Author: jim clayton

naturally three

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

Gemma, the OT, is pregnant. So pregnant, in fact, she gets asked dozens of time a day how much longer she plans on coming in, as if the questioner thinks she’s slightly crazy, and they’re worried they’re going to find her conducting a patient assessment with a baby bumping along behind her, still attached to the cord.

‘Because you really are so big and out front,’ says Faith, stirring her hot chocolate slowly, before licking the spoon and then using it to trace in the air the generous arc of Gemma’s belly. ‘I imagine this means you will be having another boy.’

‘I don’t think so,’ says Gemma, leaning back against the sink. ‘The scan was pretty clearly a girl. But I’d be happy either way.’

‘Ah – you see! But these scans and things, they can be wrong. I had a friend back in Zimbabwe, she was forty-two years of age, and she had one more baby, and she decided enough was enough. So when the baby came she called him Finish, and she went straightaway and had her tubes tied. But then, you see, the next year, because of recanalization or something else I don’t know what – the very next year, she fell pregnant again. And she gave birth to a healthy baby girl. And do you know what they called this baby girl?’

‘Miracle?’

‘No. That would have been a good name. But no! They called this baby girl Stop!’

‘What were her middle names? Please Dear and God?’

‘I don’t know that she had any middle names. No – it was just Stop, I think. So then she went back to the surgeon, and he said okay, okay, and he tied the tubes a little tighter this time, and that was that. Six children, and hardly room to put four.’

‘I’ll be happy with three. I think three’s plenty.’

‘Yes. Three is a good number.’

Faith picks up her hot chocolate and takes a sip, then cradles it ruminatively beneath her chin.

‘But you know something, Gemma – I can’t think of anything in nature with three of anything. Can you? Four legs on an elephant. Four legs on a cat. Two on a kangaroo. But three…?’

‘I think an octopus has three hearts,’ I say, squeezing in between them to rinse my cup at the sink.

‘Ah! Well! There you go, then,’ says Faith. ‘You wouldn’t want to be like an octopus, would you? Although, maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad idea. That’s one thing you definitely need more of with babies.’

‘What – hearts?’

‘No. Arms.’

technical glitch

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

The rush hour has a hectic, drawn-down feel, people hurrying home through the damp streets, clutching their collars against the rain, struggling with umbrellas, the headlights and brake lights of the traffic around them fitfully illuminating the wintry October night.

Arthur is our last assessment for the day. If we’re to be off on time we’ll need to be quick, but so far at least, the omens aren’t good.

To begin with, we just cannot find the damned house.

I’d spoken to his wife June just half an hour ago to let her know we were coming. But now when I try to call her to ask where on earth thirty-eight South Road is, the phone is permanently engaged. We park up outside the block which, on the Satnav at least, bears the flag. There’s a man sheltering in the doorway, smoking a fag. When I ask him for directions he shrugs and taps some ash off to the side, carefully holding the fag cupped in his hand to shield it from the rain.
‘Is that a flat somewhere, maybe?’  he says, shuffling from side to side, glancing beyond me down the street. ‘Dunno, mate,’ he says. ‘Can’t think.’
We go round him, into the offices of what turns out to be a parcel delivery company. The receptionist behind the desk is bright and helpful, determined to find out where number thirty-eight South Road might be.
‘Sorry to bother you..’ I tell her.
‘Not at all,’ she says. ‘Happy to help. One…. moment….’
She taps around on the computer.
‘Oh! Apparently this is thirty-eight!’ she says, setting back and blushing. ‘Sorry – I only started here yesterday.’
‘So – do they live upstairs, then?’
‘No. Maybe. I’m not sure. I thought that was just a storage area.’
The manager comes through – slowly, as if he’d been hiding round the side of a screen and was reluctant to reveal he’d heard the whole thing. He stares at us neutrally as the receptionist explains who we are and what we’ve come for. No, he says. This is sixty-eight. And no, there isn’t an elderly couple living upstairs amongst the boxes, not as far as he’s aware.
‘I’m sure I would’ve seen something,’ he says. ‘Some nibbled cardboard, maybe a hat. But anyway – let’s have another look on the computer.
We huddle round another laptop as he opens Google maps. It seems a bit weird, going into street view for what is effectively the area just beyond the window, but it’s nice of him to try, and so long as June isn’t answering, I can’t think what else to do.
‘Here we are…’ he says.
He zooms in, but unfortunately, a huge truck had been passing the day the Google mapping car drove down South Road, so we’re unable to get any further with that.
‘Not to worry,’ I tell him. ‘Thanks for your help.’
I’m aware of them standing side-by-side at the counter, following us with their gaze as we hurry out into the rain.

Back in the car I try calling June again. This time she answers.
‘Oh,’ she says. ‘Everyone has this problem. I bet you followed your satnav, didn’t you? What the machines don’t seem to realise is that South Road actually starts beyond the traffic lights.’
‘Does it?’
‘Yes! We’re tucked away up here, but that’s how we like it.’
We leave the car parked where it is, because to move it would mean driving all the way round the one way system, which at this time of day would take forever. By the time we reach the front door, we’re both soaked through.
‘Oh dear!’ says June. ‘Is it raining?’
She shows us in to the narrow hallway, where we take off our coats and shoes and go through to a modest sitting room. The house has electric lighting, the sockets and switches so old the electricians who screwed them into place were probably tutting about the Suez crisis.
June is content, though. She sits by the fireplace, as immaculately pearled, coiffed and cardiganed as a minor royal.
‘He’s upstairs in bed,’ she says. ‘Although I don’t suppose he’ll be terribly pleased to see you. What exactly is it that you want to do with him?’
‘We’ve been asked to come in by the care agency to do a bed assessment,’ says Beatrice, the OT leading the assessment. ‘The carers say that the one Arthur’s in is too low, especially with his reduced mobility.’
‘He can hardly stand,’ sniffs June. ‘He’s pretty frail, you know.’
‘Exactly. We want what’s best for Arthur, but at the same time we have to be mindful of the health of the people looking after him.’
‘I know that,’ says June. ‘I know that very well. I’ve got arthritis as it is. It’s not doing me any good, bending down all the time.’
‘Absolutely.’
‘It’s just he’s such a stubborn old so-and-so. I can’t see him agreeing to a hospital bed.’
‘I think we have to try, though, June. Otherwise we’ll just run into more problems further down the line.’
‘Well. If we do, we do.’
‘Shall we go up and introduce ourselves?’
‘I’ll show you the way,’ says June, getting up with some difficulty. ‘Just don’t expect me to run there.’
The staircase rises steeply, past the first floor landing, winding on and up into the gloom of the upper storeys. I’m glad Arthur’s bedroom is on the first floor though, as getting this far has taken a fair while, June struggling to make the climb, putting her good left foot up first, then hobbling up with the right, sliding her hand along the rail, pausing for breath, and then repeating the process again. The nearer we get to the landing, the more distinct is the noise of Arthur’s oxygen machine, whirring and clicking beneath a large, foxed print of Napoleon’s retreat from Moscow.
‘He’s through there,’ puffs June. ‘You go on.’
The notes had described Arthur as a palliative COPD patient, not quite end of life. The ‘not quite’ is a surprisingly optimistic qualifier, certainly from where I’m standing. The ravages of his respiratory illness combined with his extreme old age have left him cruelly stripped of anything resembling flesh. His hands lie outside the covers, and it’s astonishing to see their complex mechanism laid as bare as an anatomical model: the tendons, the ligaments, the veins.
It’s a shock to see him open his eyes.
‘Oh,’ he says. ‘And what do you want at this ungodly hour?’
‘It’s half past six, Arthur’ says June, finally making it into the bedroom and sitting down on a rattan chair that creaks dangerously.
‘Yes. I know. Half past six in the morning.’
‘In the evening’
‘The evening? Have I really been sleeping all day?’
‘Yes, Arthur. You have’
‘Well, I humbly beg your forgiveness, one and all,’ he says. ‘I find my rather straightened
circumstances are not conducive to keeping a proper track of the time.’
‘No worries!’ says Beatrice.
‘I have this marvellous electronic watch, d’you see?,’ says Arthur, slowly lifting up his left arm.  An old Casio digital watch slips down almost to the elbow.
‘Unfortunately it seems to have stopped working,’ he says, gathering it back up to his wrist, and then relaxing his hands back on to the covers. ‘Once upon a time it used to beep’
The business with the watch seems to have exhausted him. His breath comes in and out through his slack mouth, making a dull whistling noise.
The carers were right to be concerned. Arthur is more or less bed-bound, on a low single divan in the corner of the room. I can’t imagine how you would go about washing and cleaning him, creaming his pressure areas, changing his pyjamas. Even sitting him up to drink would be a struggle. When we’ve roused him again, Beatrice explains the situation with great courtesy and clarity, gently steering him in the direction of a hospital bed.
‘They’re very comfortable,’ she says. ‘You can change the position at the touch of a button, sit up to eat or watch telly, raise the mattress at the knee to ease the pressure on your legs, go up and down – whatever! They’re brilliant, really. And then your carers won’t have to worry about hurting their backs. Because if they do, Arthur, they won’t be able to come in and help you, or any of the other patients on their books. And I know you wouldn’t want that, would you, Arthur? Hmm?’
He slowly shakes his head from side to side, the oxygen tube riding up over his ears and back down again. Someone’s put a little scrap of tape on top of his left ear, to stop it rubbing.
‘No,’ he says. ‘I completely understand what you’re saying, and I thank you for coming here and saying it. But I’d really rather not be moved. I’d rather just be left here in peace for now, and everything else can wait. Thank you.’
We try a little while longer to persuade him to change his mind. In the end, though, the best we can manage is to arrange to come back the following day.‘It’s been lovely meeting you,’ says Beatrice, taking his hand in hers and giving it a squeeze.
‘Likewise,’ he says. ‘Only – when you come back – please, don’t make it quite so early in the morning.’

doggerel & catterel

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

sitting on the sofa, laptop on lap
wondering what to write a poem about
whilst over in her basket by the cupboard
her head resting on a cushion
that actually has a picture of her head on it
a lurcher version of the Turin shroud
Lola is giving me a look
so professionally woebegone
it would make a robot sob
so of course, what else could I do?
I think about moving my legs
Lola is up and on the sofa
before my feet are on the floor
turning round a couple of times
then slumping into place
running through such a repertoire of chop smacking,
backward glances and eyebrow raising,
it’s perfectly clear
how disappointed she is in my behaviour
but – of course – blessed as she is
with a limitless capacity to forgive
she somehow finds the strength to move on
and starts scratching her ear
with an elegant back leg
quickly building up speed and intensity
until it’s a terrifying whirling blur
like the release of an over-wound toy
and just when I think I should intervene
because she’s in danger of ripping her ear off
and sending it flying across the room
it strikes me (I mean a thought does,
not the ear, thankfully):
isn’t this a bit like me?
metaphorically scratching my head,
wondering what to write a poem about
and then – something else:
maybe I could write a poem about how writing a poem
is a bit like a dog scratching her head
but of course, she’s stopped now
and her ears have flicked up
she’s heard something interesting
that demands her complete attention
something coming in through the cat flap
It’s Solly, Lola
You know?
Solly – the other animal that lives here?
The cat?

little red rookie

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

It’s too much of a coincidence. I’d put money on that ambulance car parked outside the block being for Adnan. When I buzz the intercom, the voice that eventually answers – not the patient’s – sounds very familiar to me.
‘Well, well! I thought I recognised the appalling handwriting!’ says Ryan, throwing the door wide and grabbing me to him in a great big uniformed bear hug. ‘How’re you doing, man?’
‘I’m good! I’m good!’
‘Yeah – you are!’

It’s been a while since I’ve seen him. Two years, in fact, ever since I left the ambulance service and made the sideways step into community health. I’d run into most of the other crews in that time; Ryan is probably the last.
‘I’d heard rumours,’ he says, showing me into the flat. ‘Tracks in the snow, that kind of thing. I have to say you’re looking well. Horribly well. It’s quite disgusting how well you look.’
‘No nights’ I tell him. ‘That and not having a radio on my belt.’
‘Damned right,’ he says, slapping me on the shoulders again. ‘Completely damned right. Well, well!’
He ambles back over to the sofa, sits down with a great, easeful sigh, as impressively as a tattooed Viking warrior asked to wait out the battle in a chintzy front-room.
‘What’s your involvement, then, Jimmy boy?’
I can tell from his demeanour he’s not worried about the patient. And it’s true – Adnan seems comfortable enough, in the same high-backed chair I’d left him in just that morning, his leg up on a riser.
‘Tinzaparin injections,’ I tell him. ‘A daily prophylactic dose, post knee op. And then just obs and generally making sure everything’s okay.’
I smile at Adnan; he nods and waves his hand in the air.
‘We used to work together,’ I tell him, by way of explanation, but I can see he doesn’t understand.
‘Where’s Rema?’ I say, turning back to Ryan.
‘The daughter? She just nipped out to her car to get her phone.’
‘So – what’s brought you over, then?’
‘It came through as a difficulty in breathing, but everything checked out and it looks more like anxiety exacerbated by abdo pain – which I’m guessing has something to do with Adnan not opening his bowels these past five days or so.’
‘Yep. That’s definitely a thing. The enema should be delivered early this evening.’
‘Great. Okay. So when Rema gets back, why don’t we all have a bit of a review and decide where to go from here?’
‘Sounds good to me. Meanwhile, I’ll do the Tinz.’
‘Excellent.’
And he carries on writing, stopping every now and again to chat and swap juicy bits of gossip.

It’s great to see Ryan again. I learned so much about ambulance work from him – how to take each job as it came; how to recognise when you had time to step back and think, and when you didn’t; how important it was to keep your sense of humanity, and humour, and how to conserve your energy for the long and relentless run of it all.
It was always such a comfort turning up on station for a shift to find out I was working with him. It would fill me with a great sense of security. I knew that whatever happened that day or night (and for some reason, particularly night) so long as I was with Ryan, I’d be okay, and everything would be fine.
I have one particular memory. It was early on in my time as an EMT, and I was still in that phase when every job that came through filled me with horror. We’d been called to an unconscious patient in a pizza restaurant. When we got there the place was in uproar. A gang of drunk teenage boys had gone in for something to eat, and one of them had passed out on the floor. Whilst I tried to figure out whether he was actually unconscious or not (he wasn’t) the others were jumping around, tipping oregano on his head, laughing, swearing, play-fighting and generally getting in the way. I’d tried to be as commanding as I could, but nothing worked. (I can’t remember where the restaurant staff were, and the police certainly hadn’t pitched up yet). Ryan had hung back for a moment, just to see what I could do for myself. When it was clear I’d lost control, he waded in.
‘Right. You, you and you – OUT!’ he’d thundered. And although I admit my memory of the whole thing is probably unreliable, still I think I see him striding out of the restaurant, kids hanging off his arms and neck like rangy dogs round the arms and neck of a gigantic bear, before being hurled off into the night with yelps and barks.

If there was ever a paramedic who deserved his own graphic novel, it was Ryan. I would certainly have bought a copy (and got him to sign it, too).

Rema hurries back into the flat, and smiles when she sees me.
‘Oh – hi! How are you?’ she says, finishing the call she was making.
‘I’m glad you’re back,’ says Ryan. ‘Jimmy was doing his best, but the only Arabic word he knows is habibi.’
And they all laugh so much – even Adnan – I can’t help blushing.

pushed for time

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

I have an appointment at three o’clock, a double-up with an occupational therapist at the house of a patient discharged from hospital that day. But so long as everything falls into line, and the traffic is only slightly north of reasonable, and I manage to pare each visit down to the barest and most pragmatic interaction permissible by law, three o’clock is perfectly achievable.

Of course, it doesn’t work out that way.

The ECG machine decides to play up, in that almost supernatural way electrical equipment has sometimes of sensing your impatience and transforming it into pure cussedness. And when I try to draw blood from the second patient, I have as much luck as if I’d staggered out into the garden and jabbed the old apple tree. That, plus running into a horrible thickening of the traffic heading west, so inexplicably and uncharacteristically bad it makes me think I’’ve missed an emergency radio broadcast telling everyone to drop everything and clear the hell out of town – all this means that by the time I’m pulling up outside the house, half an hour late.

‘I -am-so-sorry!’ I say, piling in through the door with all my bags.
‘That’s okay!’ says Rick, the OT. ‘We’ve just been taking our time, going through a few things. It’s alright.’
Gil, the patient, is sitting forward on the edge of a sofa. His hair is dyed crow-black, back-combed in Gothic style, which only seems to accentuate the extreme pallor of his face, and the dark hollows of his eyes. Shaking his hand is like scooping a fragile bird into my fingers.
‘Pleased to meet you.’
‘Likewise’
I sit down on a low stool as Rick brings me up to speed. He gives me the discharge summary to look over, too, and I glance at it from time to time. I’ve already been told the basics – the alcoholism, self-neglect, the concerned neighbours, the intervention of the social work team and so on – and the fact that a deep-clean company had been brought in whilst Gil was in hospital. What I hadn’t been told though was the seriousness of his situation now. The discharge summary lays it all out in dry and technical language; beyond it, like seeing a dark and formidable landscape through a formal window, is the hard truth of the thing. Gil has come home to die.
‘If you want to get your bits and pieces out of the way whilst I finish this bit of paperwork…?’ says Rick, as I hand the summary back.
‘Sure! Why not?’ I say, grabbing my kit and going over to kneel by Gil. ‘Is that okay?’
He accedes to it all with a measured kind of passivity, smiling often, but in a gentle way, like someone who’s decided the only thing he can change about the destination is his understanding of the journey.
I don’t push anything. Just the basics. And when I’m done I shake his hand again, gather my things together and leave Rick to finish off.

Back outside, I’m throwing my bags in the boot of the car when an elderly man in a flat white cap, anorak and check shirt stops right by me. He holds a map book almost to the end of his nose, looks up and down the street, lifts his tinted glasses, presses the map book closer, squints, looks up and down the street again, and then takes his cap off and scratches his head. It’s all pretty emphatic,  like watching a modern clown doing a skit called Lost.
‘Are you alright there?’ I say.
‘Me? No. I’m late and I can’t be.’
‘Where’ve you got to get to?’
He brings the map over, hands it to me, then takes an envelope out of his pocket – something formal, a legal appointment.
‘Well don’t worry. You’re almost there,’ I tell him, handing the map book back. ‘Are you walking or driving?’
‘Driving? Me? No! I came by bus. The man there, he said get off here. He said here was where I had to be. So that’s what I did. And now I wish I hadn’t.’
‘He wasn’t wrong, though. You’ve just turned down too early. You want the one parallel to this, over there. You can cut through that little alley if you’re pushed for time.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yep. Absolutely.’
‘I can’t afford any more mistakes.’
‘You’re good,’ I say. ‘You’ll be fine.’
‘Righto then. Thanks for your help.’
He gives me a broad, quick smile that seems more like a mechanical expression of the tipping back of his head, then taps me once on the shoulder with the map book, and strikes out for the alley.

on the stump

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

so let’s have a standing ovation
a generous pause for applause
from the thousands of windows and doors
overlooking this particular operation
okay
are you ready?
for the one, the only
the Original of the Species
the divine old timer
with the snappy one liner
the blade in the brocade
waving from the cock-end of the motorcade
the gorgeously adorable
uproariously deplorable
spray-can orangutan,
mr muscle in a suit
the man who put the F in faith and the T in truth
he’s so outrageous he’s IN
he didn’t begat he begin
Your leader!

you sir? yes, you.
glad you picked him?
give us your number, we’ll send you a pic of his dictum
how’d you like ten minutes on the dark side of the man
with a steady-cam, following him to the can and back
no? doesn’t float your stack?
Suit yourself. Go ahead. Re-boot yourself.
we’ve got time to kill and the hearts to do it
you had a vote and you blew it
accept it, it’s destiny
anything else is mutiny
yeah? you think
I’m sorry you feel that way
(hey! Hades in the shad-ees
whyn’t you help our friend here see the error of his ways
maybe some mindfulness technique
give his timeline a tweek)
dr google will see you now
that’s a good one
but let me tell you
it’s not all disney princesses and military successes
sometimes you just gotta take stock, you know?
have some time out,
see what all the screaming’s about
all those hilarious failures
the love affairs, mail scares and hail mary’s
the half-witted, two-faced, congressional fairies
why’n ya take a look at this sometime?
know who that is?
little jack horner, crawling back to his corner
thumb dripping plum juice and crack
having a happy-hour heart attack
waking up on the mortuary floor
tip-toeing to the back door
denying all knowledge
hey jack? where d’ya learn to act like that?
ronald mcdonald college?

okay, so

take a moment

and breathe

you don’t need to tell me which way up is,
I’ve been around the block a few times
I’ve kissed a kennel load of puppies.
I know which way the wind’s blowing
I’m tired of all this bitching and moaning
and by the way, just so you know
I’ve been following you from the get-go
man – you’re in so deep
you’ll need a submarine to get to sleep
you’re sub-prime, all the time
you’re turkey without stuffing
you’re ninety-nine percent of nothing
so suck on that for a minute whilst I get myself ready
and you – hold the camera good and steady
people? you never get a second chance to make a first impression
the rest is strictly for confession

musetta

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

‘Mexican liqueur. Seven letters. Beginning with T.’
‘Tequila?’
‘Is that a liqueur?’
‘It’s made from a cactus. Does that count? Anyway, I can’t think of any other specifically Mexican drinks. Apart from Dos Equis.’
‘What on earth is Dos Equis?’
‘A beer. I think.’
‘Well. Let’s go with tequila then, shall we? And see how we get on…’
Marilyn had a fall in the early hours and tore her arm. She’s busy filling in the crossword whilst I’m delicately cleaning the wound, soaking it in saline, gently replacing the skin flap as best I can, then patting the area dry ready for the steri-strips. Her version of events was that she stumbled over some shoeboxes – no mention of the copious amounts of whisky she’d put away in the hours leading up. If she sees the irony in our conversation about booze, she doesn’t show it.
‘Oh I’m terribly sorry. I misread the clue,’ she says. ‘It actually says Mexican liquor. These glasses are absolutely no damned good at all.’
‘Definitely tequila then.’
‘…which makes one down agora. Which fits! Well done!’
Marilyn is a high-functioning alcoholic. She has a beautiful house in the centre of town, filled with paintings and books, sculptures and peculiar antiques, everything brilliantly lit by the sunshine that positively bounds in through the open patio doors.
‘You have a lovely house,’ I tell her, applying the first layer of dressing.
‘That’s sweet of you,’ she says.
‘How long have you lived here?’
‘Too long. But you know, when Teddy and I moved here in the seventies, it was a different street altogether. Everyone knew each other. It was all terribly friendly and interesting. But now it’s simply overrun with cars, no-one has any time for anything, and the only contact you have is with the postman. Speaking of which…’
Keeping her bad arm as still as she can, she rummages around the clutter on the table and produces a Royal Mail missed delivery card.
‘Look at that!’ she says. ‘Sorry we missed you! What on earth do they mean? Sorry we missed you! I’ve been in all blessed day! I simply fail to understand how they could have crept up the front steps and dropped that through the letterbox without me hearing a thing. Honestly, they must be employing cat burglars or something. Or maybe he ties rags round his boots. It’s enough to drive you absolutely insane!’
‘You’d think he’d want to drop it off, though, just to lighten his bag.’
‘Lighten his bag! I’ll lighten his bag when I get hold of him.’
‘Almost done’ I tell her.
‘Smashing,’ she says, lowering her glasses from the top of her head back down on to the tip of her nose, as she goes back to the crossword.
‘Fifteen across. Famous Bohemian. Beginning with M.’
She snorts.
‘Well – I’d be very tempted to write Marilyn – but unfortunately it ends in an A’

going viral

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

Is a virus a living organism?

A living organism is supposed to have the following seven characteristics: Movement, Sensitivity, Respiration, Growth, Reproduction, Excretion & Nutrition.

On the face of it, a virus seems to be more passive and more dependent than that. The only thing a virus does from the list is reproduce – but it needs a living host to do it. Does that mean you couldn’t describe it as ‘living’?

If you ignored the structural differences between the two things – between single or multi-cellular organisms and the viruses that infect them – wouldn’t it be true to say that they’re both driven to do the same thing, which is to make more of themselves? In such a way that responds to changes in the genetic environment, making them more resilient and more likely to thrive?

To put it another way, maybe it doesn’t matter how you get there, so long as you get there. And on those terms, maybe the virus could be seen as the more successful organism, living or non-living, because it’s managing to ‘get there’ with far less complication?

I’ve seen viruses described as ‘organisms at the edge of life’ – which seems to acknowledge the extent of the problem apprehending these things. And virology as a science only dates from the beginning of the twentieth century, so there’s a long way to go.

None of which is helping with my cold. But as Sun Tzu once said: To know your Enemy, you must become your Enemy.

And if I was a virus, I’d definitely have that tattooed on my capsid.


latest poem

This one’s a riff on corporate culture, with a rap-style rhythm (which I suppose makes it a riff-rap). There’s no image with it, so I’ll just casually drop the link in here.

 

Thanks for reading!

sig

company rap sheet

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

Let me do the introductions.

The Supervisor: Sure – okay – just your average kind of Visor, day to day, but hey! you’ll soon see the light, especially when they shine it over the city tonight. You’ll see what he’s capable of when he pulls on his cape, tears off his moustache and glasses and makes a couple o’ low, valedictory passes on his Supervisory way to whipping your worthless asses

The Manager: He manages. End of. Not someone you’d necessarily wanna make a friend of. I saw him manage a man from the chair he was sat on. He could fart a hurricane and keep his hat on. We were riding the sideline one time and he came sliding over, casual as a virus, got right up inside us, sunny and shiny as an anti-personnel mine. Man – I was so impressed I was de-pressed. But that’s my Manager, three parts mano a mano, four parts challenger. I hear the Devil came on a visit. Knocked on my Manager’s door, he said Who is it? The Devil, said the Devil, making a collection. But I don’t want no flotsam and jetsom. I want quality souls and they said you can get some. I’ll see what I can do, the Manager said. Went straight back to bed. Unbelievable, the Devil said. Who the hell is he  – King Priam? This motherfucker’s even worse than I am.

The Chief:  He’s a hustler, a player, a teamster in a tux. He’s mean as a monk on junk, crashing the party in a monster truck. He’s got a bunch of those vital signs you’ve been looking for all this time. He’s got the stance of a lion, the mane of a lion, hell – the mind of a lion, which I’ll admit’s a liability given the fragility of all the paws he panhandles these days, the international scandals, the jackboots, jockstraps, the saintly sandals. But hey! Them’s the breaks, my friend. Like my ol’ man Morrison said. This is the end. Take it or leave it. No-one cares if you believe it.

This company’s a ship going nowhere, lickety splicket.
C’mon over here, I’ll sell you a ticket.

the people upstairs

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

It’s a long time since Eric managed to paint anything. Years, I would guess, judging by the fine layer of dust on the stack of drawings and sketches on the workbench. But his pens and brushes are still waiting for him, standing in a bunch with their bristles-up, all-angles, in an old chipped mug, souvenir of Barcelona, by a gently composting heap of pastel crayons, charcoal blocks, pencils and a paint-splodged rag.

Alcohol abuse has left Eric with Korsakoff syndrome, amongst other things. At the moment he’s living in supported accommodation, although I learned from the warden that he’s been approved a place in a new facility with higher levels of care – something Eric urgently needs. The opening has been delayed, though. Last minute snagging, she said. Which means Eric will have to struggle through the next six months with carers going in three times a day, and various health teams, the District Nurses, the ambulance and so on – everyone doing their best to help him through the inevitable falls, infections and other crises.

I’ve met Eric before so I know what to expect. He’s difficult to handle, lurching from moments of great anger and anxiety to brief periods of something approaching lucidity. He doesn’t cope with novelty well, gets upset easily, has no short term memory. Despite the best efforts of the carers, the flat always looks ransacked. In fact, the only tidy thing about it is his old workbench, which maintains an eerie and almost magical detachment from the general chaos.

‘They’ve been coming downstairs! Four of them!’ he shouts, slapping the side of his face like a man desperate to wake himself up. ‘In the middle of the night, torturing me!’
‘Who have? What do you mean?’
‘Oh, you know perfectly well what I mean! What d’you think that is? Hey?’
He waggles a finger in the direction of his workbench.
‘They creep down here in the middle of the night, they cut my paintings into tiny squares, and then they stitch them back together so you wouldn’t notice. But I do! Of course I do! And they steal things, too.’
‘What things?’
‘Like this. I mean – for goodness sake.’
He dabbles around on the over-chair table, and finally lands on a pair of nail clippers.
‘I bought these new. I was looking after them. And they’ve taken them away – and they’ve brought them back like this. Well I can’t use them now, can I? They’re disgusting…’
I need to calm him down before I’ll be able to do any obs, so I try to distract him by talking about art.
‘I love your paintings’ I tell him, slowly and innocently preparing my kit. ‘They’re so bold and full of life. Did you go to college?’
He stares at me, breathing heavily – then crosses one leg over the other and laces his fingers in his lap.
‘Yes, actually. Leeds.’
‘Wow. Great.’
‘Do you paint?’
‘Me? No – I do the odd bit of printing sometimes. Linocuts, you know. That sort of thing. I’d like to do more, but any spare time I have tends to be given over to writing.’
‘It’s none of it easy. Look – I’m sorry if I’ve been a little short-tempered today.’
‘Don’t worry about it, Eric. You’ve got a lot on your plate. It’s always nice to see you.’
‘Is it?’ he says. ‘Is it really?’
‘Yes! Now then – can I be a real nuisance and do your blood pressure?’
But just as I move towards him with the cuff, as stealthily as a butterfly collector with a net, Eric changes again.
‘Never mind that!’ he says, leaping up and almost pitching head first into the bathroom. ‘I want you to get me something – oh you know what it is! That thing! That thing that goes between my legs…’