clubbed

January 26, 2018March 9, 2018 ~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

Groucho had it about right: I don’t want to belong to any club that would accept me as one of its members.

Except – the arguments were stacking up:
– I fuelled up at pretty much the same petrol station every other day
– I already used a reward card at the supermarket – and look at how much that saved every Christmas!
– It was one more card to carry, but hey? my wallet could stand it.

So I finally caved and said yes, okay, fine, I’ll be a member of the Shell’s Drivers’ Club, even though it made me scratchy to think of myself as part of a drivers’ club. What next? Lambskin gloves? A pine tree car deodorant? A SHOVEL IN THE BOOT?

I took the card.

But one thing I hadn’t reckoned with was That Woman Who Works There.

I’m sure she’s perfectly lovely, given the right kind of people. Except, TWWWT has made it perfectly clear, over the three or four years I’ve been stopping by her station, that access to The Right Kind of People would be a little more problematic for someone like me than simply saying Yes, I’ll be a member of the Shell Drivers’ Club and holding out my hand for a card.

Maybe I’m reading too much into a face. But it’s difficult when that face has the kind of brutally fixed expression that wouldn’t look out of place on a camp governor in Colditz. I can only be grateful she doesn’t have access to a uniform, because I’d probably faint clean away if she came stomping over from the bread aisle wearing shiny leather boots and a monocle. I’m a nervous wreck as it is, and I have to say, the bloody Shell Drivers’ club card was only making things worse.

I mean – it never, ever works. Not for me, anyway.

‘Don’t swipe it so hard’
or
‘You’re swiping it too quickly’
or
‘The other way! The other way!’

And then – inevitably: *The Sigh*

It’s *The Sigh* I find most distressing. And the fact that no matter how hard I try I still end up getting it only makes the experience worse. Because I know it’s coming. And though it’s probably true that a coward dies a thousand deaths and a brave man only one, it’s also probably true that the person who first said that never had to use their Shell Drivers’ card with TWWWT watching, and the thing not working, and then *The Sigh*

Because *The Sigh* means that the next terrible thing is about to happen.

You see, TWWWT is only about five five. It doesn’t bother me. I’m five seven. I know what it means to be compromised in the leg department. But crucially, for TWWWT it means that if the swipe card doesn’t work she’s not tall enough to reach over and do it from behind the counter. She’s forced to walk all the way round and come and do it herself. Which admittedly must be annoying for her. Hence *The Sigh*

And it is such a sigh, such an explosively expressive communication of her utter and abiding contempt, that I can’t help thinking I’m the only one this happens to. Certainly that’s the feeling I get from the look she gives me – how I imagine it feels to dunk your head in a vat of nitrogen.

*The Sigh*
‘Give it here…’

And then I make it worse by trying to say something to ease the pain.

For instance, yesterday I said: ‘It’s all in the wrist action!’ – which was meant to be a quote from an advert for a kid’s toy in the 70s. Battling Tops I think. Anyway, it sounded crude when I said it to TWWWT, which is why she frowned at me with such severity I think I actually whimpered.
‘Thanks!’ I managed, waving the card in the air and backing away, straight into a builder with a coffee and armful of doughnuts.

That night I checked my points online to see how I was doing. In all that time I’d accrued five pounds worth of credit. Five pounds! Exposing myself to the wrath of TWWWT for three years, for five pounds?.Hell – I’d pay twice that to avoid it! So I decided to toss the card and take the hit.

Today I filled up as usual and presented myself at the counter.
‘Pump number four’ I said, as breezily as I could, putting my debit card in the machine.
‘Take it out,’ she said. ‘I’m not ready.’
‘Oh. Sorry.’
She stabbed a few buttons – then paused, looked up and narrowed her eyes.
‘Where’s your Shell Drivers’ card?’
‘I … erm… I don’t want to use it,’ I said.
*The Sigh*
‘Pump Four…’ she said, heavily, as if it was typical of me to choose that one, and then stared out of the window as I tapped in my pin, like she was hoping to see someone else, someone better – anyone – a real driver, to come fill up at her pumps.

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the test

January 21, 2018 ~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

The woman whose birthday it is
– whose birthday it was –
stares at me through glasses
so broad and thick
it’s like she’s studying me
through a diver’s mask
flooded with brine.

‘I just don’t understand
why the communication is so bad’ she says.
‘Not just bad – I mean – terrible.
laughably terrible. Insane.’
Does no-one ever pick up a phone?
Does no-one ever speak?’
‘I’m so sorry you’ve had a bad experience,’ I say
slowly sliding a leaflet
from the back of the folder.
The woman narrows her eyes
a focusing of disdain
so fierce it would cauterise meat
‘but maybe this might help…’
‘What’s that?’ she says.
‘So – once a month we run this Friends and Family test.
Don’t worry. It only takes a second to complete
And what it is – it’s a way of finding out
what people really think of the service.
Now – funnily enough – I had a conversation
with one of my colleagues about it
first thing this morning
when they were handing them out.
Me? I said it was a good idea
you know – getting a snapshot of what people thought
but maybe this wasn’t the way to go about it.’
‘No?’
‘No. Because this way you’re going to suffer from
Confirmation Bias. It’s human nature.
You’re more likely to ask those people
who had a good experience
because you won’t want to antagonise
the ones that hadn’t
even though their views
would actually be more helpful.
People tend to be happy in much the same way
They’ll say Yeah…No… It was okay.
all very non-specific.
Either because they actually DID
think it was okay but can’t elaborate,
or because – consciously or otherwise –
they don’t want to stir things up
and nix the prospect of any
help in the future
– even though we do stress
these questionnaires are completely anonymous
and you’re perfectly free to say
whatever you like.
So my argument was – there’s a psychology
behind the whole thing
that means the results will always be skewed towards
the happy people, who’ll be over-represented in the figures.
Because if someone’s angry about something
you’re unlikely to want to extend the experience
for them or for you.

It’s just too uncomfortable.

It’s only natural.

You’d just want to get the hell out of there.

But this friend of mine,
he said that’s why he makes a point
ONLY to test the unhappy people
to balance the whole thing out
and – well – because he’s a bit like that anyway
you know? Contrary.
Do you see what I’m saying?’

‘I know perfectly well what you’re saying,’ says the woman
pushing her glasses up her nose
with a finger on-point as a nail-gun
‘It’s what I do for a living.’
‘What? Customer surveys?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh’
And you know what I think?’
‘What?’
‘It’s bullshit.’

whatever you do, don’t

January 21, 2018 ~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

sixty years married
and now look
she died in hospital
wha’d’ya have to go and do that for
she said
then rolled over
closed her eyes
and was gone

could you draw the blinds
only it’s getting dark
put on that side lamp
and get me some tea
could you refill my hot water bottle
and one last thing
sorry to be a pain
but, please, when you go,
whatever you do,
don’t close the door

hive mind

January 20, 2018March 9, 2018 ~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

Maybe it would help if we dressed like bees.

A little history.

There’s a big reorganisation, a consolidation of three or four front-line community services that pretty well do the same thing. The reorganisation is aimed at reducing duplication, focusing resources, rationalising cover – and no-one can argue with that. Too many times we’re going out to patients and finding another agency already there, doing the same thing. Or, more worryingly, that a patient hasn’t got the help they need because of a glitch in the lines of communication. Although management knows that after consolidation the caseload will increase, the pros will outweigh the cons, the system will be tightened, efficiencies made, money saved, standards raised.

So far, so good. The pros are strong enough and sensible enough to sign up to.

But then the cons start to huddle-in as the consolidation plays out, and it’s more and more difficult to maintain enthusiasm.

There’s a lag in the provision of the IT needed to back the enlarged caseload. Extemporary changes are made to the existing systems, last-minute, white-knuckle affairs. Spreadsheets metastasise. There are queues for working computers, and the ones that work are noticeably slower.

And then there are the folders. In the middle of the office, three large cabinets of them, cluttered-up floor to ceiling with all those patients currently – and quite literally – on the books. A colour-coded, ragged-spined, wretchedly-administrative version of the Tower of Babel. A Wailing Wall of folders.

‘We should go full Victorian,’ says one of the lead nurses. ‘We should have ledgers up on high desks and write with quills. Have fireplaces burning coal.’ She sighs and folds her arms, waiting for the computer to stop updating. ‘Tall hats and moustaches.’

But beyond the IT deficit and the burgeoning folder problem, the most immediate and obvious result of The Great Consolidation is the overcrowding.

An office that was designed for the comfort of a dozen, an office that could, perhaps, at a pinch, handle twice that, now has to accommodate, at the busiest times of the day, upwards of forty. Plus guests. Plus cleaners.

The office runs from eight till eight. The busiest times are from half seven when the early shift arrives; midday when there’s a crossover, and then three o’clock when everyone heads back for handover. At those three times the office is like the floor of the stock exchange, or worse, a giant beehive, with the centre of it being the folder shelves, that great, comb-like structure containing all the honey – rich in patient intelligence, dripping with detail. And it’s these giant combs of information that the nursing staff principally serve, their arms filled with sheets of paper, correspondences, referrals, new folders (of course); doing their best not to crash into each other as they manoeuvre through the runways and cluttered spaces, turning round, feinting to one side or the other, hurrying this way and that, stopping, excusing-me-ing, laughing, gossiping, carrying on in the way that bee people do when they’re pushed for time and harassed and stressed and making the best of an impossible situation.

‘CAN WE HAVE A LITTLE QUIET IN HERE PLEASE?’ shouts the bee pharmacist, one pad clamped over the phone. ‘I CAN’T HEAR MYSELF THINK’

It would be satisfying and instructive at these busy times to lift the roof of the office clean away, and peer in for a moment, and watch with detached fascination the funny little comings and goings. Is that a dance they’re doing? Is that how they know where the patients are? Maybe after a time, you might be tempted to lean in with your puffer of gas, and smoke them all senseless – harmlessly, of course, just long enough to take out the racks of folders, and put them in a spinner, and extract the gorgeous, lovingly-collected intelligence.

‘Mmm! That’s amazing!’ you might say, admiring what you’d collected, dragging a finger through the observations, the progress notes, the summaries and the charts. ‘You could really make something out of that!’ And then gently replacing the shelving, and sliding the roof back into place, you might sit for awhile on the opposite roof, and breathe quietly, and listen to all the buzzing.

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a question of time

January 20, 2018January 20, 2018 ~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

‘I was a clockmaker’
‘Horologist?’
‘Well – I was going to use the official name, but you see – I didn’t want you to think I was showing off.’
‘Fair enough. It’s just I don’t get to say the word horologist very often. And now here I am saying it twice.’
Ray turns his filmy gray eyes onto me.
‘Of course, a person can use a thing too much,’ he says.
I help him back into his favourite chair, and then re-arrange his blankets, hot water bottle and padded stool for his feet.
‘Restored!’ he says.
Whilst I finish writing out the paperwork I ask him about his work.
‘You must’ve had such a steady hand.’
‘Everyone says that, but it wasn’t something I thought about. You get used to these things. You adapt.’
‘I suppose you do.’
I write some more.
A clock on the wall sounds the hour. It has a dark and sombre look to it, reliable, relentless – the kind of thing I can imagine hanging on the wall in a Victorian station master’s office. And as if the chimes have prompted the thought, Ray says: ‘If you could go back in time – anywhere at all – where would you go?’
‘Me? Ooh – loads of places. The Aztecs? Dinosaurs? I’d love to see a dinosaur, although depends very much on the dinosaur. If I had a protective suit I’d feel happier. Or I was invisible. Erm – I’d love to see a Shakespeare play, with Shakespeare in it. Dunno. What about you?’
‘I would like to see Stonehenge. As it was.’
‘Now that would be cool!’
‘What were they doing there?’
‘Stonehenge. Definitely!’
‘I mightn’t like what I saw, though. One thing that’s always struck me – how cruel people can be.’
‘Absolutely. And it’s not something that’s restricted to one period of time. There’s no end to it. So I suppose what you have to take from that is that there’s always a potential for cruelty in humans, and the best you can do is take it seriously, and not get complacent.’
Ray adjusts his hot water bottle, drawing it up his body a ways, nearer to his heart.
‘Yes,’ he says after a while. ‘Stonehenge. Like an enormous stone clock. I think I should like to see that.’
‘Well if you go this afternoon, leave a note so we know where you are.’
He laughs.
‘Don’t worry,’ he says, and then reaching out a hand, extra-warm from the hot water bottle, ‘…and who knows? Maybe I’ll send a cart back for you.’

the very hungry caterpillar

January 16, 2018 ~ jim clayton ~ 2 Comments

‘I’m sorry if I was snippy when I answered the door,’ says Marjorie. ‘I thought you’d come to read the meter.’
‘That’s okay. I’d be the same if someone knocked me up first thing on a Sunday. I did try calling you…’
‘Yes. Well. We don’t answer if we don’t know who it is.’

Marjorie is sitting one end of the table, her husband John the other, making me feel less like a clinician and more like a family counsellor. It’s John I’ve come to see, though. He doesn’t seem anywhere near as bad as the referral suggested. In fact I’d go as far as saying he looks perfectly fine, chomping enthusiastically through a small stack of jam toast, with occasional gulps of tea to wash it all down.
‘Ahh!’ he says, setting the mug aside, and then, after picking up another slice of toast and holding it in front of him for a moment with something like a lover’s gaze, begins again. It’s like watching a giant caterpillar methodically working round a leaf – a caterpillar dressed in an Arsenal bobble hat, fleece and jogging bottoms.
‘Mind your fingers’ says Marjorie.
He nods, his eyes closed.
‘He fell off a ladder, you see,’ sighs Marjorie, securing her dressing gown with a resolute tug of the cord. ‘A few years ago now. He didn’t fall that far, but it was down onto the patio, and all the pots. He was pruning the jasmine. I’d told him to wait till I got back so I could foot the bottom. But no – he’s always just carried on regardless. And now look. One leg shorter than the other. He wears an insert in his shoe, but it doesn’t make any difference. And of course, everything else gets thrown out of whack. He’s got permanent back pain.’
John finishes his toast with a sigh, pushes the empty plate forwards and leans back in the chair.
I ask him what he takes for the pain.
‘Paracetamol!’ he says, slapping his tummy. ‘Four times a day.’
‘You shouldn’t be taking so much,’ says Marjorie. ‘It’s not good for you to take it all the time.’
He shrugs.
‘The doctor says it’s okay. If the doctor’s happy, I’m happy.’
‘It’s bad for your liver.’
‘I don’t see what it’s got to do with you,’ says John. ‘Are you a doctor?’
‘Everyone knows paracetamol are bad for you.’
‘Are you a doctor, Marg?’
‘Doctors don’t know everything, John.’
‘I say again – are you a doctor?’
‘I’m not having this discussion.’
‘I’m happy with paracetamol. The doctor’s happy with paracetamol. Let that be an end to it.’
It’s obviously a sore point between them. I try to take a middle position.
‘It’s difficult,’ I say. ‘Chronic pain is different to acute pain. You handle it differently. I mean, if you get a headache, you take something to help with that. But if you have pain all the time, you need to take regular doses to keep yourself on an even keel. If you let the pain get too bad, it’ll take more of something to get you back into the okay zone. The idea is to maintain a good cruising altitude.’
To illustrate, I make a half-hearted rising and falling gesture with the flat of my hand. Marjorie watches me with a slack expression.
‘I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re on about,’ she says.
‘I do’ says John, sucking a glob of jam off his thumb. ‘I do.’

how far is anywhere

January 15, 2018January 15, 2018 ~ jim clayton ~ 2 Comments

Derek is sitting on the sofa, both legs stretched out on a stool, a tartan throw neatly draped over his lap – so precisely aligned it’s like a draughtsman has lain a grid over the lower half of him pending further work. Derek is cradling half a mug of tea on his belly, only freeing a hand now and again to point aggressively, either at me, or at Mia, the nurse who’s come to do the assessment with me.

‘Listen to me… just for one second,’ he says, in a hoarse and curiously fractured way, zoning in and out, soft one moment and aggressively emphatic the next, as if he’s speaking from a great distance and the signal keeps getting distorted, ‘I do not appreciate… I do not appreciate…yeah? All this, what you are doing. It irritates me, high up, in here…’ slowly transferring the pointing finger to his right temple and tapping, firmly, twice. I wonder if that’s the side he had the stroke, and I make a note to ask his wife Sandra about it. ‘I do not appreciate this,’ he says. ‘I do not want it. Let me tell you something. I have been round the world. A few times. I’ve walked it. The entire world. And I’ve seen things. You wouldn’t believe what I’ve seen. I’ve seen people killed. Yeah? You cannot imagine…’
‘You’re absolutely right,’ says Mia. ‘I can’t. But – if I could just explain why we’ve come here today…’

Mia is unflappable. She wears her long years as a community nurse lightly, but with great warmth. It’s impressive to see how patiently she’s able to maintain her focus in the face of Derek’s behaviour, not rising to his challenges, progressing the meeting as best she can, slowly and neutrally, her clinical objective always in mind. I feel like a naturalist taking notes on a species of big cat, stalking its prey on the prairie. It’s instructive to watch her work, to see how she continually makes tiny adjustments to her approach, the way she sits, the way she puts her notes to one side, the way she holds him in her attention. If she had a tail it would be switching, infinitesimally, at the tip.
‘No! Now – wait!’ says Derek. ‘Let me tell you something.’
‘Please let them help you,’ says Sandra.
‘It’s okay, Sandra,’ says Mia, reaching over to touch her on the arm. ‘We’ve got time.’
‘And you!’ says Derek, stabbing the air in the direction of his wife. ‘You I’ll deal with later.’
‘Oh, Derek,’ says Sandra.
‘You know what you did. You let them in. You know I didn’t want them.’
‘But you’re ill.’
‘You I don’t mind’ he says, turning his attention back to Mia. ‘‘I don’t … have trouble with women. And I’ve known a lot of women in my time. You would not believe. But men? I’m a fighter. I’ve always been like it. Him,’ he says, flashing a sideways glance at me. ‘Him I would’ve had outside in a second. In a second.’
‘I’m sorry you feel like that,’ says Mia, smiling at me. ‘Now – look. it’s important that I explain to you why we need to see you today.’
‘No. Wait a minute. Listen.’
‘Derek! They’ve got people to see. They’ve got lives of their own.’
For the first time in the visit Sandra looks utterly forlorn.
‘I do not want a thing,’ says Derek, adjusting his position on the sofa with an uncoordinated lurch and slopping tea onto his t-shirt.
‘Oh now look! I’ll go and get a cloth,’ says Sandra, taking the mug from him. ‘Would either of you like a cup?’
‘That’d be great. Thanks.’
Sandra hurries into the kitchen.
‘Derek. We think you have an infection and we’d like to do something about it,’ says Mia, taking advantage of the distraction to strike the point home. ‘If you don’t let us help you it’ll just get worse and you’ll end up in hospital. Again. We respect your decision to say no, and we certainly wouldn’t go against that. But you have to understand what’ll happen if you don’t accept treatment.’
Derek closes his eyes, compresses his lips into a ghastly smile, and slowly shakes his head from side to side.
‘Just you listen a minute to me,’ he says. ‘You’ve had your say. Now it’s my turn.’
‘Okay.’
Weirdly, he almost seems to go to sleep, but when no-one speaks he suddenly opens his eyes again and points at Mia.
‘I’ve been round the world,’ he says. ‘I’ve seen people killed. I’ve seen people kill themselves, but it’s worse when they get killed. Can you – appreciate – what it is I’m trying to say to you? The whole world? Because I do not appreciate …. it gets me irritated …. up here. You do not get what I am telling you. I have been round the world, I’ve seen it…’
Sandra comes back in with a tray of tea.
‘There!’ she says, handing me and Mia a cup. ‘Although what I think you really need is a medal.’
‘I’ve been round the world. I’ve seen it,’ says Derek.
‘I know darling. And got the t-shirt.’
‘What?’ he says. ‘What t-shirt?’
‘Never mind, never mind,’ says Sandra, ‘I’m sorry.’ And sinking back down into the chair facing her husband, she straightens her skirt and takes a breath. ‘So. How far did we get?’ she says. ‘Anywhere?’

party line

January 12, 2018 ~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

When Agnes finally reaches the front door, she looks so beautifully turned-out in her vintage, poppy-print housecoat it’s like she set off from the back kitchen sometime in the nineteen fifties.
‘Hello!’ she says, through a crackle of thick, coral pink lipstick. ‘Thank you so much for coming.’
She leads me slowly through into the lounge, and after gesturing to the sofa, perches herself on the edge of an armchair and fixes me with a bright smile.
‘Now. What’s this all about?’ she says.
I explain that her doctor has made the referral, but as I carry on talking I can’t help wondering if I’ve got the right address. Struggling with ADLs the referral said. Recent UTI. Needs TDS care & help with meds. Really? The room’s as perfect as Agnes. No sign of dust or disorder; nothing out of place; a clock and two porcelain clowns equally spaced on the mantelpiece; a TV remote symmetrically aligned with paper, pen and reading lens on a discreetly placed, Moroccan side table.
‘How are you feeling today?’ I ask her, opening the yellow folder.
‘Oh. You know,’ she says, smiling even brighter. ‘Annoyed with myself. I took the Christmas decorations down yesterday and now I can’t find them.’
‘I’m sure they’ll turn up.’
‘I hope so. Some of them were very old. Falling to pieces, but – well – you get used to these things.’
I know what you mean. My favourite decoration is a snowman playing the violin. He’s looking pretty shabby these days, but it’s nice to see him every year.’
‘I bet!’
‘I’m sure your decorations will turn up.’
‘I hope so,’ says Agnes. ‘I feel so cross with myself.’

-oOo-

After the examination I review the facts. All Agnes’ observations are normal. Her medication is nicely ordered in a dosette box that her son, Barry, organises at the beginning of each week. She is perfectly able to wash and dress herself; before her recent illness she was driving once a week to bridge club.
‘Shall I ring Barry and see what he has to say?’
‘That’s a good idea!’
‘Do you mind if I use the landline? Only – if I ring using the work mobile, the number won’t show and he might think it’s a sales call.’
‘Of course! Please – help yourself…’
Barry is on the address function. I press call – and it’s immediately apparent that the phone is on loudspeaker.
‘How do I take it off?’
‘Oh – it’s always like that’ says Agnes. ‘Don’t worry. Barry won’t mind.’
The phone keeps ringing – extremely loudly – and I’m still trying to figure out how to mute the thing when he picks up.
BARRY MOSS says Barry, in a voice so thunderous and sharp I want to hold the phone away from my ear.
‘Hello Barry. My name’s Jim. I’m a nursing assistant from the hospital…’
YES. UR-HUM.
‘Barry? The doctor’s asked that we come round to see your mum’s alright – to do her blood pressure and so on….’
YES
‘…but before I go on, can I just say… you’re on speakerphone at the minute and I don’t know how to take it off’
I smile and nod at Agnes; she smiles back.
YOU CAN’T. IT’S LIKE IT ALL THE TIME.
‘Would you like me to call you back on my work mobile?’
NO. IT’S ALRIGHT.
‘Okay. Agnes is sitting right here with me…’
I can’t make it any clearer that he’s being overheard, but if Barry’s understood, he makes no sign.
HOW IS SHE?
‘She’s fine. Aren’t you, Agnes?’
‘Absolutely!’ says Agnes, shaking her head and smiling. ‘Never felt better!’
YOU CAN’T TRUST A WORD SHE SAYS, YOU KNOW.
‘Oh, now – I don’t know about that…’
Agnes straightens in the chair. Although her smile doesn’t falter, I can see her fingers whiten round her knee.
Because I can’t immediately think of a way of stopping him saying anything else, I look to buy myself some time.
‘Let me hand you over so you can have a quick word with your mum,’ I tell him. ‘Then we can all have a chat about what to do next.’
HAND HER OVER, THEN
‘Hello darling!’ says Agnes.
HELLO MUM shouts Barry. WHAT’S ALL THIS? A PARTY LINE?

strange dreams in a blue house

January 11, 2018 ~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

To paraphrase a movie tagline from the seventies: Rich means never having to say your address.

‘The Blue House, Ocean Rise’ isn’t much to go on. It sounds distinctive, though, and as I have some time before the appointment, I take a chance and drive straight there, figuring I’ll spot a blue house easily enough, especially on Ocean Rise, where all the houses are a transcendent white, following a brutalist style of architecture that’ll one day be known as ‘bunker chic’.

Ocean Rise is a grand, slow ascent of the cliffs to the east of town, an eclectic throw of old and new money, each house with a panoramic view of the sea, secure gates, and landscaped gravel drives leading to doors wide enough to walk through with a saddlebag of gold over each shoulder.

I’ve driven up and down the road twice when I admit defeat and pull over to call for directions. Even doing this gives me a prickly feeling, security cameras zooming in on the small, suspiciously old car as the driver flips through a diary and glances anxiously through the window. With any luck they’ll see the NHS lanyard and reassuring blue of my uniform and put the phone back on the hook. I mean – this isn’t the US. The worst you see here are signs that say: No Hawkers or Canvassers. In the US it’s Armed Response.

– Who is this?
Hello Mrs Shand. It’s Jim, from the hospital. I’ve come to see Mr Shand, to check his blood pressure and so on.
– Well where are you, then?
I’m on Ocean Rise.
– That’s it. That’s where we live.
I’m afraid I don’t have the number.
– We don’t have a number. We’re The Blue House.
I haven’t seen any blue houses.
– You won’t see it from the road.
No?
– No. We’re set back. On a hill. Behind a hedge.
Where on the road?
– (Oh for goodness sake) You know the new block? Moana Heights?
Yes.
– Turn in there, and then sharp left. It’s not signposted, but that’s where we are. Got it?
Yes. Thanks. See you in five minutes.

She hangs up, saying either Good, or possibly Good God, the ‘god’ part truncated.
I spin the car round and head in that direction, half a dozen outraged CCTV cameras capturing my registration plate.

-oOo-

Luckily, Mrs Shand is sweeter than her phone voice suggests. I can see that the stress of the situation is beginning to tell on her, giving her the alarmed and dangerously taut look of frayed rope.
‘He’s upstairs,’ she says, turning round in the hallway, bending down to pick up the post and in the process dropping half of the clothes and folders she already has in her arms.
‘Here. Allow me,’ I say, helping her sort things out.
‘He’s not well at all and I don’t know what to do,’ she says. ‘He’s leading me a merry dance, I can tell you.’
I follow her upstairs to a bedroom that’s like the deck of a ship, one great window stretching entirely across one end of it, the ceiling low, the only furniture in that vast space a simple double bed, an elderly man with wild, white hair lying placidly on top, both hands behind his head.
‘Hello?’ he says, stiffly pushing himself up on an elbow. ‘Who’d we have here, then?’
‘For goodness sake, Alfred! It’s the nurse!’ says Mrs Shand, trotting round the far side of the bed and fussing with some pillows. ‘You see what I mean?’ she adds, as if I’d just witnessed some outrageous display. ‘You see what I have to put up with?’
‘How are you, Alfred?’ I say, putting my bags down and then reaching out to shake his hand. His fingers are long and cool and frail, with so little pressure to them that if I closed my eyes it would be like shaking hands with a shadow.
‘I was having such a dream!’ he says, laying back down again and lacing his hands across his chest. ‘All those people! Coming out of the walls!’
He closes his eyes, then opens them again with a start, and looks straight at me, as if I was part of the same, ghostly parade.
‘Who did you say you were?’
‘Jim. From the hospital. Come to see how you are.’
‘Ah!’ he says, and then turns his pinched face up to the ceiling again, and closes his eyes.
‘Not good, Jim. Not good at all.

a shaggy nag story

January 10, 2018March 9, 2018 ~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

Everyone’s got at least one story about everything.

Take horses. I don’t know the first thing about horses. Okay, maybe a few things.

– Where you might want to put the bit
– Horses are measured in hands, for some reason.
– One aspect about them is called the hock (I’m guessing the feet, but I’m not going to google it, for comedy value)
– Don’t be tempted to buy a spavined horse, even if it’s really, really cheap
– A horse whisperer is someone who can make a horse lie down without putting them to sleep (which would be a vet).

Other than that, I’m clueless. Except – I have one story about horses I can trot out if I have to. It goes like this:

I was persuaded to go on a cross-country hack once. On Dartmoor. Because I was a novice they gave me a sedate old nag called Onions. We started off down a road, then a country lane, then veered off along a dried-up river bed, and on into some woods. And the thing that impressed me more than anything was how steady and sure-footed Onions was. There was nowhere she couldn’t go, one hoof in front of the other, hour after hour, her head bobbing up and down, utterly relentless. And I thought: This would be the perfect off-road vehicle – if it wasn’t so fucking uncomfortable.

(That is actually the pay-off. I know. Sorry. Now you know why I don’t get invited out much).

And the point of all this is – earlier today I interacted with a bunch of horses.

(Is that what you do? Interact with horses? Maybe if you’re an alien masquerading as a human, nervous you’re being watched, trying to act natural. Still – too late. That’s exactly what I did. I interacted).

What happened was, I’d taken Lola for her morning walk. Not the usual spot – a place I stopped going to a while back for no real reason I can think of. I’d met these particular horses before (nailing the I only have one story about horses lie, right there). I knew they were inquisitive – downright nosey, actually – were good with dogs, basically safe, so far as I could tell, although there was no way I’d ever be persuaded to walk at the kicking end, which is basically north and south. I was excited to see that the dew pond at the top of the field was full of water. I’d only ever seen it like that once before, and now that I was into taking pictures, I could see there might be some interesting tree-reflection shots to be had. The dew pond is where the horses hang out, though. Mostly. They have a tumbledown shelter way the other side of the field, but I can’t tell you much about that. I can’t even tell you who owns the horses. Maybe no-one. Maybe they’re a bunch of horse outlaws – or horselaws – and now that I think that I can never go there again.

Still – this morning I was prepared to take my chances. I slid down the bank of the pond and was busy taking pictures when I noticed the horses emerging from the gloom and heading straight for me. As usual they were led by the solidly built piebald who seemed to be the leader, the others tagging along behind in a shiftless kind of way, looking like they’d rather be anything other than a horse. I didn’t want to get nosed into the water, so I climbed back up the bank to meet them. I thought bowing my head and holding my hand out would be the sensible thing to do. They’d see I had humility, respect, and allow me to journey on peacefully through their realm. The piebald was pretty dismissive, though. She sniffed my hand – seemed aggrieved there was nothing in it – nosed my arm to the side and went straight for the pockets, maybe thinking I’d simply forgotten to take out whatever deliciousness I had to be carrying, or why else would I be there? It was like being patted-down by a weary cop, and a little unnerving. Trying to stay calm, I decided to retreat, walking as neutrally as I could to the nearest gate. The horses all followed me in a line, the piebald in front – natch – the others behind. I said some bland and vaguely placatory stuff, like good girl and thank you for escorting me to the gate…. any moment expecting to be beaten to the ground and hooved into a horrifying mash that some other dog walker would come across, and scream, and bite their knuckle, and all the crows in the elm would fly up, the piebald grinning maliciously from the tumbledown shelter way the other side of the field. I made the gate in one piece, though, and braver once the other side of it, offered my hand again by way of apology. The piebald let me ruffle her awful mane some, then as if that wasn’t enough, began rubbing her enormous skull on the post that stood between us, I suppose to emphasise how big and ornery her skull was, that she could knock this post down and get to me if she wanted, and to please bear all this in mind if ever I dared to think I could visit the dew pond with nothing more interesting to offer than a dog and an iPhone 5s.