5 December 2017

Dog day afternoon and night

Just after photographing a vast bank of cloud swelling up in the western sky, an old woman approached me and said very loudly, "You're bald! My son is bald! But he's handsome!" And while I pondered her use of "But," I reached a tentative diagnosis of the manic phase of bipolar disorder, rather than dementia, while the photos of her son came out, and then she started ruffling a young child's hair and telling him he looked like her son as a lad; and then she opened her purse and began dispensing coins to all of the children in the coffee shop while their parents looked bemused; until she returned to me and asked me where I lived, and what I did, and where was my wife, and did I have grandchildren... until eventually I had to abandon my attempts at work, shut the laptop, make my excuses and go.


Then later, walking on the dark South Inch, a big hairy dog galloped past me heading to catch up with its human, until a few seconds afterwards I felt a nudge by my knee and looking down I found the dog with my glove in its mouth - a glove I did not know that I had dropped - and the dog nudged me again, until I accepted the glove and moved on. A Retriever? How clever, how kind.


But then as I approached the walls of Perth prison, just beyond those glimmering buildings up there on the right, a dismal December dread suddenly filled me. I don't know why, although I have an idea. And I felt cold, and old, and alone, neither wanting to walk forward or back. What time was it? What should I do? The work was done by then. A bit further on and a few miserable visitors were leaving the prison - two women, one child, one bent and hobbling old man. I changed my mind three times, turned back, and went home; where a headache grew. I felt miserable. Nobody knew. My mood is lifting now, with no more sore head, in early bed. Goodnight.

8 comments:

  1. Life is a very mixed bag. And sometimes bed is the safest place. And on other days velcroing myself to the carpet UNDER the bed has appeal.

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  2. Retreating to under the bed has never occurred to me EC (oh, except on day when I was about four and had done something I thought was very, very, bad; but I crawled out after an hour or so and so far as I recall my badness was never discovered - hiding under the bed might have given out a hint so getting out before detected under there was a good idea).

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  3. You do know that, anway, still: You are gifted, Andrew. Another fascinating read.

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  4. Ach yes Sean. I am wonderful am I not? While at the same time being an idiot. "Cuckoo..."

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  5. Keep on that Helmet of Perthino, even on the windmillishest quests to come, my friend.

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  6. Do you know, Dear Seanso, and can you even begin to try to believe, that there are people who claim that the Golden Helmet of Perthino is a mere cloth cap, or on occasion a black woolly hat, even as it sits glistening on my noble head? I am surrounded by fools. Such idiots would mistake my lance for a golf club, and my sword for an umbrella. Regularly I have to cast them aside and quest on. "Cuckoo..."

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  7. Fools, indeed. Ignorants. Intellectual softeggs ... Ah, where is Mrs. Doyle when she is needed? So let me end with Father Jack: "Feck off, fools".

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