CONFESSIONS OF AN ANOREXIC

If you have ever studied someone on a diet, you may have noticed that they have an uncanny fascination in food. I recall a friend of mine, who would gaze lecherously at the leggy ladies on the underground posters, so much so that I knew exactly, which position his head would be in at any place on the escalator. Then, one day when I was with him, I noticed that instead of nylons, bras and swim wear, his attention was being held by bacon, sausages, and even whiskey advertisements. When I questioned him, as we waited for our train, he admitted that he was dieting, happy in the misplaced belief that I had noticed how much thinner he was becoming. Of course, I did not tell him how I had made my deduction. I have noticed the same phenomena among smokers who are trying to quit. You can often see them, gazing in hypnotic stare at anyone who is smoking, enjoying the inhales in a masochistic trance. They even develop a rhythm similar to the smoker’s, breathing in and out with a sighs as the smoker inhales and exhales his smoke.

When I was an anorexic I developed a similar fascination for food. Sometimes I would take a detour into Woolworths where I would wander along the ‘sweets’ (candy) counter gazing at the toffees, Smarties, marshmallows, fudge, and chocolate;  or I’d stand in a cloud of delight outside the baker’s shop literally eating the odor and image of all those nutritious cakes and biscuits. Once, when I had been hanging around the Woolworths’ counter for over fifteen minutes, my longing got the better of my upbringing and my fear of getting caught, and I stole a toffee. I slipped it quickly into my pocket. I un-wrapped it with my hand, thrust into the pocket. I don’t recall how I manipulated it into my mouth, but it got there. I remember its bitter sweetness and how I hurried guiltily from the store to spit it ungraciously into the gutter. Where, now was the girl who once worried for weeks about a simple little lie at school? She was buried in my subconscious, far distant from the girl I had become.

I parlayed my interest in food into a passion for cooking. I tried to take over from my mother, herself a gourmet chef. It gave me a thrill to be surrounded by the very substances which I needed but would not let myself touch. I created delicious and unusual concoctions which I would hardly taste. I even made sure to spit the morsels which I tasted during preparation into the kitchen sink. I thought of myself as a professional wine taster who swills the wine to get its flavor and then spits it out. I wanted to watch other people eating my creations. I would throw a crying fit if anyone wanted as little as I was eating or if anything was left over. It was almost as though I was trying to ensure that nobody else could rival my emaciation. It was a sacrificial prayer.

I have noticed that starvation also increases one’s senses. Smells become stronger, colors brighter, music more encompassing. It is akin to being on a continuous high. Since I emerged from my starvation period, I have never heard The Water Music played more beautifully or seen a more brilliantly hued Azalea. I theorize that this phenomenon is so that the starving animal is more equipped to acquire food in its weakened condition. I was weakened although at the time I didn’t realize it. I moved slowly, found walking upstairs a burden and was unable to keep up with the rest of the family when we shoveled snow.

If I shut my eyes and let myself fly back through time I become that girl of seventeen-going-on-eighteen. My body shrinks to five-and-a-half stones (77 lbs). I can feel my hip bones projecting through my skirt as they did then. I thrust my pelvis forward in an unnatural stance and glace down at my flat chest to see them sticking out with their angular symmetry. I touch them gently with my hand, not too hard for they are always bruised and any little bump hurts, but hard enough to feel them through the fabric. Then I run my hands slowly up to my sides, randomly counting ribs, and letting them slip across my neck feel my collar bones making a crisscross below my throat. I have an empty gnawing feeling in my stomach, and so I readjust my tight elastic belt, worn today outside my school skirt to prevent it from falling off, but worn on other occasions under my outer clothing to minimize hunger pains. I look forward to tonight’s bath when I will lie in the water and look down my flat front to my hip bones projecting like two mountain ridges with a smooth sunken valley between them.

My mind becomes fuzzy as I think about my next meal, I am always thinking about my next meal. I have a few more hours to wait. I plan how I shall spend the time itemizing the seconds so that I can help them to pass less painfully. I know that if I study and get totally engrossed in something that I will, at least momentarily, stop counting time. As I settle down to my study, I rationalize that I am too thin, that my parents are right, that I ought to stop dieting and eat. I make a resolve to eat at the next meal. With this comforting thought nagging at the back of my mind, I focus on my study.

At last, the next meal time arrives. I had to pass the last half hour outside walking up and down to prevent myself from rushing off and stealing something, anything, to eat. The meal begins. It smells delicious and looks good. I catch my mother’s eye about to announce my big decision, but something inside me snaps. I look down again thinking to myself that if I eat ‘normally’ she will, in some obscure way, score a victory that the ropes of my destiny will pass out of my trembling hands. I need to have control over my destiny. This is my life. I ask for a small helping. After the first ravenous mouthful, I force myself to eat slowly chasing the food around my plate so that it looks, as though I am eating more than I really am. So, here it is the substances which I have been looking forward to for at least three hours, and I am rejecting it. I burst into tears. I am in misery. I want to eat it and cannot as though under a spell. I want someone to comfort me. I feel so alone. I would like to rush and bury my head in my mother’s bosom, feel her arms around me, her hands caressing my hair, her voice gently chasing away my troubles and cleansing me. No-one offers to comfort me. I am spoiling yet another meal. I am blatantly disregarding their explicit advice and instructions. I remain unhappy un-consoled.

Hours later, in bed, I cry again. I cry for the passing of my freedom and the days of irresponsibility. I weep for my parent’s love which my rational tells me is still there, but my distorted mind tells me is lost, destroyed by me. I try to pray to God, someone who will show me a way out of my dilemma. I ask for an escape without making me into a fat idiot who will face up and take responsibility for the damage inflicted on self and family. No-one answers my wet prayers. I curl my cold limbs into a fetal position and turning my pillow to a cool dry spot fall into a troubled sleep. I fall asleep knowing that tomorrow I will make the same resolves, try again, but that there will be no solution and that the day will end just as today had ended. There will be the same battle in my head, the same hot tears pouring down my face.

In the middle of the night I awaken and creep around the house. I like the hidden lonely peacefulness. I go downstairs moving quietly so that I don’t disturb my light-sleeping mother. I go to the kitchen. Everything is silent. I bask in its secret charm and gaze out into the garden, eerie in the darkness. The plants are strangely lit, from the side glow of a nearby street light, and by the sky where a moon plays hide-and-seek with fast-moving fluffy clouds. I leave the window and go into the pantry. I look under the cake dome, under a pie dish lid, into the fruit dish. I leave them all and go to the sink to draw myself a large glass of icy cold water. I boil a kettle to make a hot-water bottle to cuddle. Relaxed in my solitude, I return upstairs hearing my mother turn as I pass. She calls out sleepily to me. I don’t answer and her steady breathing returns. I lie in bed; the hot-water bottle is pressed hard into the burning hollow of my empty stomach. I sleep.

ROSAMUND’S SLEEP.

Recently I read an anthology of short stories “What is Not Yours is Not Yours” written by Helen Oyeyemi.  Ms Oyeyemi writes a form of magical realism in which she morphs well known fairy and folk stories into her own modern day renditions. I found the technique fascinating especially as magical realism doesn’t generally appeal to me. The following is my attempt at something similar.  As an experiment I’ve written the mythical part of the story in the present tense. I invite comments.

The sleepy Cotswold village of Kidlington woke up one spring day in 2016 to an unexpected visit of three busloads of Asian tourists. The residents had had their village recorded as the largest Cotswold village; but, apart from this classification, they knew of no particular aspects of their community, which could, or indeed should, attract tourists. Due to an impenetrable language barrier, the villagers are unable to question their visitors and so local speculation ran the gambit.  Their story spread quickly even as additional coaches arrived.  The unexplained events became local if not national news resulting in impromptu coverage by a number of press teams. These individuals took photographs and interviewed residents but were also unable to discover the motivation behind the visits. Their interviews included Rosy, the elderly lady who explained that a tourist had requested permission, in sign language, to use her bathroom and, upon emerging had her companion photograph her standing in front of the porch under a profusion of fragrant pink rose blooms. They interviewed another gentleman who said that his front garden had been photographed repeatedly. The camera shot which covered this interview showed a typical English garden with mounds of flowering rose bushes.

If we backpedal almost 65 years to that same village of Kidlington and step outside the original village boundary we come upon to the grounds of a rich industrialist who built a secluded home for his young wife. He filled his garden with of roses and among the roses is a decorative fishpond. We see his wife sun bathing and dozing beside the pond. She dreams, or is she awake for she talks to a frog? She tells the frog, “Ah, if only we had a child!” to which the frog replies “Your wish shall be fulfilled; before a year has gone by you shall have a daughter.”

Now she sits and gazes into the pond to admire wriggling black tadpoles. She regards them as confirming symbols of fertility. Quickly, she stands, her skirt swirling around her ankles, and runs into her home. She dismisses the servants, and prepares a meal for her husband. When he arrives home, she greets him with a kiss, and they dine over champagne. They retire to their bedchamber to make ardent love throughout the night. In the morning, she tells him that she knows that their joint wish is fulfilled, and that she is carrying their daughter.

Of course she is right and in due course, the industrialist’s wife gives birth to a girl who is so pretty that the industrialist decides to throw a celebratory feast at her baptism.  He draws up a list of guests and includes their ten closest female relatives. His wife hesitating points out that there is another, eleventh relative who lives in the Outer Hebrides. She is a bad-tempered reclusive old maid who always has a mean word on her lips. The happy new parents rationalize that as she lives so far away she would never come to their celebration. They decide that even an invitation would be wasted on her. Besides, says the practical wife and mother, “We only have twelve Royal Crown Derby dinner services for the high table.”

The baptism goes smoothly with Rosamund, the baby, dressed in a ridiculously long hand-smocked white dress. The ensuing feast is a great success, and when the baptismal cake is cut and speeches made each of the ten female relatives bestows a special gift. The first gives an engraved bible to symbolize virtue. The second gives an heirloom set of carved ivory brushes and combs for her boudoir to symbolize her beauty. The third gives a shining pearl necklace to symbolize riches. The fifth an engraved silver mug to symbolize sobriety, and so on around the table. Just before the tenth stands to make her gift, the guests hear the sound of brakes squealing, a door slamming and in walks the Hebrides aunt. Her hair is disheveled, her clothing black, and her face screwed into an angry scowl. She strides up to the crèche in which Rosamund sleeps and tosses in a diamond and agate broach. She turns to the parents and, before they can apologize, yells “Your daughter shall, on her sixteenth birthday prick her finger causing her to fall and hit her head and,” she pauses before lowering her angry voice into a throaty snarl, “and die.” She turns and makes a whirlwind exit. The astonished guests hear her car speeding down the drive and away.

The proclamation is followed by a horrified uproar, when everyone speaks at once. She waits a few minutes and then the tenth female relative stands. She gently taps her glass with a fork to get attention for she is mild mannered and soft spoken. “My gift is this ancient woven silk shawl which was to symbolize longevity but now symbolizes that it shall not be death, but a deep sleep of a hundred years, into which Rosamund shall fall.” Her words cause as much disbelief and chatter as those of the Hebrides aunt.  The party quickly disperses as all ponder on the improbability of death caused by pricked fingers and the nonsensical concept of a hundred year sleep.

Time passes and the gifts of the women are plenteously fulfilled. Rosamund grows into a beautiful woman. She is modest, good natured and wise and is loved by all. Her parents are solicitously protective and shield her from all sharp objects. Her sixteenth year comes and goes. The family settles into their collective silent belief that the Hebrides curse was the unkind words of an unhappy old woman. Life goes on; Rosamund gets married and has a daughter who is baptized Rosa to distinguish her from her mother. In time Rosa grows up and has a daughter. Rosa’s daughter’s beauty outshines that of both mother and grandmother and so she becomes known as Rosamund-the Beauty.

When grandmother Rosamund approaches sixty-four years she plans a special birthday celebration to be held the weekend after her birthday in the house of her childhood in Kidlington. Her daughter whose birthday is around the same time is now thirty-six and so they decide to celebrate with a joint birthday cake frosted with the words “Happy Birthday, 100 Years” and decorated with garlands of pink sugar roses. Rosamund-the-Beauty who is now sixteen accompanies her mother and grandmother.

On the day of her birthday Rosamund pricks her finger as she puts on her diamond and agate broach. The prick is so sharp and such a surprise that she falls, and hits her head on the floor. She sustains a mild concussion, an ambulance is called. Hours later the Emergency Room sends grandmother Rosamund home to be carefully watched by loving daughter and grand-daughter.

The following afternoon an intern resident doctor makes a house call. Although it is March 1st the weather is unusually warm for England. He drives an open white convertible MG. He passes through the small gate house which is almost obscured by climbing roses. He drives up to the house. Everything is sleepily quiet; the only sound is that of his car engine and his wheels making a scrunching noise on the gravel drive. He shuts off his engine and stares up at the house which looks as though it is about to be smothered by the rose vines creeping across its façade. He steps out of his car and walks to the front door. The air is heavy with silence. He knocks; the sound seems to be sucked up by the silent air. He knocks again and then, receiving no response enters calling as he does so “Anyone home?” he has the uncanny impression that the house sleeps; He speculates that the excitement of the previous day may have taken its toll for even the dog doesn’t stir.  The silence becomes more enveloping; it makes him yawn. He fights the desire to sleep and thinks about his mission even questioning whether his patient might still be alive. He vaults up the stairs taking them two at a time. Grandmother Rosamund’s bedroom door stands open. He enters. This room is the epicenter of the house’s entranced sleep. Rosamund lies sleeping on her bed softly covered by a rose embroidered comforter. He reaches and takes her hand in his. He checks her pulse; it is normal. He is about to wake her when he sees the Sleeping Beauty. Rosamund-the-Beauty sleeps in a lounge chair beside the window. Her long hair curls down over her chest which gently moves up and down in her slumber. He can’t resist her loveliness, he has to touch her. He glances around the room once more and deduces that he is not observed. He walks over to her and stands beside her wrap in admiration. The he leans over and gives her a discrete kiss. She and her grandmother awake and, instead of consternation, greet him as though he were Prince Charming himself. They invite their Prince Charming to join their celebration the following day. This is when he sees the 100 year cake and discovers that since grandmother Rosamund’s birthday is February 29th this is her sixteen birthday celebration.

Some people in Kidlington believe that their strange visitors are readers of The Brothers Grimm Fairy Tale of “Sleeping Beauty” and that a poor translation made Kidlington into King’s Town. They come to admire the rose hedges and thickets which, the Brothers Grimm tell us, surrounded Sleeping Beauty’s home.

 

 

 

No Ladies First

underground

No ladies first in this diurnal rush,
Like insects, we swarm to red circles,
Each for himself, thrusting, fighting,
Down, onto crowded dim platforms,
Pushing ourselves into gaping monsters,
To stand, or sit, lonely sentinels.
Lives brought momentarily together.
Here, a pair enjoy hints of each other,
Indicating by eye and movement,
Promises of love’s naked intimacy.
But most, eyes behind unseeing stares,
Rocked and stultified in accustomed whir,
Succumb together to soporific swing.
Suddenly, deadened senses jar into recognition,
Sleepy eyes refocus,
We push and shove out of that airless thing,
To join the busy crowd surging upwards,
And fumbling for forgotten tickets,
We heave sighs of relief to emerge into daylight,
And recapture our humanity.

© Copyright, 9/18/16 Jane Stansfeld

Mating Insects

A few days ago, I received an ecstatic e-mail from my brother who is an ardent lepidopterist.  He wrote:

“Yesterday I saw two butterflies mating. It was wonderful. They were Green Veined Whites. The male sprays the female with an aphrodisiac dust that is so powerful that some humans claim to be able to smell it (apparently, it smells of lemon verbena). If the female consents, as she usually does, they mate and then go on a short nuptial flight together. In the process of mating the male doesn’t just inject sperm but 15% of his body weight – a nutrition boost for the female. It includes minerals the male has processed by drinking mud. This nutritious package helps the female survive longer and lay more and larger eggs. The pleasurable exchange makes many of them understandably promiscuous and reduces the longevity of the males. I waited for an hour in an area near our house where there are lots of Green Veined Whites and finally saw the thing I had been reading about. A real delight.”

His story brings to mind the Chinese use of butterflies to symbolize love and their folk lore story of the “Butterfly Lovers.” The following day as I went about my normal activities; I came upon my own insect observation and responded to my brother as follows:

It all began when I happened to notice a small lizard (gecko) body hanging tail down from our trumpet vines, which cover most of our back door overhead-trellis. I stared at this oddity only to realize that the lizard was dead and appeared to be caught up in the leaves of the vine. This needed investigation, so I looked more carefully and saw that the lizard was upside down because it was being eaten by a large green mantis. I could see its mouth, lethal beak-like snout and mandibles. It was working hard at its meal. I thought that it paused a moment to look at me with bulbous compound eyes. Did you know that the mantis has five eyes and antennae? There are the two huge bulbous eyes at the two outer corners of its triangular head and three smaller ‘simple’. The mouth and mandibles are located on the bottom angle of the head. 

After dinner with family, I took them out to see the spectacle only to discover that the mantis had dropped the lizard. At first, I thought that she had disappeared but then saw that she had turned and was slowly moving up into the full cover of the vine. Now, here is the shock, for on her back was the body of another mantis. They were attached at their rear ends. My son-in-law speculated that the second body might be a discarded exoskeleton, but then it hit me – this headless body, which was still attached to her rear was the remains of her mate!

Yes, I didn’t see the ritual, but of course I had to do so on line. The Internet tells me that not all mating results in cannibalism; however, it showed a film clip of one such event. The male, who is a good bit smaller than the female approaches and washes his head rather as a cat does by licking his front raptorial fore-legs and wiping them over his head. He approaches as he washes, and suddenly she grabs him. She securely grips his lower body under one of her fore-legs while immobilizing his upper body with the other one. She guides him onto her back where he attaches and starts a pulsating flow of genetic material. She, meanwhile, severs his neck and starts to eat his decapitated head. The odd part is that the beheaded male body continues to pulsate and, according to the Internet, the flow of genetic material increases after the decapitation.”

I didn’t tell my brother that the Internet article reported that the male mantis has a “mini supplemental brain” in its rear section to enable it to continue copulation even after losing its head. The statement made me wonder at the frequent allusion that men often think with their sex organs!

My brother responded with a wise crack that he was glad that he wasn’t eating lunch when he read my e-mail! He went on to speculate whether the Mantis could be personalized into a sci-fi story in which the mantis-like aliens are given feelings. He invited me to investigate what the male might be thinking. It is odd, but the Internet narrative concluded with a like speculation on the male mantis’s thoughts in his ecstatic death.  I didn’t respond for my take is that the Muslim suicide bomber comes close to the experience of the male mantis. He dies in the expectation of his virgins, while the mantis dies while enjoying his copulation.

As for the butterflies; I believe that my brother audited their copulation in vicarious enjoyment of their dance and lemon-scented aphrodisiac dust. His story comes close to that of the Chinese Butterfly Lovers.

 

The train flirtation

 Amelia loved King’s Cross station. Even in her present state of mind, when she approached the ticket gate at the train platform entrance, she paused and looked up at the giant vaulted roof with its wide double span. As always she marveled at the structure’s functional decorative ironwork and ancient glass roof, which bathed everything in daylight. Then she looked to the long side walls to admire the intricately detailed red-brick walls of the outer enclosure. They rose in Victorian majesty. 

When she brought her gaze back down Amelia noticed that her homeward, Durham-bound train was already standing at the platform. She saw passengers milling around searching for their assigned cars. This concerned her because she didn’t have a reserved seat. She walked briskly down the platform looking into each window as she passed.  Towards the front of the second/standard-class coaches, she found a few empty unassigned seats in groups of four separated by tables. She stowed her small suitcase in the luggage rack at the end of the coach and walked down the center to select a window seat facing the direction of travel. She would have preferred the relative privacy of a seat without a table even though there was always a risk that she might be hemmed in by an unwelcome fellow traveler, an obese person who would spread into her space or worse someone who talked incessantly or someone with bad body odor.  She placed her purse and cardigan on the seat beside her. She hoped that it might look as though the seat was taken. Then she opened her iPad and began to read in a futile attempt to block out her surroundings and also, perhaps, deter anyone from asking her to clear the seat next to her.

Amelia had just turned twenty-one and glowed with health. She wore an op-art navy blue and white dress. Its swirling skirt and tight waist accentuated her figure; while its color harmonized well with her sun-tan achieved during her vacation with friends in France.  Her hair was cropped short and streaked golden by the sun. Her nails were beautifully manicured and painted a vivid red. She, and her French friends had treated themselves to manicures and pedicures in Nice the day before she flew back to London. She should have been completely happy, but instead she felt sad, dejected and inadequate. When the train pulled out of the station, she put down her iPad and looked out the window. She congratulated herself for having no immediate fellow travelers in her foursome of seats, and indulged in a faint self-congratulatory smile. Then, as she watched the London suburbs whirr past her mood changed. She took out a tissue and dabbed her eyes and blew her nose. When the train emerged from the second tunnel, her unhappy reverie was interrupted.

“Are these seats vacant? May I sit here?”

Amelia glanced at the speaker. She resented his intrusion on her private reverie but when she saw his bewitching smile, she could only answer,

“The seats are not taken, feel free!”

She pretended to read on, but surreptitiously watched him fold his jacket, take out a book and slide into the seat opposite hers. She liked what she saw, well built, slender hips, broad chest, and handsome face. He gave her a winning smile and seemed to fumble with his hands for a moment before he spoke, his voice lilted with friendly mockery,

“It’s nice to be watched by a beautiful woman!”

 “Well, I …” she stammered as she blushed.

“No excuses necessary; I’ve made you blush. We’d better meet.” He stretched his right hand.

 “Name’s Michael. Pleased to meet you! By the way you enchant when you blush!”

Amelia felt her whole face glow, and although the rising blood made her hot and embarrassed, it eclipsed her sad reverie. She wouldn’t normally have opened up to a strange man, however good-looking, but somehow this was different. She stretched out her hand,

“My name’s Amelia, how do you do, Michael?”  His hand was soft and warm, his grasp firm. She tembled as they shook hands. “That’s better,” he said, “now you should tell me why you are so sad! But, no, on second thoughts how about first having a cup of tea and some breakfast?”

“No, I ….”

“It’s OK. I insist, it’s on me. It’s not every day that I am with such a lovely woman! I’m sure that you haven’t eaten today and a cup of tea always cheers one up!

“Well maybe a cup of tea would be nice.”

“Sure it would; and we are right next to the buffet car.” Michael was already on his feet. He moved with ease down the coach. Amelia watched him go. She admired his figure and easy walk. When he returned he carried a tray loaded with scones and tea. Amelia marveled at so much food until he sat down and passed her a laden plate.

“Now let’s see you eat something.” His voice was solicitous and kind.

Amelia thanked Michael and ate, suddenly realizing how hungry she was. As they ate they talked about the weather, a favorite topic for all English persons. Then they talked about the recent Brixit vote and speculated on what its ultimate impact would be. While they talked, Amelia further assessed Michael, she estimated him to be somewhere between twenty-three and twenty-five, hair thick and brownish red and eyes. Oh his eyes, they were a perfect sky blue. Amelia’s family all had brown eyes, which meant that blue ones always mesmerized her, and Michael’s were intense. His open-necked shirt was exactly the same color which further accentuated their impact. When they had finished their food and conversation lagged Amelia rose.

“That hit the spot, thank you, Michael. Now I think that I’ll go to the toilet; wash my hands.”

His blue eyes sparkled and he leant forward and gave her an intense look, “Going to powder that cute little shiny nose,” he joked.

Amelia blushed again although up until he suggested it; she had not thought of powdering her nose.  She walked slowly up the coach conscious that he was watching her and sure that he liked what he saw. The toilet was small but had a tiny mirror and so Amelia took the time to redo her lip liner and lipstick and to add a little more liquid make-up to her nose, powder being a thing of the past for her. She brushed her hair and came out, feeling like a butterfly emerging from a chrysalis.  As she walked down the coach toward him she enjoyed his welcoming smile and returned his gaze with one of her own. When she reached their table he stood up and reached forward to assist her into her seat.

“Thank you,” she said “You are such a gentleman!”

“When an alluring young woman with a secret sorrow, captivating blush and freshly powdered nose approaches I couldn’t do otherwise!” When she was seated he leant across the table and took her hands in his. “Now tell me why you are so sad, perhaps I can help.”

Amelia didn’t think that he could help but the warmth of his hands and depth of his gaze inspired her into confidence. She told him how she had met Charles when she was in high school, how they had dated for several years, how they had maintained their friendship through college even though they were attending different universities.  Then she told how she had returned home to Durham at the beginning of the summer to see him with her best friend and how they had quarreled.

“So you still love him?”

“Yes, of course I still love him, but after the things I said it is all over!”

“You still love him and yet you talk to me. Might he not be equally jealous if he were to see us together?

“Yes, but….”

Michael paused letting several minutes pass and then he asked, “Didn’t your trip to Nice help?” Amelia told him that she had hoped that it would but it had had the opposite effect because she had always been the outsider “ as “l’anglaise”. She told him that, even though she spoke good French, she had a hard time following the subtleties of the group’s discourse. Over the month they had paired up leaving her alone. The experience gave her a sense of unworthiness and made her feel unattractively gauche. On  her return she had spent the previous night with a friend in a Baron’s Court flat only to be further depressed when the friend gave  her a key and left her alone while she went out to dinner  with  her new boyfriend . Michael told Amelia that she had allowed her break-up with Charles to cloud her judgement. He urged her to re-establish her self-esteem. His words comforted, but his presence and actions did more. She kept trying to get him to talk about himself but all she could get him to disclose was that he lived in Edinburgh and had been to London on a business trip.

After Amelia’s confession Michael guided their discussion to the books that they were reading and from thence to general topics. After York and then Darlington, getting closer and closer to Durham Amelia became increasingly excited and then she grabbed Michael’s hand,

“Michael, look” she pointed through the window, “there is Durham Cathedral – how I love that view”

Michael followed her instruction, “It is stunning, like the little lady who lives there! It’s a pity but I suppose that it’s time to get your bag.”

A few minutes later, the train slowed down and stopped at Durham station. Amelia was so excited at arriving in Durham that she momentarily didn’t think about having to say good bye to Michael or even to try to establish a way that they could meet again. Everything happened so fast Michael opened her door, she stepped out. Instead of her parents on the platform, she saw Charles. He was there to meet her, which could only mean one thing. A wave of joy pulsated through her body, but she didn’t run into his arms. She paused to look back at Michael. He waved to her from the window of the moving train. As he waved the mid-day sun silhouetted his head in a halo of light. Charles put his arm around her; she stood and let him hold her while she continued to watch the train disappear around a bend in the tracks.

Michael smiled when he saw Charles hug Amelia. Then he turned and pulled his wedding ring out of his pocket and slipped it on.

Innocent or guilty?

I’ve been in the UK the last three weeks and away from blogging, but not from thinking and observation. I’ve had a full three weeks of making memories and return anxious to write. However it always takes time so I’m now posting his little extract which I wrote before we left. It has no conclusion; instead I invite my readers to offer their own interpretation.

The year is 2000, a time when computer software had made large inroads into the preparation of business documents. The once busy personal secretary who was responsible for the typing of all letters, meeting notes, contracts, and other documents is now reduced to fielding telephone calls, filing, mailing, and scheduling. Many of the most sophisticated software programs associated with graphics are in their infancy. This explains how a 50+-year-old company president knows what he wants a document to look like but is unable to produce it without help.

Bella has a good eye for graphics, and at 21 has already mastered a graphics program. Hence she gravitates into the marketing department where she quickly assumes responsibility for the graphics developed therein. Bella also has a good eye for Bella. Not only is she young, she is very attractive, and has a perfect figure. She wears provocative clothing outside normally accepted business wear; skirts so short that some might mistake them for belts and tops so low cut that her seductive cleavage is well displayed. Early each day a description of her garb passes among the young bucks of the office. During the course of the morning each nonchalantly finds an excuse to pass by her office to verify what they have heard. Bella keeps her office dark,. She says that it is, “To afford better screen contrast.” But it has the effect of further enhancing her mystique.

One of the company president’s main responsibilities is to respond to RFPs (Requests for Proposals). Winning new work is integral to the success of the office and the president trust no one but himself  to undertake this important task. His lack of computer skills means that he relies on Bella for the graphics. He takes to sitting next to her in her darkened room beside her bare legs and chest so that he can direct her work on the computer. The young bucks parade by; many, no doubt, fervently wishing that they were able to occupy that chair next to Bella. The work on the RFP responses extends far into the night. The office staff leaves for home glancing in the direction of Bella’s office where she and her companion sit riveted to the computer monitor.

Occasionally the president’s wife drops in. She is a good looking woman who suffers from periodic bouts of dehydration due to lapses in her alcoholism.  She lets it be known that she owns the president and should anything happen she would take everything.  She warns that divorce would ruin him. Bella smiles behind her back for Bella does not appear to be motivated by money; from her demeanor all deduce that sex is her thing. The general office staff heed the wife’s warning and deduce that she, like them, wonders about what goes on after hours in that darkened office.

Rumors are always rampant in a large office. In this office their main focus is on Bella and her companion.  No one has ever seen anything apart from what is described above, all suspect more, no one is sure. Once Bella and the president had an argument and Bella was heard shouting obscenities as she, barefoot, raced out of the darkened office. He didn’t follow. She disappeared into the bathroom. She reemerged smelling strongly of perfume and went back to her usual spot. No one in the office witnessed a reconsolidation but all noticed that everything merely returned to “normal” and they worked late that evening.

The sulk syndrome

Recently, the AFP (American Family Physician) carried an article submitted by Dr. K.. The doctor’s full name is withheld at this time at Dr. K.’s request. The article reports findings gathered by Dr. K. over thirty years. If the doctor’s facts and analysis prove accurate, they may change medicine’s approach to many treatments and cures, particularly those in which the patient requires pain medication. Given the recent spate of celebrity deaths associated with painkillers this discovery should be heaped with accolades.

Dr. K.’s S.U.L.K. stands for Stiff Upper Lip as discovered by, himself, Dr. K. He reports it to be a condition most often associated with persons of English heritage, particularly those born and raised in England. The sulk is manifested by a paralyzed upper lip. The reader can experience a similar paralysis by placing a thumb firmly upon their upper lip; thereafter, it will be found that, any attempt to smile, frown, or experience emotion, associated with facial expression, is thwarted. As an aside, the irony that a person who is sulking has a like facial expression may, or may not, have been Dr. K.’s intent when he coined the acronym.

According to Dr. K.’s research results, persons with sulk syndrome report pain and discomfort on a reduced, completely different scale from the public at large. Where most patients might rank pain as a seven or eight on a scale of one to ten the sulk syndrome patient generally says, “I’m fine.” When pressed to use the pain schedule those with sulk report a two, or maximum three on the same scale.

In summary, Dr. K. finds that sulk syndrome persons tend to suffer less and recover faster from bacterial ailments and surgeries than their counterparts with normal upper lip function. He, therefore, postulates that the upper lip has a unique role in contributing to recovery and proposes that all patients experiencing chronic pain, undergoing surgery, taking courses of antibiotics or undergoing cancer treatment, first be given a facial Botox injection to induce sulk syndrome upper lip paralysis.