FRIDAY SERIAL - Duncan's Private Conversation ( Epi 5)

The meeting was hurriedly organised by Avril, who'd become Ritchie's informal PA whilst in the UK. He was due to fly back to Grenoble tomorrow morning. So if he was going to meet with Duncan it would have to be today. After the public car crash that the Night of Clairvoyance at the masonic hall had become, there had to be some sort of follow up. Having a private meeting one to one with Duncan was Malcom's idea, the very least he could do. He was genuinely concerned about the guy and his mental state. His own reputation as a medium, was a secondary concern he reassured himself. As he careful hair sprayed a wayward bit of his fringe back into place.

True, the movement to which he belonged, the MAC, tried not to do anything that would attract undue attention to itself. Knowing adverse publicity or a negative view of the movement. would be virtually impossible to correct or escape once it was acquired. They organised and kept themselves well under the radar. Malcolm didn't want to couch the purpose of his meeting with Duncan as 'damage limitation'  though that was what the powers that be told him it was. Check him out. Is he likely to be a problem? If possible, try to get him on board. That was his brief, however uncomfortable he felt with it

Probably best not to meet at the masonic hall then, given the associations it now had. The lounge of The Swan Hotel where Malcolm was staying was thought relatively neutral ground by Avril. Pleasantly anodyne with plenty of concealing alcoves suitable for a private conversation. They weren't to know Duncan had once served tables there. The maître de had become a bit too interested in him, touching him up over the entrée. He'd not taken kindly to being told to f.... off and had subsequently made his life a misery. So let's just say his chosen vocation as a waiter was to be a brief one. It was a shame because he was good at it, and enjoyed working there. The tips were great.

So Duncan knew where to go as he entered through the inelegant revolving door. The maître de from his day had been dismissed for improper conduct with a Filipino sous chef. So no one was still working here that would be embarrassing to casually bump into. Except, he was meeting Malcolm Ritchie face to face. The whole Dermot O'Leary lookalike fetish had been somewhat dampened by the experience of his clairvoyance. Once fully remembered, he was left emotionally raw. His moods swung all over the show. Prone to fits of anger, then crying. Was he depressed? Yes, he was depressed, there was no avoiding that. Did he want to meet Ritchie, yes and no. Avril had talked him into it, reassuring him it might bring him some sort of 'closure'.

As he entered the hotel lobby he turned right into the lounge area. At first he couldn't see anyone. Then spotted a recognisable standing figure talking to someone behind a screen. That was Avril, and being Avril she was far from inconspicuous, in a short brocade cape, jodhpurs and horse whip, with an elaborate gauze fascinator, what looked like a cockatoo half in flight perched upon it. All in her signature black. Enough to make any drag queen weep with envy. Duncan found himself intregued by Avril, the more he saw of her. The bizzare, yet confident dress sense, thoroughly executed, the sheer organisational chutzpah of her being. The only thing that made him wary was a feeling, that perhaps this was all being put on for his benefit. To make him feel more at home, amongst like minded beings.

'Hello Duncan, lovely to see you again, glad you could make it. We were just saying how awkward this must feel for you. Come, come, let me introduce Malcolm to you.' 

She gestured behind the screen.

Malcolm Ritchie, fit, with immaculately parted blonde hair, lounged in a high backed armchair, in a continental cut charcoal grey suit that probably was ridiculously expensive. Duncan had forgotten just how smitten he'd been by him, until he shook his hand, and it all returned in a massive wave of lust.

'Hi, Pleased to meet you'

'Well, please sit down, sit down, make yourself comfortable Duncan. Avril has filled me in a bit on your current circumstances, just to save time. I hope you don't mind about that'

Duncan didn't remember really telling her anything. But then there was the neatly organised paperwork in his flat. Someone, he now presumed it to have been Avril, had taken a good look through all of that whilst he was out cold. The unpaid bills, his dismissal notice, the rent arrears and council notifications. That was all there. It wouldn't have taken anyone long to compile a pretty clear dossier of his current predicament. Plus there had been Grannie Beryl's vitriolic appraisal of it from beyond the grave. Yes, his life had currently reached a teeny weeny bit of a crisis point.

'First, I want to apologise to you, again, for what happened the other evening. I was not at all prepared for that. I misread your Grannie's real intent'

'Everyone always did. She'd come across in public as so sweet, butter wouldn't melt. But could be roused into being truly horrible in private.'

'I felt her strength of character. Yes, a force to be reckoned with. Overbearing, you could say.'

Duncan's head dropped, not sure he wanted to go there again so soon. Grannie Beryl was terminally unforgiving of the failings of men. Any man who fell short, would receive her withering appraisal of them, at some point. But in truth, she had also fished Duncan out of many a self inflicted financial crisis. It was probably no coincidence that since she died, and the safety net she'd provided gone, his life had quickly taken a downward turn. Like many matriarchs before her, though domineering and potentially cruel, it was in the perverted order of being kind. The Grannie Beryl's of this world had to take tight control over managing the money. In order to keep everything on an even keel. Whilst their men went out and drowned their bathetic existential sorrows in the pub. Or like his own Father, in the canal .

As if he were reading what was going through his mind, Malcolm chipped into the silence that had opened up. 

'Did you love your Dad Duncan?

'Yes, though my memories of him are quite general. I was quite young when he died. My Mum had cancer, and Dad couldn't handle seeing the woman he loved slowly shrivel away week on week. The day she died was when he threw himself in the canal'

'Though he didn't die that time. did he'

Duncan frowned, gob smacked, how does he know that? His Dad had tried several times ineffectively to take his life, much to Grannie Beryl's ire. She'd throw this back at Duncan repeatedly, about how much like him he was. 

'Couldn't even slit his wrists properly' she'd say,
then erupt into an uproarious cackle, one burnished by a sixty a day cigarette habit.

'No, he didn't, how did you know that.'

'Well, let me just say, I have an ability Duncan to read people, psychically speaking. I know your Father eventually took his life, because I sense him near me right now. Via a gas oven, someone is telling me. Your Grannie was furious with him because you could so easily have died with him. You were playing outside, apparently'

'Yes, Grannie found him. Madly opened the doors and windows and searched the house trying to locate me. I turn up to find her kicking my Father's dead body hard, screaming 'You useless fuckin bastard' over and over.'

Duncan's voice broke, the emotions broke and then there were tears.

Malcolm decided maybe this was the time to change the subject. Move the conversation on.

'Duncan, I wanted to apologise. But also to make a suggestion to you.  I understand you're out of a job at present. Now, I must emphasise, you don't have to give an answer to what I'm about to propose right away. You can think about it, there is no hurry. We have a business that is about to expand into premises in Seven Dials in Central London. They need to enlarge their staff. Training would be provided, so don't worry about not having the skills. Though I'm sure you'd have some transferable ones to bring. Some one is yelling at me that you worked in this hotel.'

'Yes, I was a waiter here, for a little under six months. I've done office work mainly, worked in a call centre, cleaning jobs. That sort of thing.'

Malcolm stared directly, almost hypnotically into his eyes. Duncan felt himself being soothed of all his upset. Any reservations, just melting away.

'So, would you be interested in going along just to see if you like the vibe of the place? Its run as a collective, so everyone who works there gets paid according to their need. Have a chat with Avril about arranging a day and time. If you would like to contact me in future, Avril has my details, we can always Zoom or Skype, if I'm not in the UK.'

'What sort of business is it?'

' Its a bespoke and original print and fabric company, called Retinal Hemorrhage. Its funky cutting edge stuff they do. Not really to my taste, I have to say. Really modern though, quite intentionally provoking. Just pop by, no commitment, take a look.'

Again he felt a pacifying wave flowing out of Malcolm Ritchie. Duncan hadn't ever felt this relaxed without the help of drugs. It was as though he no longer had a problem in the world. More than happy to say:-

'Yes, let's do that.'

NEXT EPISODE - Duncan's Site Visit (Episode 6 / 12 )
Will be posted on Friday 7th October

FEATURE - Shinobu Hashimoto

Today my only contact with pottery making is often TV competitions, where everything is executed within a ridiculously tight time frame. Almost guaranteeing there will be catastrophic misjudgements. Its makes for better TV. So the reality of a professional potters actual style of work practice will be a revelation. 

In the current vogue for slow ASMR videos, I've recently encountered Shinobu Hashimoto's You Tube site. Its packed full of these carefully edited half hour condensed film pieces, just showing you him making a clay pot. Now if you think edfitingvis cheating and for true slow TV you have to show the whole process unediuted. Then there are one and two hour plus versions. Some have no explanatory commentary. But you have ones like - How to make a plate which do.

What got me hooked was observing Shinobu's attention to detail, to every single bit of the process. He establishes the basic shape, but keeps checking proportions are correct, even before the lump of clay has been formed into anything like a familiar pot shape. He knows what size it needs to be when its just a rough stupa shaped clay blob on the wheel.

Once it is dried, but not fired, he carves away excess clay with such skill its stunning to watch. Tapping the pot all over, testing its overall resonance, it needs to make a particular sound. Until he gets it he just keeps removing more clay. If you thought making a successful piece of pottery was all about sensitivity of touch, think on, its sound too.

I enjoy watching these early in the morning. There pace abd unhurried way suits that time of day.  Its only whilst viewing these videos that I realise quite how hurried a pace my own making process is. Its as if I have my own internal productivity monitor, which prohibits taking your time, to give things proper attention, to enjoy the process of making more. Plus, make things to a better level of finish too. Oh, if only.

TAO TIT BITS - All Things Will Come To You

"Yield and overcome; Bend and be straight;
Empty and be full; Wear out and be new;
Have little and gain; Have much and be confused.
Be really whole and all things will come to you"

Edited from the Tao The Ching by Lao Tsu
Translated by Gia-Fu Feng, Publisher Wildwood House, 1974

FINISHED READING - Young Mungo by Douglas Stuart

The gripping yet tragic fatalism of Douglas Stuart's Shuggie Bain, felt like watching a car crash happen in slow motion. This was the result of ten years of effort in the writing. During which Stuart honed his style and chosen subject matter. Young Mungo, his second novel appears to have been rushed out quite fast on the heals of its Booker Prize winning predecessor. That he has chosen to stay writing about the working class environs of Glasgow for his follow up novel, is hence understandable. Stick with what you know, for now.

Young Mungo, however, does have many recognisably similar characters - a drunken neglectful Mother - a sister who no longer cares about her Mother, who just wants to get out of this hell hole - the kindly attentive Mother loving son. But more palpably in the air here, is a harsher and more brutish masculine presence. Shuggie was a young naive boy. Mungo is older, a young teenager getting to know who he is and wants to be. Mungo's Father is dead, or at least vanished long ago. His Mother is conveniently unclear. His elder brother Hamish, is a cruel domineering presence, really nothing more than a street thug with his own gang. The two men who his Mother lets take Mungo on a fishing trip to 'make him a man', turn out to be convicted child abusers. All the usual male role models are either absent or not admirable ones. Having any sort of gay relationship in this working class society, will be impossible. 

Throughout the book, the oppressive constriction of this tightly defined masculinity, bares down upon Mungo, for him to conform to its expectations. Mungo, on the cusp of manhood, is beginning to understand not just that his sexual orientation is different, but also not acceptable here. Not only to his family, but to the surrounding working class culture. In the same tenement block lives the elderly gay man Chickie Calhoun, who is tolerated but generally never befriended. Everyone treats him as though he's a pedophile, best stayed away from. He's an example of what can happen to a gay man who stays on home turf, out of devoted loyalty to his family and background.

Young Mungo has two timelines running through it. One, which is sequential in time following Mungo's growing self maturity and fragile confidence in his true nature and future. Interspersed at regular intervals is the unfolding details of this one horrific camping trip where Mungo is repeatedly abused by Gallowgate and St Christopher'. Until the final few chapters of the novel, you have no idea how this gruesome weekend fits into the sequential time frame. I think that this structural disjuncture does not, in the end, serve the novel well.  It fractures not just the overall mood, but also your emotional attention. Feeling less compelling to read as a consequence.

Stuart writes touchingly, but also with a gritty truthfulness about Mungo and James growing affection for each other. Each trying elaborate means to disguise to their families what is really going on. Everything furtive, emotionally exploratory and secret. There is petulance and jealousy too, born out of their own insecurity. 

He avoids writing that clear cut happy ending, the contrived resolution, that perhaps we might all wish or hope for them. Instead, Mungo realises that he has to grasp the opportunity of a life with James, to get as far away from both home and harm as he can. Whether he will be able to, or allowed to, is left open. This is only one slim possible outcome.

CARROT REVIEW - 6/8

FRIDAY SERIAL- Duncan's Remembrance of Things Past ( Epi 4 )

Duncan decided not to respond to requests for contact. At least, not until he'd remembered what had gone on last night. Putting a block on their mobile numbers. Not answering any number he didn't recognise. He knew how to avoid being contacted, he'd had practice with the council housing department. In this alone he was an expert. 

So the day after the night before Duncan lounged about at home. For some well needed rest and recollection. Once he started the process of piecing things together it all got very nerdy, very quickly.  He divided a piece of paper into four quarters. One quarter for before the visit, one for during the visit, one for the missing bits in the visit and one for after the visit. Into each section facts and half conscious imagery were not just written, but colour coded. Red, was what he knew had occurred. Blue, what reasonably could be presumed. Black, what his wildest imaginings feared had gone on. Green, for out of context vague feelings. 

He didn't know where that methodology had come from, nor whether it would work. His memories and feelings were just all jumbled up, disjointed in time and sequence. Getting things down on paper had always helped before in clarifying things, putting all the associated imagery and snippets of information in some sort of perspective. The colour coding arose simply because he had a cheap four colour biro, nicked from the stationery cupboard at his former work.  The quartered paper rapidly filled up. So he started again, transferring the details to individual pages for each section. The earlier in the evening the more the red and blue. Once you approached the missing memory time period the greener it got and their were lots and lots of black Biro with exclamation and question marks circling around the page edges. 

However elaborately conceived, this seemed to help calm him. There were endless revisions as connections came to light.  Duncan found himself getting quickly tired and frustrated, so took regular breaks. Resting his head on the back of the armchair to half dose off for a while. Yet it was whilst in one of these inbetween states, not fully asleep, not quite awake, that he remembered precisely what had happened. Lost hours returning in one instantaneous transmission. He sat bolt upright in the chair, eyes wide, heart pumping, in a highly excited state, yet quaking in fear. Once he'd got it all down on paper he just cried, on and on and on.

*************

Every one had been waiting for the evening to start. The less experienced clairvoyant stepping up first. She was incredibly sweet natured, but infuriatingly vague, asking generalised, leading questions whenever she lost the thread. Duncan had begun to switch off. He noticed his temples were throbbing and his eyes felt noticeably heavier, as if he were coming down with flu. The woman finished, sat down looking as relieved and disappointed, as everyone else was. The chair of the evening stood up, politely thanked her. Recognising that the energy in the room had now fallen flat, she moved the evening rapidly on to introducing Malcolm Ritchie. He stood up, walked centre stage and spoke.

'Just for a moment could we all bow our heads. Put ourselves in a state of gratitude for what the world of spirit has brought, and will brings to us tonight. We thank Gisella Hausmann for the gift of her mediumship, open your hearts and minds, make yourself ready. Be receptive for whatever may emerge in this next period of time in communion with the spirit realm.'

Ritchie stood motionless, head bowed, eyes closed, hands clasped together humbly in front of him, for quite a few minutes. Then he slowly raised his head and spoke gently  -

'I have an old lady here from spirit. Quite small in stature, big and fiery in personality though. Gosh, she is a little hard to handle. A bit over eager, pushy you could say. Be patient, be patient please.' 

Malcolm Ritchie nervously giggled. 

'This one is stroppy. Swears like a trooper. Oh, too rude madam, temper your language or I'll sever the link. Who do you want to speak to?..... Oh, I need to come to a young man, hiding himself away somewhere near the back, by the left aisle she says. Are you Duncan? Is that you sir?' 

Gesturing in his general direction. He remembered feeling as if a spot light had now fallen down upon him, everyone else smiling at his good fortune, and turning to face him. He nervously raised his hand. 

'Could someone get a microphone to Duncan please? 

Hello, Duncan, can you take this lady? She tells me you know who this is. Its your Grannie, Beryl, Grannie Beryl. She's really enthusiastic to communicate with you. Her nickname for you was Donkey. she tells me, as in Don Quixote. I take it that's some family joke. Can you receive any of this? Speak to me please, it helps strengthen the connection.'

Uttering a feeble sounding 'Yes' in reply.

Duncan hated his Grannie Beryl big time. Hated the nickname, that had taken decades of playground taunting before being able to escape. Grannie Beryl was a tyrant, a sadistic bully who loved nothing more than to embarrass him in public. A game she apparently still relished playing, even from the afterlife. It had been a blessed relief to him when she'd died three years ago, and no longer interfering his life. Getting a message from her, from the dead, was not a pleasant prospect. Actually it was devastating, genuinely frightening.

'She really wants to tell you something Duncan. I have to give it to you verbatim, so she says. I  apologise in advance ladies and gents for any...colourful language.' 

Ritchie's voice subtly altered pitch, more aggressive, harsher and crotchety.

 'Fuckin get your life sorted out Donkey. Don't be so pathetic, that is typical of you. Namby pamby moaning pansy that you are. Your life is a bloody mess boy. Lost your job, can't pay the rent, don't want a girlfriend, but can't even keep a boyfriend because you're such a useless little cunt. A waste of fuckin space.

Malcolm Ritchie snapped himself out of this briefly, struggling to exclaim 

Sorry, sorry, if I'd known she was going to be like this I'd have not gone this far'

But Grannie Beryl obviously had more she wanted to say. Ritchie got a frightened look on his face, as if he was unable to stop something else coming through.

'If I was still alive I'd cuff you round the head and sort you out, like I always had to. You are pathetic, nothing but a perverted bum bandit, a totally shameless sodomite. Nowhere near resembling a real man. I can tell you, even your Mother is deeply ashamed of you.'

Ritchie broke out 

'Woah!.....stop! let go !  I deeply apologise Duncan. That.... was unforgivable.'

He dropped his head, looking a little shamefaced at having so publicly lost control. Once he'd begun channelling her he'd become powerless to censor anything coming through him. This had never happened before. But it was too late now, the damage had been done.

As this merciless tirade from Grannie Beryl had gone on Duncan's head had felt as though it was about to explode. Grannie Beryl had been left to bring him up. after his Mum died of cancer when he was eight. As these reproving words tumbled out, there was a corresponding upwelling of emotion coming up from so deep. He began to sweat feverishly and whimpered into the microphone

'Shut her up, please, shut her up, shut her up, shut her up, shut her up'

It was as if the reality of his entire life blew up in his face right there and then. Out of the emotional depths came an anger, real repressed explosive anger, that erupted and was now loudly given a voice 

'You hated me, made my childhood a misery you fascist cow. You beat me every day when I was little. You enjoyed it. Why would I want to talk to you? I never want to hear from you ever again. Not another word from you, about my Mother  or what you think about my sexuality, my life. Your dead, stay dead, I don't want any of your toxic opinions thrown at me again. You are a rotting corpse and I am glad about that. Just fuck off back to the hell from whence you came. I hate you! I hate you! Go away. GO... AWAY!

At which point he'd stood up, stepped into the aisle, feeling overwhelmed with nausea and dizziness. He knew he was about to puke and needed to get out of the building pronto. But before he could, he fell spinning to the floor, spectacularly spraying vomit over the audience and hit the ground hard, blacking out cold. 

*************

After the mixed relief of fully remembering what had happened, he'd fallen asleep. Startled awake half an hour later by a light knocking on his door. This wasn't the folk from the council's housing department, their knocks were harder, more assertive. Still, he cautiously opened his front door. There was Avril, dressed top to toe in black leather knickerbockers, Elizabethan style doublet and ruff. A bike helmet, shaped like an ant head, pertly tucked under her arm 

'Hello Duncan, I hope you don't mind. I just thought I'd pop round to check how you were doing' 

NEXT EPISODE - Duncan's Private Conversation ( Episode 5 / 12 )
Will be posted on Friday 30th September

THE BEST BEFORE DATE - 1983 - Musette & Drums by The Cocteau Twins

Early Cocteau Twins albums, before gossamer ethereal completely took hold, had a wildness to them. Emotionally they are much rougher cut gem. Some of that comes from Liz Fraser's vocals, that in this earliest incarnation, still had the residual trace of that weird vocal quirk, the guttural wailing wobble. Robin Guthrie's multi layered guitar playing could unexpectedly produce this doom ridden coruscating riffs or wail of noise that I can still find utterly heartbreaking. All of these qualities are present in this one track from their second album Head Over Heels - Musette & Drums. It is the concluding track, because after this nothing else could realistically follow it.

It opens with Guthrie's guitar chiming, alternating between the heights then the depths. Telling you to rally together, declaiming - be ready to defend. The pounding imperial conquesting of its drums driving forward. Then comes Fraser's vocals, the words all jumbled up phrases and sequences, conjuring up this cruel world blasted but not entirely loveless in its burnt and burnished horizon  Partly frail, worn thin, yet still with strength and ability to be defiant As the track progresses it becomes more anarchically intricate and dense, until by the end Guthrie's guitar wails in a keening roar, sharp as steel, startling and rising. As it ascends it becomes wilder, more intensely despairing. It screeches and flails like an animal trapped in pain. Yet still higher it goes, and just when you think it could go no further, it goes on up and up.

For me, I find the end of Musette & Drums one of the most gut wrenching pieces of music. Thirty nine years later I still find it profoundly upsetting to listen to. Struggling to rise up, to transcend, it has hope that there is a way out, something to fight and aspire for. But also a resigned fatalism, that all this effort may not in the end succeed. Its infused with this deep deeply profound melancholic despair that nonetheless still wants to fly free of itself.

That it speaks to me in this way, says a lot about my own internal psychology and emotional world, I guess. All of it packed into one short four minutes plus album track from 1983. It remains so magnificent and timeless, of no particular era, as if the Cocteau Twins came to us from entirely another realm.

TAO TIT BITS - The Farther You Go

"Without going outside, 
  you may know the whole world.
  Without looking through the window, 
  you may see the ways of heaven.
  The farther you go, 
  the less you know"

Taken from the Tao Te Ching by Lao Tsu
Translated by Gia-Fu Feng, Publisher Wildwood House. 1974

SHERINGHAM DIARY No 67 - Trooping The Finger

September 15th
I have been trying to think if there was anything I would be prepared to stand in a five to six mile queue over twenty hours for. I have yet to unearth anything. It would not be a wooden coffin on a catafalque with a royal flag draped over it part dressing, part undressing the coffin beneath. Particularly when you can see the same scene eternally on the BBC's specially created slow TV station. A station where little happens bar a never ending series of the nations most devoted citizens walking by. Driven to tears, no doubt, by waiting so interminably in the wind and rain for this one static view of a still life.

Undoubtedly, whether a monarchist or republican, we have all lost something in the last week. It is a bit more than the Queen, a bit more than our sense of proportion. We valued and we appreciated who she was on a human level.  Her role duty and service as a monarch was, however, entirely enabled by her immense wealth. With never a hint of the daily struggles of ordinary folk to hold their life together. Its amazing what you can achieve when you occupy such an elite position. We might all find it easier to be dutiful and serve others, if we didn't have to worry about money, feeding ourselves and paying our bills.

The person who holds that regal symbol, is now changing. This is a moment of instability.  Hence the growing emphasis on continuity., the handing on of a baton etc. As the face on our stamps, our money, our royal memorabilia, the photos in government buildings, gradually are altered. Until we start to see the profile of Chas the 3rd appearing on everything, we will not really know how we truly feel about this new era we are now entering. The divisions and unease may feel muted at the moment, but they have not gone away. Concealed behind the loss of one recognisable face.

I don't believe the general public will have really forgotten, nor forgiven, Chas for his infidelity, in the betrayal of 'St Diana'. Every time the Queen Consort shows her face we are reminded of her role as chief hussy to the Prince. We tolerate, but find little love for her. The speed and moment chosen for the redundancies of his loyal staff in Clarence House, well, that demonstrates something too. A lack of tact, and an unthinking, uncaring haste, perhaps. At present our unease or disapproval is being drowned under this flood of over sweetened sentimentality. The Queen never really rocked the royal boat, that was why she was able to act as a unifying focus. Chas may not keep quiet, and that could prove less palatable, to more than just our present authoritarian government.

A person heckles Prince Andrew in the street, shouting 'you're a sick old man' and gets arrested for declaring what we all know to be true, in public. That informs you how much the whole 'national week of mourning' has to be kept pure of grubbiness and dissenting viewpoints. The only placards to be waved must be blank one's. The entire nation is being stage managed to the hilt. Relying on a republican's good sense to self censor. Chose your moment, just so long as its not this one. And if anyone were to over step the mark they would be 'cancelled' anyway. The British state has always been a very effective 'culture war' player, just look at its behaviour during the Empire. The only good republican is a silenced one, in their book.

It is almost as if we are being led to believe that every rainbow cast across a broad English sky is the universe acknowledging the saintly nature of our former Queen. If only we were a Catholic nation, beatification would be on the cards. Maybe the Pope would bend the rules if we asked him nicely.

September 16th
As the country continues being compelled to mourn, a few practical issues have come to mind. Now the Queen has been dead for over a week, and publicly laid in state. Is that what is actually happening? Wouldn't the Queen's body be beginning to whiff a bit by now? Unless the coffin is sealed with a tough silicone sealant. This has encouraged a bit of gruesome speculation in me. Is her coffin really a fridge? Or is the Queen vacuum packed to keep her fresh, or not really there but in a fridge freezer somewhere else, waiting to be quietly swapped over on Sunday night? Could people really be paying there respects to an empty coffin, weighted with sandbags?

As we are not planning to open the shop on Monday, the day of the Queen's funeral. If the weather is fine we may go out and have a picnic somewhere. The more authoritarian elements on Enjoy Sheringham More on Facebook, however, are in high dudgeon at the mere idea of people not watching the funeral. Which it is, apparently, your duty as a citizen to do. After all that is why there is a Bank Holiday. You are meant to just sit there and watch the rolling coverage on TV. Nothing raises my little used libertarian hackles more than being told what I'm expected to do. To this - I Troop The Finger.

September 17th
Quietly things that normally show up regularly on TV just stopped appearing. Film Review programmes don't appear because your not meant to be going out, there's a 'national period of mourning' you fool. Even the mild political ribaldry of Have I Got News For You has to be paused. What if Paul or Ian or some guest were to say something vaguely irreverent, controversial, or take the piss out of Chas the 3rd. Lord help you if you had plans to release your long awaited new album or much praised movie this week. Meanwhile, the Tory government manages to legitimately squeeze another week of doing nothing of practical help, out this period of mourning. Maybe it will all kick into action the moment we hit Tuesday. I am not yet feeling reassured or hopeful for our future.

But, on the other hand there has been some hilarity in the early hours of the morning in our household, over some of the 'performative mourning' aspects. Where people and companies are attempting, very obviously, to be seen doing the right thing or think they can transform their usual product or service promotion by prefacing it with 'Out of respect for the Queen' But it all comes out wearing distinctly odd socks:-

Out if respect for the Queen, The Cockapoo Owners Club will be closing its Facebook pages on Monday to questions and comments.

Out of respect for the Queen our salon is offering 10% off our laser hair removal service this week.

Out of respect for the Queen, our planned Guinea Pig Awareness Week has been moved.

I don't know about you, but I'm pretty peeved about the last one.

FRIDAY SERIAL - Duncan's Temporary Amnesia ( Epi 3 )

He awoke- immediately panicked - what the hell ? Realising he was safely at home, he calmed down. Naked, in his own bed, in his own scuzzy flat. What happened last night? Duncan rustled noisily around in his mind trying to unearth any recollection that would explain everything. God, his head was thick, was he hung over? Struggling to focus on recalling anything. This was way worse than any hangover he'd ever experienced. No recollection at all of how he'd even got home. There was going to the Night of Clairvoyance, that he remembered. The boys on the door. The stalls, that odd woman Avril. The room packed with people waiting for the clairvoyance to begin. After that it was all rapidly engulfed by a fog of unknowing. Nothing until waking up just now

Coffee, he needed coffee. The flat felt distinctly chilly. What time was this anyway? Grabbing a thin cotton dressing gown, once white now beige, because he never washed it. Shrugged it on, headed for the kitchen. Peering bleary eyed at a clock. Was that 5am, Christ!  He was never knowingly intimate with this time in the morning. His door keys and mobile slung on the kitchen table. The jacket he'd worn last night folded over the back of a chair, a booklet rolled up in its pocket. He pulled it out. A programme of future events at the masonic hall. Someone had underlined and asterisked a couple of them. An evening of healing and a social gathering, no, a fundraiser slash recruitment for a project they were launching. No idea about any of that. Maybe it'll come back. Give it time. Meanwhile, make yourself some bloody coffee!

Kettle filled, switched on, a mug, teaspoon of instant, slop of milk. Standing fidgety and impatient, Duncan already felt really really wired. Well, much more intensely than he was familiar with. Once the coffee was made he sat down and tried, unsuccessfully, to put the memory loss to one side for even one moment. The kitchen looked pretty much as usual. The grossly familiar sea of unwashed plates and pans. Butter left out and long ago gone to ghee and back again. That sense of order and control over his life, it would return one day, wouldn't it? 

He plunged his hands into the jacket pockets for anything else that might be a clue. Jog those temporarily addled brain cells. Wallet, Bits of small change, work ID (now defunct), sweet wrappers, two business cards. One for a print company, another card for booking life counselling and clairvoyance with - oh yeah - Malcolm Ritchie. Remember him. Good looking. Not everything lost then. Written on the card's reverse - 'Phone me! Luv A xxx' That felt too creepily over familiar. Caffeine, is a wonder drug, but he needed a bit more clarity right here and now.

What had he said he'd do? His imagination momentarily ran off on a story line in his head, about being forever stalked by these people and never being able to shake them off. God, what had he done, what had he done? A wave of mini panic overtook him, whilst sweating and aimlessly pacing about. What did he normally do when this sort of thing happened? Eat, yeah, let's eat. So he searched the fridge, the cupboards, nothing more than a rather floppy pack of ryvitas, no jam, and the rancid butter. If he wanted a fry up he'd have to go the end of the block to Bargain Ben's. As he stumbled whilst dressing himself, he couldn't help but notice that his clothes, rather than scattered randomly across the floor, were carefully folded on the bed. Something he'd never do sober or drunk. Then as he walked towards the door to leave, his eye was drawn to the side table. Envelopes, cards and paperwork all in a neatly organised pile. Someone else had been here. They'd taken his clothes off, put him to bed, then gone through his bills and stuff. Christ all bloody mighty!

Bargain Ben's was run by a local Muslim family, the Ben Ali's. Open 24/7 and packed to the gills with food, booze, stationary, photo copying , even toys! Which one of the family would be on the early morning shift today? Fortunately it was Ravina, the elder daughter. He liked Ravina, and she appeared to like him. Some of the males in her family stared at him as if he were their sworn enemy. Ravina never did. Today she was sorting through the newly arrived papers and mags. She clocked him, smiled, said a warm 'Hello' and carried on cutting straps and organising the delivery into discreet piles. Duncan headed straight for the freezer and chilled cabinets, found sausages, eggs, butter, bread, beans etc. At the counter Davina gave him a concerned look.

'You look rougher than usual, heavy night was it, with you and your friends?' 

'Friends? Did you see me Ravina....... last night?'

'From a distance, you were being literally helped out of a car and carried home by four, maybe five people. That was well after midnight. I'd just driven here. You don't remember last night?'

'Nope, not a thing. Its all a bit of an unknown quantity at present, and its fuckin freaking me out right now.'

'Oh go easy. It'll return In embarrassing technicolour detail no doubt. That's nine twenty six please.'

Duncan unscruched a tenner from his pocket, paid her, picked up the change and plastic bag full of food. He frowned, feeling even more out of sync with reality than before. He'd been brought home. Had a good look round whilst he was out cold. Invading his privacy. He momentarily froze. Then shaking himself out of it.

'Thanks Ravina. You finishing soon?'

'Yes, not my favourite shift. Some deeply unpleasant folk hang around the estate at night. My Father will be here any time soon. See yah later.''

'Bye, enjoy the rest of your day'

Once back at the flat. Fry up made and eaten. Second, then third coffee. Duncan began to feel more himself. He kept rerunning over what he did remember. Gradually things started turning up to fill previously empty spaces, like lost jigsaw pieces. Though a lot was still not there. The time between the beginning of the clairvoyance and him waking on the bed was pretty vague still. Though he'd begun to get a half remembered sensation of having completely blacked out. He hadn't drunk a lot, had he? Just the one glass of cheap plonk Avril had given him, he remembered that clearly enough.

An alarm suddenly struck up on his mobile. Gosh, it can't be his usual eight o'clock wake up call already. It wasn't, this was a totally unfamiliar alarm. It said - 'Book your meeting, Today!  Luv A' That imaginary story line from earlier. The one that sent him into a whirlwind of anxiety. Well, maybe that was not so far fetched after all.

NEXT EPISODE - Duncan's Remembrance of Things Past ( Episode 4 / 12 )
Will be posted next Friday 23rd September

SHERINGHAM DIARY No 66 - Much Worse Than Buffering

September 6th
I appear to be on the cusp of being welcomed into a revered privileged group, often referred to as 'the retired' or if more longer term 'the elderly'. Quite how or when one moves from one to the other is hard to gauge. Though I am still ten months away from reaching the official retirement age, things are apparently already cranking up in anticipation. Preempting the signs and symptoms of my incipient physical decline. I've started to get regular notifications from the local health centre in Sheringham, recently about the upcoming Flu & Covid vaccinations for those over 50. And requests to be part of a screening programme for those 65 and over to check the size of my abdominal aorta. Sounded serious.

The latter I had done yesterday. Booked for mid- afternoon, but due to a large number of folk pulling out, I was asked to come in midday. I arrived and barely waited a minute before being summoned, laid down and exposing my stomach to a complete stranger, who then smeared it with transparent gel similar to KY.  All of which would be kinky in any other context. This young chap of indeterminate age, channeled his being really pissed off about the late cancellations, pressed deeply into my stomach area with something that looked for all the world like a bar code reader. Apologising frequently for the discomfort he assumed he was causing me. The result provided an all clear.- I was not a pack of blood sausages after all. My aorta the approximate right size, no blockages, no preternaturally narrow veins. Probably wont need to have it checked again. Which is reassuring, as a blocked aorta sounds like a rather dangerous, bloody and explosive experience. I have once again been saved by my relatively healthy physical being.

September 7th
As nights draw in sooner and dawn occurs later, a whole new morning routine begins to assert itself. The mornings when its warm enough to sit out and contemplate the sun rising are becoming rarer. I return to watching dodgy American history programmes about prehistory on You Tube where they pronounce volcanics - vulcanicks. At any moment you expect the role of God and his prophet Noah, to be summoned to explain the demise of every early civilisation. 

It's occurred to me lately that perhaps we have all developed a shorter attention spans, simply by the increased intrusion of adverts into programmes. You may want to blame it on 'the youth of today' or social media, but it started a longtime before any of that. You are watching an involving documentary on the French Impressionists say, interrupted every five minutes with adverts for anything from Warcraft games, Chromebook, Norwegian cruises, financial advisors, or sanitary pads. The focus constantly being broken and shifted. Its worse than buffering. Its a bit like someone nudging your elbow every time you are about to paint a very fine delicate line.

Those who know me reasonably well, will also know my fondness for history programmes or anything with an archaeological theme. I'm a big fan of Time Team and have watched all the series, some episodes more than once. So I was intrigued to see what Digging for Treasure, on Channel 5, with Dan Walker, Michelle Strachan and Raksha Dave ( an ex Tine Team regular) would be like. Its filmed in real time, as finds emerge from a phalanx of metal detectorists. The finds tent is inhabited by an irritating gaggle of people always ready to clap and whoop to order. Its a totally inane programme format, a mixture of a poorly resourced Time Team with The One Show. What follows is in the style of, just to give you a flavour of it. This is not verbatim.

'And here's Martin who discovered today's star find a bent bronze pin, give him a round of applause everyone. I believe this is the first thing you've ever found in tweny five years of being a detectorist, Martin. There's dedication for you. Worth a further round of applause I'd say. Corr look what that looks like under a microscope, beautiful. What do you think it is? Its a pin for holding a cloak together. So Gary you are the finds specialist. What's it worth? You think it would be unethical were you to tell me. Lets go back to Michelle and see if she's still visible in a completely open field at dusk'. 

I watched ten minutes, leaving at the first ad break. I think I had a very lucky escape.

Well, I've got this far without a mention of our new Muppet Prime Minister Liz Truss. I have this uneasy feeling that we have quietly entered another realm where what was once satire has now become our lived reality. Where someone who is clearly unsuited to high office finds themselves nonetheless thrown into a position of great responsibility. What might be a funny satire on screen is pretty scary in reality. Because all our worst fears now seem perfectly reasonable. Anything is now on the table of possible outcomes. Some obscure and unaccountable Tory Think Tank is now manipulating the body politic by funneling ideas through Liz Truss's rectum. So if you think she doesn't know what she's talking about, its because she doesn't. She is the Queen of the half baked idea. And the Tory Think Tank? Well that's a contradiction in terms. Its not really one nation Toryism, more corporate led authoritarianism. It can't really Think. But it will take a Tank and run over all opposition, resistance and rights. This is also much much worse than buffering.

September 13th
So the QE2 has died, and we are now in a 'national period of mourning' which is itself proving to be a weird conception. Everyone from Anne Summers to your local kebab shop release statements of sadness at her death. Putting a headline banner photo over their wares, whether that be sexy underwear, vibrating dildos or brazed meat. As if she regularly sent the footman out for all those things. But this desire to be visible in your appreciation of the late monarch, conceals a deeper ambivalence towards its future under Chas the Third. In fact to merely state your opposition to it in public could get you arrested for civil disturbance. Is this some form of state approved version of 'cancel culture'? 

I have not in the past made a secret of my views on the monarchy. In my view it infantilises us all. As is superbly demonstrated by people leaving marmalade sandwiches instead of flowers, as tributes. All because the Queen once did a skit with Paddington the Bear. I know I am out of sync with the majority of the general public on the monarchy. But this blanket period of 'mourning' does appear to compel people to self conform to expectations, even republicans. And they are doing so in bizzarely I'll thought out acts of sentimental allegiance.

Meanwhile, Sheringham has the dreaded return of the 1940's Weekend coming up on 17th and 18th. If a real war in Europe taking place right in front of us, where people's homes and lives are being shattered, doesn't make this a highly inappropriate event, then a funeral for a deceased queen the following day, is apparently, not going to stop it either. We are going to be closed on the Monday, because it will be as quiet as the Queen's waiting grave in town. Whilst I am no lover of the monarchy as an entity. I hold some regard for the late Queen as a moral exemplar of what duty and service really are. Which our politicians should take note of. On a ordinary human level someone has died that was worthy of respect.

I sense there is a generally diminished level of enthusiasm for 1940's weekend in town. Usually the preparations for start the moment the August Bank Holiday finishes. Here we are, just four days away, and only a smattering of shops with their window displays sorted, most of them charity shops. Maybe there is more than us who think its all a bit inappropriate. It always has been an oddly surreal event, perhaps the current circumstances make that more apparent. Like the 'national period of mourning' , 1940's Weekend has previously been imposed on the town as a bit of a 'fait accompli' you have to do it even if you don't agree with it. That's the rules.

August shop figures were much better than expected, some of which due to the Makers Market we did. September so far has been stronger than the beginning of August. But the week of 'national mourning' appears to have led to their purses going into mourning too. Its been a bit quieter. It maybe the lull before the coming big event weekend. Not that that is necessarily good for trade, cos its not. This year the Cafe in the Courtyard is currently closed. To re-open in mid October under new management and after a refit. That may mean no folk just wandering in for a cup of vintage cake and char, and buying that beautifully scented candle for the air raid shelter back home.

TAO TIT BITS - Sometimes

"Sometimes things are ahead
and sometimes they are behind;
Sometimes breathing is hard,
sometimes it comes easy;
Sometimes there is strength
and sometimes weakness;
Sometimes one is up
and sometimes down.
Therefore the sage avoids extremes,
excess, and complacency"

Taken from the Tao Te Ching by Lao Tsu
Translated by Gia-Fu Feng, Publisher Wildwood House. 1974

FINISHED READING - Femina by Janina Ramirez

Femina opens with the story of the suffragette Emily Wilding Davidson, falling under the kings horse and subsequently dieing. Janina Ramirez cleverly links this to her own historical area of expertise, by revealing Davidson was a medievalist too. Many of the suffragette movement it turns out were obsessed with the period, particularly the heroic female figure of Joan of Arc. Why had this happened? What was it about the medieval period that caught the suffragette imagination? Was it because the medieval period was the last before their almost complete removal from positions of influence? Or was that only the impressions you are presented with?

Though the medieval historical archive is sketchy about women and their role in the shaping of the world, there are names, there are positions they inhabited, there are other people who recount their meetings with them, and what they were like. The historian has to imaginatively dig deeper into this world to find the information that suggests how influential and powerful they were. They have to examine those factors that show us the outline that tell us what sort of person was there.

Most of these significant medieval female figures were from the nobility. They came into a position of power because there was no one else to do so. Male heirs had died, were too young to inherit, and women were strong enough to step into that space. We only hear about men and women from this particular high echelon of medieval society. A lot of detail is lacking in the stories from this period, even of male figures. Imaginative conjecture or supposition is the name of the historical game, in order to fill in the gaps. The lives of significant female figures, even more so. Because at some point the roles of female rulers started to be under-reported, underplayed and omitted from the rather patchy historical records of this period.

That these female figures are as it says in the books byline 'written out' of history is a bit misleading. The whole idea of 'writing out' is a contradictory term, "writing out' cannot actually be done. Their roles have been deliberately omitted, left out, edited out, underplayed or minimised for whatever reasons. A male bias towards egotistical self aggrandisement, power and status comes into prominence. And we all know how fragile and touchy that can be. This begins by being economical with the factual truth. However conscious this was or not. The consequence remains the same, the glossing over completely. or minimising of the feminine presence and influence. Omitting to sufficiently represent women in our history is an act of neglect, that for centuries turned our attention away from acknowledging and examining it.

But once one does turn to look there is much to be discovered. But you can rarely look to the traditional historical sources, for more than a fleeting tantilising mention. The female footprint is found by examining more closely their surrounding context and responsibilities. In this way you can gradually paint a fuller picture of the influence of say, the Queen of the Mercians, Athelflead, the warrior queen.  or the joint rulers in both splendour and power of 8th century Mercia - Queen Cynethryth & King Offa. The recent gender reassignment of the body found in a Swedish burial, previously thought to have been male, because of the masculine nature of the grave goods they found. Has led to an ongoing reappraisal of how fluid gender may have been in Viking society.

Those women who had ready access to position of power are easier to locate. But what about more humble ordinary women? Ramirez explores the life and times of the mystic Margery Kemp, who recorded her life travelling through Europe. The first known writer of an autobiography in the English language. Likewise the peripatetic lives of many female Cathar rebels. Court documents concerning a figure like Eleanor Rykinder, the cross dresser that reveals a much looser medieval conception of gender and sexual orientation than we might expect.

This book is a brilliantly written journey through just a few of the significant women you can find who were successful in the medieval world. Its also a timely reminder and relevant to current debates around #metoo,  gender roles and fluidity. And there is still so much more to unearth and to learn. Bringing with them new perspectives of the past and women's role in that.

CARROT REVIEW - 7/8

FRIDAY SERIAL - Duncan's Night Out ( Epi 2 )

He got himself into an unnecessary fretful state of mind about how he should dress for  - A Night of Clairvoyance. It wasn't a rock concert, not bingo either. In the end because it was an event, open to all, it would be like a public talk. He threw on a slightly creased pale mint polo shirt, ditto the ivory chinos, blue Harrington bomber jacket and grey Converse, that had all seen better days. Varying degrees of casual, that was pretty much all he had anyway, so this would have to do.

The masonic institute's hall was twenty minutes walk from his flat on the Mulberry Garden Estate. Unknowingly passing it quite regularly, but taking little conscious notice of it. Its imposing grand classical pediments, pillars and wrought iron railings, like those of an old established bank. The building though had turned seedy and disreputable looking. The dark blue paintwork weathered, cracked and curling away like apple peel, framing mottled glass windows ingrained with dirt. It found itself on the more desreputable side of town these days. Tonight its huge doors were swung wide open, and a large rhomboid of light spilled out from inside across the steps and pavement. As though it were both inviting Duncan in and reassuring him of a quick exit, if need be.

Not wanting to arrive early and be too conspicuously alone. He'd planned to arrive ten minutes before the evening was due to kick off. Smoothly waltz in, get his bearings, tune into the vibe of the place, and find a good seat where he could safely view the proceedings.  He wasn't, however, expecting 'the welcoming party.' The moment he stepped through the door he was besieged by a handful of earnest young men, all much younger than him. Dressed like showroon dummies from a Next window, identical styles of clothing, neatly side parted hair. So nervously over eager to befriend you, it had entirely the opposite effect. Duncan clammed up, frowned his best 'piss off you creeps' look. As one, they all took frit, stepped back, letting him pass through.

Once he got beyond this stone flagged lobby and the 'boy greeters' he relaxed. In the next room there was a reception table. Around which a number of efficient women were busy being busy. This was obviously the organisational hub for the entire evenings proceedings. There were a broad range of women, in age and style of dress. Plenty of cut off sweat shirt tops with brightly coloured cullots and pumps, alongside neat pencil skirts, power shouldered blouses with bows, with a smattering of gauzy bangle bedecked hippies floating around as if already living in Elysium. As he purchased his ticket for the evening, each of the women, as if on cue, slowly turned their heads towards him, taking him in. Duncan was startled. Should he leave right now?

If he'd wanted to, he could have made bookings for fifteen minute tester sessions, to try out spiritual healing, tarot reading, gong therapy, chakra realignment and the like. But Duncan had a real phobia about any form of hands on therapy. The thought of even a sports massage made his flesh creep. Therefore he walked stiffly, eyes straightforward, passed any booking table and the tombola raffle. Which appeared to be offering only alcohol free booze and various tins of vegan shortbread biscuits as prizes. 

'What a waste' he muttered under his breath.

He scanned the room, the marble flooring, ornate plaster ceiling work and a dramatic sequence of alcoves down one wall, all now empty. Once the home for portraits of masonic leaders, now only the dirt shadow of their outlines remained. Today these were forming the improvised booths for a noisy array of merchants selling a wide variety of items of a semi occult or exotic nature. With an unusual preponderance of luridly decorated skulls. 

At the far end of the hall was something of an entirely different character. There was hung a large black and white photo of a man in a grey striped suit with a white nylon shirt and knitted tie. A slim guy, with a thick head of hair, in his late forties, with a stern look and pinched facial features. Was he some sort of guru? Not dressed at all like what Duncan thought a guru would. Instead he stared at you with a reprimanding, paternal questioning demeanour. As though he were saying 'and what precisely do you think you're doing here young man?.' He looked Western, so what the hell was going on here? Was he the clairvoyant Malcolm Ritchie mentioned on the leaflet?

On one table spread out, were books by the guy plus CD's, videos, postcards, photos, inspirational quotes, full length posters, even tote bags with his disapproving face staring out at you. In this corner a small seated area had been created, where you could sit, drink coffee and watch a video recording of the man giving a talk. Brightly lit and softly focused, it was filmed as though he was already speaking to you directly from heaven. Duncan thought the voice might be Eastern European, via the East End? He had a slight tendency to over roll his r's and a way of ending his every sentence with what sounded like a verbal question mark. Hmm?

Duncan bristled, 'I presume this is the creep who runs this outfit'.

He momentarily felt freaked, as if he'd only just realised that he was already in way too deep. Too much weirdness, too many people, much much too close.  Agarophobia struck him, suddenly craving again the security of his flat, the isolation, securely locked doors. In a panic he turned around to leave, failing to notice someone was approaching him from behind. So in the abrupt spin of his movement he had to pull back to avoid crashing straight into this diminutive woman blocking his exit. He exclaimed 

'Oh Fuck, Oh Sorry...... sorry for the....swearing'  

'Hello, my name is Avril' 

She looked him straight into the eyes proffering a drink from the tray she carried, with her ring bestrewn hand. He took it not sure he could handle alcohol tonight, but felt too embarrassed now to refuse.

'You seemed as though you were about to leave. This.'  gesturing toward the photo, the TV and video talk 'Well, it's all a bit daunting, isn't it? A bit too much to take in.  What's your name?'  

Avril was thirty-something, not much above five foot four, but an imposing presence. She knew it and used it. Hovering around the room as though walking on gossamer. With a huge head of jet black hair, smoothly dribbling like a slick of oil all the way down her back. This stopped to rest just above the hem of an artistically layered black dress of rag and lace tatters. Eye coal makeup, darkly rich burgundy lips and thickly drawn eyebrows completed 'the modernist goth look' that made her stare so penetrating. Duncan felt as though she were gazing right into his soul, and was now happily flicking through its pages and reading him like he was a book.

Half mesmerised, the rest intimidated. he coughed up his name.

'Duncan'

'I suppose you've come to see our medium Malcolm Ritchie? He is very good Duncan, well worth staying for. I think you.....of all people.....might find him helpful. He's quite impressive. He has a beautiful aura, it makes him so approachable and grounded. Oh, and there's the charm, Oodle's of charm. Spellbinding charm. Everyone sees something different in him, but everyone falls just a little bit in love with him. Whatever... their sexual proclivities'

Giggling mischievously, she'd got Duncan's number.

'I don't know about all this....stuff.' Duncan nodded derisively towards the occult merchandise 'Whose the weird looking guy in the photo?'

'Oh.....he's our teacher. Our spiritual guide you might say. He lives most of the year in Switzerland for....'

She paused briefly, looking unsure for a moment. 

'....health reasons. The air is so pure there. He's a wonderful man, so direct. Sees right to your essential being. Meeting him can be a life changing.'

She also said what his name was, but it all sounded like (Runga Bunga La Di Da) to Duncan's unaccustomed ears. It didn't sound English.

'He could be running a pedophile ring for all I know'

Avril, visibly squirmed, with a forced smile she sprung on her toes for a few seconds as though deciding whether she ought to move on.

'Well, have a good evening Duncan. If the boys' bother you as you leave, just tell them to bugger off. We've all had to learn to be straightforward in our communication here. Saves time and misunderstandings. Stay for the clairvoyance though. I'd find yourself a seat soon, if I were you. Its already getting packed.'

Pointing towards the the door behind him  - 'Its through there'

That room as he entered was indeed pretty much three quarters full, Most of the remaining seats in the front and back rows. Was the front too close? No way to leave quietly and unnoticed from there. Taking the farthest seat away by an aisle he could find, he sat nervously picking at his fingernails, waiting for the evening to commence.  

A rather self conscious looking woman in a maxi dress, somewhat tipsy, came on stage. She was only there to draw and call the tombola raffle. The table of unwanted prizes appeared. The draw was interminable, with most of the winners either reluctant to pick up their prizes or deaf. It took an age. But once it did end, the paraphernalia was rapidly removed and three chairs laid out in an arc. A middle aged woman with all her supreme confidence on full beam, launched herself onto the stage.

'Ladies and gentlemen. Before I call our mediums for the night to the stage. I'd like to thank you all for coming, and urge you to take advantage of the stalls and catering which will stay open for an hour or so after the clairvoyance. Malcolm Ritchie will be signing his books in reception. Recordings of his guided hypnosis and meditations will also be for sale. Members of our little group will be more than happy to chat informally, answer any questions, put you on our mailing list if you wish, and hand out our planned programme of activities for the next year. So, do stay on if you are able, afterwards'

'We have two mediums for you tonight. The first is a face you may already have seen, Guisella Hausmann, our much cherished Treasurer, who is also a gifted clairaudient. She trained in our movement's headquarters in Switzerland, at the same time as Malcolm Ritchie. With whom she sat in circle with our founder (Runga Bunga La Di Da)  Please put your hands together and welcome to the stage - Gisella Hausmann'

A quiet looking woman in her early thirties came on the stage to polite but supportive applause. She sat rather stiffly self conscious in the chair just to the left of the host.

'The next person I believe most of you will be familiar with, from his stage, TV work and documentaries. He's here for the UK part of his European tour. We are supremely fortunate to have him here tonight. Without need of any further introduction from me. Please welcome to the stage - Malcolm Ritchie.'

The room erupted into wildly ecstatic applause. Everyone seemed to know who he was. Duncan finding himself in ignorance, began to feel as though he'd been living the life of a recluse, which he had. Slowly ascending the side steps into the auditorium came a tall, broad shouldered man, handsome, middle aged in a petrol blue suit, bright white shirt and blond, clearly dyed, hair. He walked onto the stage with the confident swagger of a tele-evangelist, waving, blowing kisses, mouthing 'thank you' and 'I love you'. Then sat on the chair to the right of our host. Duncan's eyes were popping out on stalks

'Drop dead.......gorgeous. The steely charisma of a Dermot O'Leary, but with tinkly bells on'  

Duncan fell into a swoon. Literally putty in this man's hands, before he'd even said a word.

NEXT EPISODE - Duncan's Temporary Amnesia ( Episode 3 / 12 )
Will be posted on Friday 16th September 2022