Wouldn’t that be the England flag?’
‘Maybe it was for the wedding?’
‘Which one?’
‘I dunno. Queen Victoria?’

The waiter comes over.
‘Yes please,’ he says, sighing, pulling a pad from his back pocket.
‘Do you have any pastries?’
‘Pastries? What? Y’mean like a Danish?’
‘Yes.’
‘No.’
‘Oh. Anything similar?’
‘I could do you a tea cake.’
‘Yep. That’d be great.’
He writes it down, dots it with a stabbing motion, then turns his eyes on me.
‘Do you do a poached egg on toast?’
‘No.’
‘What about scrambled?’
‘We can do you a scrambled.’
‘Great. I’ll have that, please.’
‘What sort of toast? Brown or white?’
‘Brown, please.’
He looks at Kath.
‘What about you?’ he says.
‘Can I have fried eggs on toast?’
‘Fried eggs?’
‘Do you do fried eggs?’
‘No.’
‘I’ll have the same as Jim then.’
‘Two scrambled egg on brown toast, one toasted teacake. Butter with that?’
‘Yes please.’
Stab.
‘Drinks?’
‘Two lattes and a pot of tea, please.’

He writes it all down – or draws it, the pen moves so wildly across the paper – then lopes back to the counter. He doesn’t seem to do anything with it, so I guess the chef must be watching us through a peephole disguised as a Fab on that ice cream menu.

We stare at the passing traffic out of the window.
The BMWs check their phones.

‘You wonder about places like this, don’t you?’ says Tessa. ‘It must’ve been busy at some point, otherwise what happened to all the pastries?’
‘Maybe they’re between deliveries.’
‘Yeah. Like ten years.’
The waiter comes back with a tray of drinks, and drops it off at the end of the table for us to help ourselves. I wonder why he doesn’t pass the stuff out and take the tray away, but then again, maybe if the tray’s left on the table, we’ll be more likely to stack our empty things, and he’ll save time later. It makes sense.
‘I like it here,’ says Tessa. ‘It’s not too corporate, like all those other places.’
The waiter comes out again with our food, one plate in his right hand, one plate in his left, one balanced on the heel of his left thumb.
‘Great! / Wow! / That looks fantastic!’ we say, overlapping each other. ‘Thank you so much.’
He gives us the same blank look, then turns and heads back to the ice cream freezer, where he leans with his arms folded, and watches us eat from a distance.

‘D’you think he lives here?’
‘Where? Out back?’
‘Maybe he walks to work. Over the fields.’
‘That wouldn’t be so bad.’
‘Eggs are good.’

I go to the toilet whilst the others are finishing up. There’s a sign above the urinal: Looking for something to do? Why not try a flying lesson at our local airfield! Only £51!
Pretty good value – but maybe the advert’s out of date.
There’s a faded picture of a tiny, two seater plane, someone leaning out of the cockpit window, waving.

I think it’s the waiter.

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achoo

~ jim clayton ~ 2 Comments

We’re a while on the porch waiting for Henry to come to the door.
‘He obviously likes a fag’ says Tom, nodding at the evidence: a miniature red fire bucket filled with stubs by a simple metal chair. ‘Still. Nice to have a hobby that gets you out. Shall I ring again, d’you think?’
As if in reply, Henry calls out from somewhere deep in the house Just coming, so we wait a while longer.
‘My hayfever’s bad today!’ says Tom, rubbing his eyes. ‘I took a Piriton, but the trouble is, it completely wipes me out.’
‘What about the non-drowsy stuff?’
He shakes his head.
‘Doesn’t touch it,’ he says. ‘No – I need the big guns. And then I end up looking like him…!’
He nods to a nightmarish plastic figurine by the side of the front door, a pixie (I’d guess), clothes made from flowers, flowerpot hat, holding a watering can, smiling vacantly.

Suddenly we see the shape of Henry coalescing behind the frosted glass, lurching from side to side as he harrumphs and curses his way down the hall. Eventually he’s near enough to reach out a hand, there’s a deal more swearing as he fumbles with the lock, and the door opens.
‘Sorry about the delay, fellas,’ he says, struggling with his words as much as his legs. ‘Only the wife’s left me.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that, Henry.’
‘No, no. I mean shopping. Come in.’
He turns round with some difficulty in the narrow hall, and then starts the long journey back to the bedroom.
‘I understand you’ve been having some trouble with your electric bed?’ says Tom as we follow him inside.
‘You can say that again,’ he says. ‘I tripped over the control panel and pulled the wire out.’
‘When did that happen?’
‘I don’t know. A year ago?’
‘A year?’
Henry shrugs.
‘I’m useless these days and there was no-one else. Here – I don’t suppose you want to buy a bed, d’you?’

The bed’s the first thing we look at. It’s something the family have bought privately – a simple divan affair with the head and foot end operated by buttons. I lift the bed up (it’s not heavy), whilst Tom lies on his back like a mechanic and wriggles underneath.
‘This is where I tickle you,’ says Henry to me.
‘No! No tickling!’ says Tom. ‘Ah-ha! I see the problem…’
He pushes home the disconnected cable, crawls out again, I lower the bed, he presses the control panel. The head end whirrs and rises.
‘You did it!’ says Henry.
‘I can’t believe you’ve been without it for a whole year!’
‘It’s amazing what you can do with pillows.’
‘I’ll take your word for it,’ says Tom. ‘Hold on… I’m going to sneeze.. aah… aaaah…. aaaaaaaah…. No. Sorry. False alarm.’
‘I’m disappointed,’ says Henry.
‘Aaaaaaacccccchhhhhhooooo!’
It’s astonishingly loud, like we’ve just been buzzed by a fighter jet.
‘Good God in Heaven!’ says Henry. ‘I’m glad I was holding onto something.’

bogie the ghost dog

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

It doesn’t matter how many times I visit Canterbury Court, I always get lost.

Outside by the keysafes there’s a gravestone to a dog incorporated into the wall. Bogie – Most faithful of animals. Died 1905. I wonder if one of the keysafes is for Bogie, because I’m certain that most faithful of ghosts would be able to take me straight to Beatrice’s flat.

The problem is, Canterbury Court fundamentally and demonstrably does not make sense. It has mezzanine anomalies called -1 or +2. It has one main staircase leading up to the first mezzanine, then other, smaller stairways leading off from that, in ways so random you’d have to think, in the event of fire, the idea was confuse the flames not confine them. I can only imagine it was put together by a team of architects who were at war with each other, or possibly one architect having an existential crisis. Either way, Canterbury Court is a living nightmare to navigate.

A postman passes me on one of the landings. He looks haggard, a marine veteran of the labyrinth, gripping his bag with a thousand-yard stare, marching with a death or glory kind of vigour towards the lift. He must surely know the way to flat fourteen, so I stop him to ask. He pulls the ear buds out of his ear (I think he’s listening to a self-development app: You are a confident and generous human being, afraid of no-one and nothing … ). He frowns, then nods dismissively to the far end of the corridor. ‘Take the stairs’ he says, then screwing the buds back into place, he crosses himself, turns and throws himself into the lift as the doors slide shut.

On the next floor the numbers pass in illogical sequence, like one of those intelligence tests where the answer could be anything from 27 to a chicken on a bike. But luckily enough – before I run out of water and die – I find myself standing outside Beatrice’s door. I knock quickly, in case the magic ends and the door changes again. Beatrice answers. I go inside.

I’m sure if Bogie the ghost dog had been leading the way, he’d collapse down in a grateful heap in front of Lovejoy. (It’s always Lovejoy when I come to see Beatrice – which sounds like a particularly cruel kind of Purgatory, but there’s actually a perfectly rational explanation: Beatrice always has her Tinzaparin injection this time of the morning). Or maybe with one howl of anguish, when he realised what it was he was watching, Bogie would jump up and throw himself through the window. Even if he did stay, though, he wouldn’t be able to help me over the next hurdle. Finding Beatrice is a cinch compared to understanding Beatrice.

The stroke Beatrice suffered a few years ago has affected her speech. That, coupled with a strong Norfolk accent and the fact that Beatrice only has one, large tooth displayed as flagrantly in the middle of her mouth as Bogie’s headstone in the wall outside – all this means that I find it almost impossible to understand what she tries to tell me. It doesn’t help that Beatrice gets irritated with me, too, and speaks more quickly, so that in the end I’m desperately using every sense I have to divine what it is she wants. Mostly I’ll just ask her to speak a little more slowly, or write down what it is she wants. But today for some reason I steam ahead and try to understand by letting the sounds wash over me and the sense filter down by weight.

Beatrice shakes a handful of opened letters at me.
‘You want me to file them?’
– – – – – – – – (shakes the bundle)
‘You want me to throw them away?’
– – – – – – – – (shakes the bundle harder)
‘You want me to recycle them?’
– – – – – – – – (holds the bundle forwards / pulls the bundle back / shakes the bundle)
‘You want me to check the letters to make sure there’s nothing important in them, and THEN recycle them?’
(big sigh / shakes head / hands me the bundle)
‘Okay then.’
I look through the letters. The first one has a marmalade sandwich in it.
‘What do you want me to do with this, Beatrice?’
She raises her eyebrows.

death by powerpoint

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

thanks for coming / please be seated

now – death does not envy, is not boastful, is not conceited / death means all your paperwork’s completed / death be nimble, death be quick / death be colonel mustard in the conservatory with the candlestick / death is the opposite of whatever the hell this is / death means never having to do the dishes / worrying about where to put all the surplus oil / death is TOIL / time off in lieu / to you / I mean of life, of course / death is a no-legged horse / death is the death of strife / death is the cure for life / death means never falling asleep reading a heavyweight literary book / you’re off the hook / on vacation / death, the ultimate prevarication / where all your hours accrue like mold / death has put you on hold / an awkward pause, a longueur / death does NOT make the heart grow stronger / death is a Masonic lodge /where everyone knows the dodge / and swears allegiance / and thanks you for your perseverance / and you take your last breath and lie down in the basket / and you have one last question but can’t ask it / and they close the lid and sing a sad song / and finally you belong / because death is me and you, you and me / lots and lots for us never to see / from here to eternity / whichever comes sooner / death and the maiden, the baby boomer / and every other child that ever was born / death the dealer, death the skunk / death the comically desiccated monk / hung on a wall in a catacomb / death the cartoon / that works on every level / death the death of trouble / death means never paying for another overpriced ticket / or falling drunk in a bramble thicket / or playing cricket / you’ve pulled stumps / quit that shit / you’ve big time quit / you’re three feet under / what death has joined together let no man put asunder / death means never again feeling uneasy / queasy / or seeing one more goddamn film by Martin Scorsese / death means never riding another bike / or cab / or any new form of transport currently in development back in the lab / like a maglev train / or a teleporting brain / a driverless lorry / death means never having to say you’re sorry / death means never listening to a politician on the radio and then switching it off because you haven’t understood a word they’ve said / death is the longest you’ve ever stayed in bed / and then some / death is a loss of momentum / death is a complete absence of the enjoyment of avocado / death is incommunicado / a lack of bravado / or anything else for that matter / death is a no-food platter / death means never having a son and calling him Xavier / or saviour / which is a better rhyme / death is a surfeit of time / death is Quintus Fabius Maximus Verrucosus, the delayer / death is the world’s most prolific slayer / a whoreson betrayer of truths / and half-built roofs / or maybe it’s rooves / I’m not quite sure / anyway, death is a door / you’re either one side or the other / death is the world’s worst brother / who never, ever keeps in touch / death doesn’t care all that much / because death is basically lazy, crazy, a putz / death is totally kaputz / an absolute vacancy of Pizza huts / death means never again mistakenly ordering the stuffed crust / death, a loss of trust / death is a lockdown, lie-in, no-show / death is on the down-lo / but anyway, thanks for trying / death is buying / burying / death is boring / death is the blissful absence of snoring / death is the end to all philosophical endeavour / death has come to everyone in history who has ever been called Trevor / or Eve / or The Rt Hon Sir Nicholas St John Reeve / death wears its heart on its sleeve / as it dances forlornly with its sickle / death is the last remaining pickle / in a jar of brine / shining and divine / floating round a doughnut of time / death is a one way sign / death wants you to slow down a little / death is waiting for you at the hospital / so now, get you to my lady’s chamber / she’s scared to death and who can blame her

5 reasons not to be flat

~ jim clayton ~ 2 Comments

1   At the hospital. I’m walking up the slope to the pathology lab when I pass three bricklayers building a wall. I feel sorry for them; it looks such hard work, especially in this hot sun. They’re wearing fluorescent tabards, bare chested underneath, hard hats, filthy trousers, scuffed boots. Their deeply tanned skin is covered in a fine layer of white dust, almost but not quite concealing their tattoos. The first two bricklayers are middle-aged, grizzled, grim-faced. The one higher up the slope is much younger, in his twenties, I’d guess, a silver chain round his neck, his helmet pushed back on his head, his long, sweated hair spilling out all around. Suddenly he stops, straightens, lifts his head and starts to sing:
Young hearts…run freeeee….never be hung up… hung up like my man and meeeee…duh-du-duuuhhhh
Then wiping his forehead with the back of the trowel-holding hand, he bends back down again and carries on working

2    A woman stops me in the corridor approaching the path lab. She’s brisk, focused, in a pressed blue suit with a visitor’s badge pinned to her lapel.
‘Can you tell me how to get to A and E?’ she says. ‘I’m lost’
‘Yeah. It’s not where you think it is. I mean – because the hospital’s built on a hill, A and E is actually below us. So you’ve got to go down. A bit of a warren, I know. But follow this corridor round, you’ll come to some stairs. Go down the stairs a floor and then follow the signs.’
‘Why do these places have to be such bloody labyrinths?’
‘I know! It’s so confusing. But you should be okay. Just follow it round, go down the stairs and eventually you’ll see it.‘
‘What – the minotaur?’
‘Oh? So you’ve met the consultant?’
‘No,’ she says, shaking her head and re-shouldering her bag. ‘But maybe you should call ahead and let him know I’m coming.’

3    Portia’s sunglasses. Round, turtle-green frames, purple-tinted lenses. When she’s wearing them she reminds me of an electron microsopy image of a rapt and fabulous insect.
Happy. Smiling. Scarlet lipstick.

4    I’m chatting to Maude over the fields. She’s telling me all about her labrador Suki’s latest health problems – a flare-up of her arthritic paw. Front left. That’s why she’s on the lead, Maude says. ‘We’re just going for a stretch around the park, then it’s back home for some R&R and Andrew Marr. I’ve booked her in for lazer treatment first thing Monday, physio and massage and the rest of it. Poor thing!’
Suki is sitting at my feet staring up at me with a doleful look. You think you’ve got problems her eyes seem to say. You should try being me for a change. Meanwhile, Lola is racing round and round, showing off, demonstrating the advantages of healthy paws.
An elderly man with a collie approaches. The collie takes off after Lola, whilst the man comes over, looking furious, holding out a handful of sweet wrappers.
‘Look at this!’ he says. ‘They make such a mess!’
‘That’s Saturday for you,’ says Maude.
‘The council should give all the dog walkers grabbers,’ he says. ‘Grabbers! And sacks to put it all in!’
‘And a wage’ I say. The man frowns.
‘What d’you mean, a wage?’ he says. ‘I don’t want money. I just want a clean park.’
‘I was kidding about the money,’ I say. ‘Maybe you should put the grabber idea in the suggestion box.’
‘Hmm,’ he says, turning to go. ‘Or maybe next time I should find someone with some influence to talk to.’

5    At the pub with Kath and a couple of friends for a drink and something to eat. For some reason we all go for the same thing: beetroot burgers, humus, fries, and four pints of beer (okay – three pints of beer and one of cider). For starters, we have two portions of fried tofu in chilli sauce. We skip dessert. We have more beer, then four espressos (okay – three espressos and one cup of earl grey tea).
We get the bill.
‘Why don’t we just split it down the middle?’ I say.
They all look at me with the same expression – meaning (I’m guessing): Well – d’uh!

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portia and the cricket

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Portia. Sounds like Porsche – appropriate, actually, because she works so quickly. She’s stylish, too, with a bright, economic kind of aesthetic that perfectly complements her therapist’s uniform: henna-red hair cut in an angular bob; red nails, and a pair of round sunglasses in a turtle green frame.
‘Are you’s okay, eJim? Wha’s the matter? You seems a bit flat.’
‘Yeah – I’m okay, thanks Portia. This patient we’re going to – it’s difficult. And when I got back to the office to speak to one of the lead nurses, everyone was so stressy and snippy. It didn’t help that manager was wandering around with her notepad, giving me the evil eye.’
‘I’m sure she was too a-busy thinking about her looshus ass to worry about poor little Jimminy Cricket’
‘Yeah’

It’s fantastic that Portia’s agreed to come with me for this follow-up visit. It’s such a depressing case of self-neglect, I feel in need of psychic protection. The patient had cried when I spoke to him quite firmly about what it might mean to his health if he continued to refuse help, slumped on his chair by the window, the room so rank, run-down and malodorous, it felt like I’d been pitched blue-gloves first into an ante-room in Hell.

And of course, Portia is as dynamic and effective as ever. It’s a pleasure to watch her, effortlessly moving through the place, as refreshing and galvanising as the breeze through that window she opened so discreetly. The patient opens to her, too, irresistibly drawn – as everyone is – by her frank and life-affirming demeanour.
‘There you go my lovely!’ she says, shaking his hand. ‘Is a pleshur to meet you. Take care, and we see you soon, okay? Okay!’
And we’re out of there.

Back in the car, she turns to look at me.
‘Feeling not so flat now?’ she says.
‘Yeah! Thanks for helping me out.’
‘Of course!’ she says, then resting an elbow out of the car window, drops her round sunglasses down and gives me a big, lipsticky smile. ‘So come on, Jimminy Cricket! Less’ go!’

ralph’s owl

~ jim clayton ~ 2 Comments

Ralph reminds me of that paleolithic fertility statue, the Venus of Willendorf, updated for the modern age, with trackie bottoms, steel-rimmed glasses and a wild beard.
‘I just want to be left alone’ he says.
‘I’m sorry you feel like that,’ I say, squatting down near to him, mostly because I don’t want to intimidate him by standing tall, but also because there’s nowhere clean to sit. ‘We’re worried about you. That’s all.’
‘I just …. don’t appreciate … all this fuss.’
I can understand why he feels exposed. Whilst he was away in hospital a deep clean team stripped the place. I hadn’t seen what it was like before, but a trainer they missed is a giveaway. I found it when I moved the coffee table to make room for his zimmer. The trainer is caked in brown matter, a ghastly combination of dust, dirt and accumulated awfulness, the inside of the shoe spilling over with ropes of web so thick even a spider would shake its head and walk on.
‘You can always say no,’ I say. ‘You don’t have to have any of this.’
‘I just wish … I could say … what I want… to say.’
‘Take your time.’
I leave lots of room for him to try, but he’s too distressed to speak. He sits there gripping the arms of the chair, taking anguished gasps of air, puffing his toothless cheeks in and out and rolling his lips.
‘Don’t worry,’ I say. ‘It’s okay.’
I can’t even make Ralph a cup of tea. All he has in his cupboard are cupasoups and instant porridge sachets; the only things in his fridge, a couple of pens of insulin. There’s a scattering of medication strips on the windowsill, which make me question the accuracy of the ‘competent to take meds independently’ description on his discharge summary. In fact, I’d have to question much of what’s on that paper. Ralph lives up a flight of stairs (the paper said basement); he has a keysafe, because he couldn’t possibly answer the door (the paper said no keysafe), his phone number is carefully transcribed (he hasn’t got a phone). You’d hardly think it was the same patient at all.
‘Who does your shopping?’ I ask him, looking around.
‘Alfred. He helps out now and again.’
‘That’s good! D’you mind if I give him a call?’
‘I don’t have his number.’
‘Do you know where he lives?’
‘He’s not far’
‘If you give me the address I could pop round.’
‘I don’t know where he lives. I don’t even know his last name. All these questions…’

It’s a difficult assessment. The thought of anyone living like this is depressing, especially someone with Ralph’s limited mobility, sitting for hours and hours in a dilapidated armchair by the window, his skin breaking down, his only company the radio or the hum of the flies circling impatiently overhead. Ralph could be a poster boy for the Self Neglectful.

One of the most difficult things to accept in community health is the business of mental capacity. Essentially, so long as you understand the consequences of your actions, you’re perfectly at liberty to live however you like, whether or not it’s bad for your health. A free climber is perfectly free to jump up on El Capitan with nothing but a bag of chalk and the strength in their fingers between them and certain death; similarly, Ralph is free to live in this filthy flat with one crapped-up trainer and nothing in the fridge and no-one to see him, and he has every right not be pestered by nurses and therapists and social workers.
‘Maybe you could write a list of the things you want to say,’ I tell him. ‘You could take a while, and have a good think, and put it all in two columns – what I want, and what I don’t want.’
‘Just… I don’t…. oh’
‘It’s okay. There’s a lot going on at the moment. The deep clean must have been stressful.’

They’ve left one thing on the walls, though: a crude, blockish, primary coloured tapestry of an owl, staring out of its grimy frame with an outraged expression. Tucked into the frame is a polaroid of something that looks like a glass owl on a mantelpiece, but the picture’s so faded I can’t be sure.
‘I like your owl,’ I say. ‘How long have you had that?’
‘Thirty year,’ he says. ‘My wife did it. By numbers.’