by Lloyd Rees
I was born at an early age to a woman who eventually turned out to be my mother. I didn’t speak to her for about a year, then later on not for several years. Mainly I cried, which was something she was rather partial to as well. She did influence me in my clothing and diet though, at least until I could buy stuff for myself.
Her idea of clothing me was to sew stuff out of material from other stuff. I’m not sure where she sourced this other stuff, but it was clearly items no longer in fashion. Or ever in fashion. Her main dietary notions chiefly centred on potatoes. Sometimes peas, but they were a comparatively rare treat.
The fact that mealtimes took up so little time in the day meant I had a lot of time free to play, however. I would invent games like ‘running a restaurant’, ‘feeding my pet ants’ (they weren’t really pets, but I didn’t have a goldfish, or anything exotic like that) or my favourite pastime, writing menus that had meals with vegetables other than peas
The best thing about being alive was breathing. I did it all the time, and sometimes quite heavily. Occasionally when I forgot to do it, I would faint, so I’ve now made it part of my daily regime. It’s about the only exercise I do actually, because I can’t afford gym membership or an exercise bike. Or shoes.
My mother told me she didn’t like talking because she had done a lot of it before she had me, and look where that had got her. So, the first four or five years of my life were pretty solitary. I didn’t mind however; we didn’t have much in common really because she was averse to insects in general and ants in particular and their ant-ics were all I had to offer.
I had to go to school, because apparently IT WAS THE LAW but I didn’t learn very much. Neither did anyone else, which was encouraging because it made me feel part of a community. Albeit one of utter ignorance. Men in black gowns moved about unheroically eating sticks of chalk and wiping off strands of tobacco. They had mysterious powers which they didn’t use.
Still later I discovered females (they had been hidden from me since I was eight) and also the universal truth that a single woman is a strong and independent creature, but as soon as she gets married she NEEDS SUPPORT. A corollary of this is that men are rarely strong, almost never independent and never ask for any support because that would be too girly.
I had to get a job because IT’S THE LAW, so I went to the council Highways Department. I was asked if I could handle a pick and shovel. I didn’t know what a pick was but I said yes, in case it was a trick. So I stood at the side of a road for six weeks and listened to dirty jokes from men who could actually handle picks and shovels. I got paid too.
I wanted to write a great work of fiction, perhaps a big long saga about all the members of a dysfunctional family, but every time I tried I found I couldn’t think of any relatives to put in. There was mum, but she never said very much and didn’t have any particular characteristics. And I never knew my dad, but I’m told that was a good thing.
When I switched my literary ambitions to poetry I was made up! There was a thing called a quatrain, which was a bunch of words written in shortish lines, sometimes with rhymes at the end. Since I always try to keep my paragraphs to four lines this promised to be just the thing for me. And I could cut down the actual number of words I’d have to write!
So I tried this quatrain business. It was alright, as long as you could get the bumpety bumpety bumpety BANG thing right, but it was difficult. Some words just aren’t bumpety enough, it seems. Pity. Well, bum pity, in fact. You try and get ‘I’m a hexagon with just two sides to me’ or ‘If only I could climb a hawthorn hedge’ into a bumpety quatrain!
So I gave up on the verse malarkey and tried DIY. Not a great success. I thought I’d start by making my own tools but I got stuck after my rudimentary mallet. So I grew flowers. Well, I say I grew them, actually they did all the hard work themselves. I mainly watched. I was very successful at growing bright yellow ones in the middle of the lawn.
People used to knock on my door and ask if I’d heard the good news. I’d reply that good news wasn’t really my scene, but I soon realised they didn’t actually want to know, they just wanted to smile beatifically, talk nonsense and drink my tea. Eventually I’d ask anyone who knocked to come right on in, I was just finishing making their coffin. (I still had my mallet).
When a strong independent woman came into my life needing support I said okay, though I was unsure what help I could possibly be. We stood in front of somebody in the council offices (back again, but no pickaxe this time) and they said ‘Here’s a piece of paper. Good luck. Off you go.’ So off we went, though it took a few years, if I’m honest.
But we had some kids. Two, as I recall. Interesting creatures. Smaller than real people but a lot louder. You soon find out that they’re a lot heavier than you’d think too. Sometimes I would read stories out loud in front of them. Not very successful, this. They invariably fell asleep and I’d never find out what happened in the end.
After a few decades I got a better job than standing by the side of the road listening to dirty jokes. It was indoors. It was a bit like school – people moving around aimlessly wiping stuff off their clothes, but mainly food now. No one knew what anybody was supposed to do but everybody was afraid of someone finding out that this was the case. I fitted in very well.
Now I was earning a bit of money I thought I’d give this shopping business a go. So I went to Marks & Spencer, Primark, Tesco, everywhere I could think of. It didn’t turn out well. I’ve got a suit but it doesn’t fit, and I’ve got some ties, but no one wears them anymore. I only buy black socks though, so I’ll always be in fashion. And I’ll always have a pair.
I bought some cookery books. You know, colourful, very expensive hardback books with picture of delicious meals with ingredients you’ve never heard of. ‘Take a pinch of sacramenta and grind it to a pulp with the juice of an organtilla.’ And ‘Let your spinozas stew for eight hours.’ That sort of thing. I put the books on the kitchen windowsill to go damp.
I bought a car. A saloon. I always thought that was a place you went to drink, but you’re not allowed to in this type. It’s like people saying ‘I own an estate’ when in fact they just live on one. The car I bought is a Ford. That’s actually where you cross a river. Better than Qashqai though. That sounds like you’ve run over your nephew.
I don’t really have friends. They’re too expensive. ‘Shall we go to Romero’s for dinner?’ ‘What would you like for Christmas?’ Meaning they want something bought back. I had one friend but he got boring. Or maybe it was me who got boring. In all probability we both bored the daylights out of each, so we called it a day.
Then one day I stumbled on politics. This is the business of pretending that you care for people you actually despise, and where you’re obliged to go out into the cold and rain every five years to guess who’d be the least damaging to your precarious existence. I thought, ‘I could do this!’ But it turns out you have to have a deposit, so I never bothered.
I got ill and had to go and see the doctor. He said he suffered from what I had too. That was encouraging. At least I was part of a community. Another time I got ill again and he sent me for tests. This is what GPs do when they don’t have a Scooby what’s wrong with you. They say they’ll tell you when they’ve got the results. They never do though.
Nature. Ah, nature! What can you say? I used to think it was a bit overrated. Some water moving about aimlessly, like a teacher, or an office worker. Some trees blowing in the wind. Some flowers of different hues, and not just yellow. But when I got a bit ill in the head I spent more time having a proper look at it. They said,’ Take your time.’ So I did.
Now I’m on my own. Kids grown and gone. Women getting supported elsewhere. I watch TV but it’s not much cop, is it? Presenters smiling beatifically and talking about stuff that’s nothing to do with me. At least they’re not drinking my tea though. They have shows set in the East End or Manchester. Everyone’s on about their community, as if that’s a real thing.
I’ve taken to looking at things. I don’t mean just the mantelpiece. Stuff like clouds, because they’re always on the move. I also like neighbours’ pets because they’re funny and they look back at me. Passers-by too. I took down the net curtains so we could accidentally catch each other’s eye. Embarrassing, but I don’t care. Strangers are a kind of community too, no?
Lately I’ve been on the internet. This is a device created by teenagers in California to make you think life’s all people saving animals from tricky situations and appeals for £5 donations to someone who’s going to run somewhere for no real reason. I skip past the videos and the appeals straight to the ‘epic fails’. I can identify, you see. I’m not so sure about epic though.
I’ve got a grandchild who’s allowed to visit sometimes. I like it this. He loves stories more than anything. Even food! Trouble is, he’s got more stamina than me and it’s me who drops off as I’m reading them. He prods me awake and we stare at each other. Obviously there wouldn’t be a net curtain anyway, but it feels like one’s been removed when he looks at me.
I’m going to sleep now, as a matter of fact. Perchance to dream! Not likely. I’ve never dreamed. Seems like a waste of effort to me. Creating stories that no one will ever hear? What’s the point? I can look at some things before I drop off. Stars and stuff. Maybe patterns in the wallpaper, though that’s not really my scene.
I’ll see you in the morning. I’ll be the one wiping off the night’s detritus. I might even be smiling beatifically, whatever that’s supposed to mean. Lots to do tomorrow. A bit of normal breathing, nothing too heavy. A bit of cloud watching. Then I think I’ll look up a definition of the word ‘community’ on the internet. There should be one.
If by some chance I don’t wake, that’s alright. I’ve already put the bins out and the goldfish should be good for a few days. It’s been a hell of a ride. It hasn’t, of course, that’s just something people say, isn’t it? When they know it’s all been something of a drab affair in fact. I might give the wallpaper a go tonight though. See if there is any discernible pattern.
Lloyd Rees is the author of four worstsellers and five volumes of poetry. He describes himself as a sit-down comedian, sesquipedalian, gourmand, bon vivant and former intellectual. To his surprise he has been shortlisted for a number of literary awards but, like an MBE or an OBE he thinks they are overrated. People like him but he’s not sure about them. His novels deal with minor issues affecting unimportant people in insignificant settings. But then again so do James Joyce’s. A full list of his works is available somewhere, probably on Amazon.
