Me and poet, Robert Fergusson on the Royal Mile, Edinburgh
I would love to showcase some work - please feel free to contact me with any poetry or prose - it doesn't have to be mental health related. Here's a bit of mine to be getting on with and I'll be updating it from time to time. 
'After the perfect poem - which no poet will ever write - the second best poem is silence.' (George Mackay Brown)
WALK/DON’T WALK
I’ve heard a lot about you
like a cousin I’ve never met.
As I sit now in your lap, I’m struck
by your face and what you say.
Walk/don’t walk.
You contour beautifully:
deep cut gorges, spectacular coastlines,
noble slopes. You smell of everything and
everyone. I can eat like a Jedi or suck
sustenance from the gutter.
Walk/don’t walk.
You ask How are ya? And tell me
Have a nice day! But I can feel
the dampening of freedom.
If I squeezed you would you ooze the truth?
Brothers and sisters file past
walking/not walking.
I’ve heard you laugh and talk,
your optimism gushes like a tap;
your belief in dreams coming true unless
you’re pushing the trolley laden with bags along
the walk of pain – you walk and walk.
You can sparkle in the sun
or shiver in the shadow.
Your teeth can be whiter, your smile wider
but why not break the trance and simply dance.
Don’t walk.
It’s the seventies
the first time around
and I’m twelve
posing with Gran
for a holiday photo.
She’s the way I
remember best -
patterned dress, hair set,
hanky tucked in belt,
a whiff of TCP.
I’m huddling in
nearly as tall.
My wayward hair hidden
beneath a navy polka-dot
scarf.
I’m feeling trendy
in unbranded flary jeans,
a Kellogg’s cornflakes
(the sunshine breakfast!)
vest top.
That was the summer
I gave her Toby
our tortoise to help
her get over the loss of
Peter her Cocker spaniel.
I was sure it would help –
I think it did.
They’re ageing well
together – neither
hazarding hibernation.
He still zooms
to strawberry patches,
and she’s plotting
another trip to Oz.
ANDREW CARNEGIE'S STEEL
D-i-s-s-e-m-i-n-a-t-i-n-g
knowledge is the way to share
wealth with the wise world
REGAL
It’s how some really are -
pandemic, waltzing through
dimensions like only mystics can.
Highlighting the ordinary
with tremendous dexterity.
Illuminating the common people -
showing us the smooth steps
demonstrating an acceptance
which dazzles when we realise
the crown of true glory.
(for Malcolm Henry James) - Malcolm's debut novel 'Missykad' is available from www.yetibooks.com
Slowly, laboriously,
internally our wounds drip
thick viscous blips
hurt minds dip
sweet promises clipped
from medical lips –
you don’t want to know us.
But we are you –
stick with us.
There’s no shame
in human pain and though
you can’t always see it –
smell our cloying fears
taste our confections
know our hexagonal ways.
You can re-nectarise us.
And we’ll learn about esteem
and how worthy of effort we are.
DECONGESTION
His sixth sense is amplified, unbearable,
trafficking brain like spaghetti junction,
One; all jamming rational thought; crashing,
backfiring.
If he didn’t hear drones, tin tinning ringing,
his ears would cease exploding.
If he didn’t taste metal, tongue would be alert
to all offerings.
If he didn’t smell fumes, perhaps his nose
wouldn’t drop off.
If he didn’t touch hot fenders, he’d be able
to pit stop without fear.
If he didn’t see the race from
to Hockenheim, he’d be able to read and write.
If someone could lower the volume, lessen
the congestion, he’d feel much better you know.
MY IDEAL WARD
Welcome to the Rainbow Unit
where diagnosis of your mental state
will take place within forty-eight hours.
Automatic doors will allow independent
access; we’re wheelchair-friendly.
Inhale aromas of lavender -
relaxing, conducive to a stress-free stay.
A single room with en-suite facilities
has been furnished to your individual needs.
A personal nurse will scan your details –
admission procedure over in a beep -
let the healing begin…
If you’re feeling upset, violent, pent up,
visit our sense-sational spa – you can
float, meditate, and be soothed by whales
or kick ass in the aggression therapy gym.
Knock hell out of your fears and anxieties
with rubber hammers. Laughter is a cure.
Stamp self-awareness; terrorise terrors.
Talk, if you want…while fresh, organic
food is being prepared to woo flagging
appetites - with more than mere morsels.
Our thermal baths bubble, jump in
for a swim. Ease your tired and aching
neurons. Sip minerals in repose – simmer
tensions away.
We have a zero-tolerance approach
to insomnia. One night in your
made-to-measure nest and sleeplessness
will walk from your consciousness.
Prescriptions permit eclectic treatments
from reiki to Scrabble – as often as required.
Makeovers available, if you desire, but
our ethos focuses on the power within.
We will discharge you to a caring community
where your family continues in seamless care
and neighbours pop in, with only good news.
NAKED WORDS
It’s hard to bare your soul
then let it go -
like plucking up courage
to wear a bikini
thonged.
Left and right hemispheres
buttocked.
What if my words wobble?
What if I have syllablelitis?
What if my meanings are too big?
What if they show flabby thoughts?
What if I didn’t pay this tax?
Anyone here do a Brazilian wax?
BREAK OUT
As if I was a newly-hatched
turtle I leg flap ocean bound
blinking in life experience.
I don’t notice the bird shadow.
I don’t know fear, though predation
swoops and it doesn’t care about
my endemic status. Sea lions lumber
Goliath-like ahead and I might be naďve
liable to weave but I live for my sprint.
I don’t see the beaky silhouette
until we meet - on its terms.
RAINBOW MAN
You hugged me on a sunny day
when my heart was raining.
We were outside on a pub bench
by the River
made diamond shapes and
the road bridge sparkled in kinship.
Dean Martin sang ‘That’s Amore’ -
you smiled like a sun ray, evaporating
puddles and splashing me with light
until I was your mirror.
(MIS)CONCEPTION
Sometimes children aren’t given.
Their sticky hands cannot be clamped
in yours and when you see their eyes
open through pirouetting curls –
you can admire.
Their relish for love should show
you the way. You can trail-blaze
and amaze with your immaculate touch.
It is not inconceivable
that you will spontaneously
produce a resinous kernel,
that all will delight in.
IT’S NOT (ALWAYS) AMUSING
It’s a running commentary with (perhaps)
a link to the kitchen sink and my head hurts,
ears burr, eyes blur and our pet is poking straw (in them)
and I can’t sleep or turn off the hum of twisting
voices like a multi-tone ball on a sea lion’s nose
and I scribble as fast as I can ‘til my muse
gets her coat - leaving me with a Jesus Christ
bruise. And when I tell my mother-in-law
I think the guinea pig is an angel and she replies
I think so too – I know I’m in the right dimension.
THE RETROSPECTIVE DETECTIVE
I should have known when you put
a bag of potatoes in the oven and not the fridge.
I should have known when you always wore
the same skirt with the elasticated waistband.
I should have known when you lost interest
in the TV – you couldn’t concentrate or follow the plot.
I should have known when you became
less than immaculate in your personal hygiene.
I should have known when you had
the will to eat and drink, but decreasing skill.
I should have known when you got lost
within the confines of familiarity.
I knew when Christmas hung around your head
like a smog.
I knew when you muddled tablets and couldn’t pop
them out of the foil with your fumbling flipper-hands.
I knew when you tried to smile and tears came –
it’s the saddest sight I’ve ever seen.
I knew when you rang for help - your voice
a mumble in your mouth like a gobstopper.
I knew when your athletic frame stooped
and you dragged your leg like in a club foot boot.
I knew I loved you more than ever and it became
a joke that I made you choke when laughter got
in the way of swallowing.
I know that I’ve picked up on the clues,
your cues, and I’ve solved the mystery.
Big men grown men, halt the cruelty
Big men grown men, cease hypocrisy
Big men grown men, it’s insanity
Big men grown men, need psychology
Big men grown men – where’s your humanity?
MIKHAILA
Mikhaila bunny hops around
the square day room, plotting
our industrial carpet with invisible
significance. Sunshine squeezes
through and I want to smile
but if I do, it’ll
reinforce her eccentricity.
A nervous lady enters, Morning,
she tries to melt into an armchair
and not stare at Mikhaila, who’s
refused her last two injections.
What harm can hopping do?
Her mother rings – another sleepless
night of worry while Mikhaila sang
her paranoid song. Two siblings make
a trio of schizophrenia – they’re all lovely
just unusual when they don’t take
their medication.
I wish there was a way they
could cartwheel, streak and leap
without prescribed chemicals.
When Mikhaila bounces over with
huge eyes like a space-hopper, I wish
we could take the day off –
roll down sand dunes,
wrap ourselves in azure laughter,
make her mother happy.
I wonder how my brain
would scan, in comparison.
GAME OVER
Life was a game to you whose rules
you didn’t want to play by. Maybe
your puny fury was fed by a weak cocktail.
Possibly you aspired to be the murderer
you are on the small screen in your bedroom.
We witness your lead role in security footage –
a thirty second killing spree
hook to jaw then silver
in-out-in, in-out-in
an immature emasculation of
yourself. But you’ve committed an adult crime
an unprovoked and brutal act.
His parents want us all to see
your starring moment.
A man should give his best performance
not his worst.
Of course they had great legs
which flippered elegantly in
tight neoprene leotards that
added to the mammal-effect
and hid a lack of mammaries.
Appendages strapped,
only the frisson of a swagger
suggested meat and two veg.
The cabaret of build-up –
bouncing (fettered) off
the diving platform
wigs escaping in fronds under
Max Wall bathing caps.
False eyelashes like humming-birds
unable to prevent wet gravity.
How their limbs flapped and flailed -
how they bombed like cannonballs.
WHAT I KEEP IN MY PANTS
Tuck disappointment
in your knickers and stretch out
to leap the hurdles
WHAT I SHOULDN'T HAVE SAID
I’m ‘appropriately’
not at your funeral today
but my love for you remains -
where should it have gone?
It wasn’t a flimsy polystyrene thing -
a flyaway origami passion.
A kaleidoscopic tunnel grew
when I left you
the space gap space
stayed like a sinus.
An eye of light crept back
the black begat blue
and shell-cupped-ear whooshes
sounded like regular breathing.
It was a muddy excavation until,
from a closure/aperture that I hacked
from slimy rocks, puttied
by lachrymal salt,
I sculpted a column for you –
a memory monument - smooth
with worry, moulded by what I had lost.
It’s staked in my heart, which
is vacuum-packed with what we had.
I can peer down the years,
examine it from the distance of the present,
mull it over, and mouth
what I shouldn’t have said.
STUFFING
Rubbing old bread into a glass bowl
you sneak up on me, indiscernibly, as
doughy pellets rise and I glimpse your freckly face.
You feign comprehension
as I subsume your ‘Queen of the Sunday Roast’ role
as if it was normal
you can’t remember how it’s done.
Chopping velvety mushrooms, finely, so finely,
I glance again at the memory of the visit
having to direct your every move: are you going to dress now?
Would you like a shower? You'd got stuck in the bath.
Cutting red onions, releasing their tartness
you hobble-pace to the sitting room
and back, unsure of its realm and your ranking.
I smile because within your confusion the core
of a joke between us remains, un-laughed at yet.
Milling black pepper over the ingredients
I add lemon juice, the freshest sage, generous garlic,
glugs of olive oil, mix and pat into a Pyrex
presenting it to you for inspection, hoping on a resurrection:
you taught me all I know – don’t go.
HIS AND HERS
Mandy’s throbbing head anchored her to the pillow. Her stomach lunged but she reckoned if she could just make it as far as the bathroom cabinet and the Andrews Liver Salts - an old faithful from home - she’d be fine. Hen nights or Junggesellinabschied were one thing, but surprise hen nights when you had to work at six in the morning, were in another dimension. And imagine a nurse having to be well enough to work after a night out, without Lucozade? The bubbles pricked Mandy’s nose as she steadied herself by the side of the bath and worked up the strength to press two paracetamol from their foil, and shower.
Stefan still wasn’t back from his kidnapping to
She pulled up the wooden shutters and saw the enthusiastic promise of a sunny day. It hurt. Dressed in white trousers and a T-shirt with a red cross over her right breast, she grabbed a bottle of mineral water from the kitchen and turned to hear clumping sounds in the hall. Stefan was back – Mandy took one look at his face - or was he?
Mandy sneezed twice as she dusted lily-of-the-valley talc under each of Frau Hartmann’s precision-dried oxters.
‘Gesundheit!’ Frau Hartmann said.
‘Danke.’ Mandy was on auto-pilot as she held the cotton vest for Frau Hartmann to poke bony limbs through. Stefan’s eyes had looked like they belonged to Wile E. Coyote after an Acme explosion – all dilated pink whirls.
‘You look tired,’ Frau Hartmann said, sympathetically.
‘I didn’t sleep well last night,’ Mandy replied. She then explained in stilted German and Frau Hartmann slapped one of her shiny white thighs at the antics. Coffee smells percolated to the bathroom and merged with peachy shower cream. That didn’t help.
Mandy’s first job on arriving at Frau Hartmann’s was to put out fresh water and a splodge of Caesar dog food for Heidi the dachshund. This was the only way Heidi would stop barking and weaving in and out of Mandy’s legs. She’d set a place at the breakfast table and arrange havarti cheese and salami on a plate alongside a small ceramic dish of jam and some alpine butter. Frau Hartmann’s son would drop off the Brötchen. Making a pot of coffee was a pleasure that Mandy enjoyed though she didn’t drink it herself. There was something about knowing that as you helped to wash and dress your patients, the aromatic fluid would be filtering through, doing its job as surely as you were doing yours. But Mandy wasn’t feeling sure this morning as she took deep breaths and thought mind over matter.
‘Morgen, Heidi!’ said Frau Hartmann as Mandy walked her through to the cosy floral kitchen. Heidi continued with her rabbit stew-flavoured meal – she was deaf, and the food took her a while as she had to mostly suck on it. She’d eventually patter over to join Frau Hartmann becoming a hairy brown log beside her slippered foot.
‘Do you need anything else?’ asked Mandy, taking a mug of coffee over.
‘No, that’s all, I think. Thank you very much, Nurse Mandy. I hope you feel better soon.’ She gestured a buttered knife in Auf Wiedersehen!
Mandy took off her sunglasses and rolled the car window down. She was sat outside Frau Weiss’ house. It was getting worse – her head was even thicker and her stomach had had enough. There was no way she could visit Frau Weiss without being sick… NOW!
She hoped the neighbours hadn’t seen as she rinsed her mouth, gargled and spat into the road. She managed to be breezier as she pressure-bandaged Frau Weiss’ swollen leg with a Pfefferminze bulging in her cheek. However, by the time Mandy got to the third landing of Frau Walther’s block, a cactus plant on the window sill was the only receptacle.
The most unfortunate moment had been when Mandy had helped Herr Brandt out of the bath. He’d just turned to let her dry his back when, bam! There she was with her head down the toilet leaving him to stare and air.
‘I’m so sorry, Herr Brandt. It must have been something I ate.’
By nine thirty, Mandy’s colleague, Sven, had agreed to take over the care of her last few patients. The special wine tonic that Frau Schmidt had asked to be splashed on her back had been the final decisive straw – she had to go home.
The bedroom was in darkness – not a peep of light ushered through the shutters.
‘Ugh,’ said Stefan.
‘It’s only me. How you feeling?’
‘Basin.’
‘Oh, right. I’d better get one for me as well.’
How romantic thought Mandy. There was nothing quite like a bout of simultaneous vomiting to bond with your future husband. And how sweet of Stefan to gently rub her back when she reached for her basin, while she snickered and fired, serves you right! when he reached for his.
THE PINK FLUFFY SLIPPER THAT LIVED FOR A WHILE
Imagine a Yeti’s foot dipped in cochineal. Well, that’s what I looked like, except my synthetic claws were a bit worse for wear. I’d been squashed into Ella’s battered brown handbag (the one with the faulty gold clasp) for about a week. I was doubled up like a Chinese acrobat in amongst the usual suspects: a fusty-smelling
I was a Missing Item and number one on the most wanted list on the board in Sister Nicol’s office. Other ‘rogues’ included Jimmy’s bottom denture (marked James Scott, Ward 8) and Sally’s reading glasses that had only one lens and two wobbly legs. I’d apparently vanished into thin air on the afternoon of Mother’s Day. I’d been presented as part of a hairy duo to a violet-rinsed Molly. Her daughter and son-in-law had stayed all of ten minutes – long enough to pop some daffodils into a plastic jug and get Molly to try me and my twin on. They’d no sooner turned to leave when she poked a surprisingly long tongue out at their backs and kicked us in the direction of her neighbour, Ella’s, bed. That was the last I saw of my sister, the left slipper.
The nursing staff scuttled around in hierarchical flashes of yellow, blue and white uniforms. Molly looked pleased with herself as she snapped a Rich Tea biscuit in half, in preparation for her cuppa.
Ella ambulated up and down the main carpeted corridor with Jimmy on her left arm and her trusty handbag on her right. She thought Jimmy was her husband and he didn’t seem to mind as they nodded and said hello to fellow patients and visitors. His white hair was slicked down with Brylcream though his smile wasn’t as wide as usual owing to the unpleasant lack of symmetry he was experiencing. Ella looked smart in her mint green pleated dress. Her small hospital wardrobe was crammed with ready-to-wears and mix and matches, but she was a creature of habit and wore the mint green dress - often. Ella and Jimmy would sweep up and down the ward like a Pearly King and Queen until Jimmy’s actual wife came to visit. And that’s when the trouble started - for me.
Ella couldn’t understand why Jimmy had suddenly waltzed off with another woman. Sister Nicol tried to reassure her as she had many times before. She walked with her arm around a tearful Ella until they reached the room she shared with Molly. Ella dabbed her eyes with her hanky and sat down on the bed while Sister Nicol went off to get her a cup of tea. I’d heard her sobs and could see her stick insect legs sitting snugly in a pair of two-tone tan Hush Puppies. The next thing I knew Ella’s bloodshot eyes were staring at me as she bent to pick up her soggy hanky. Perhaps she saw me as a form of comfort – perhaps she was a perpetual pilferer – perhaps she thought I was hers? I was snatched and swaddled into Ella’s bag as if her life depended on it.
The following day Molly’s daughter had noticed I was missing. My twinless twin had given the game away. Sister Nicol had been most apologetic and said she’d make it a priority to find me.
It wasn’t so much the cramped facilities in Ella’s handbag that I minded – it was the motion. Ella seemed to be constantly on the move – adjusting a picture here, picking up a crumb there, scooping Jimmy along with her. Jimmy’s denture had been found by the laundry department - accidentally put out with the linen. Jimmy had a habit of keeping his teeth ‘safe’ under his pillow at night. Sister Nicol was pleased to wipe his name off the board in the office.
The final straw for me was the ceilidh. One of the student nurses had gathered some willing patients for an eightsome reel and of course, Ella, her handbag and Jimmy starred. I’m not a great fan of folk music either though I can tolerate a bit of yodelling, anyway, the muffled sound of The McTavish Trio didn’t do it for me. My Yeti toes were spinning until I thought I was going to change into an Abominable Wonder Woman. Suddenly, I bumped to the floor and panic screeched over the accordion music. Ella must have dropped her bag which had popped open allowing me to glimpse Jimmy’s flushed face. Sister Nicol appeared out of nowhere with a stethoscoped person. As the other patients were ushered away I caught sight of Ella – she was pale, fragile and youthful-looking. A trickle of blood seeped from her nose.
A student nurse helped Sister Nicol gather Ella’s belongings together for her niece to collect. I stood out like a pink fluffy slipper would when unpacked from a handbag. When I was erased from the ‘missing’ list in the office, I died.
A DRINKING ‘SESSION’
Frank Spencer nurses a half pint of shandy and sips worriedly from his glass every now and then. The eminent (if you’re familiar with the sitcom!) radio psychiatrist, Dr Frasier Crane, is listening...
Frank Spencer:
It’s good of you to meet me here Dr Crane. Having gone through the Royal College of Psychiatrists and then some, I’d almost given up hope of finding a suitable counsellor for my, particular problem.
Dr Crane:
Well, I’ve got to admit Mr Spencer that I’m intrigued. Having seen a presentation on your unique case at the ‘Separating the Psychotic Wheat from the Neurotic Chaff’ conference in
Frank Spencer:
Ooh, well - I think I’m more of a hypnotic loaf!
Smiles inanely.
You see, I just don’t seem to be able to hold down a job. And my Betty is expecting again (our third) – we think it’s going to be human. And I seem to have fallen foul of my mother-in-law since our cat did a whoopsy on her fox fur and she caught me fleeing the coop, so to speak, trying to sneak it out to the dry cleaners.
Dr Crane:
With pyramid-shaped hands.
Yes, I’d gathered that misfortune seems to attract itself to you like cheap sherry to a lush. Please continue.
Frank Spencer:
I’m just so worried that my Betty’s going to leave me. She said it was the last straw when I took the children to the park to feed the ducks. This really vicious-looking goose started to eat all the bread, and well (laughs nervously) how was I to know it had psychopathic tendencies. It started flapping its wings and pecking, and I didn’t want the kiddies to get hurt. So I thought I’d try to lead it on a wild goose chase – get it? (more nervous laughter)
Dr Crane:
Looking perplexed.
I’m still listening.
Frank Spencer:
Well, I ended up getting the nasty thing away from the kids and when I went back to the pond, they were gone! I was like a man possessed. Then Betty appeared with a child at the end of each hand and a very angry look about her.
Dr Crane:
I think I’m getting the picture Mr Spencer, and in view of all your other mishaps, I think I’m ready to give you my diagnosis. You must stay with a responsible adult at all times!
Gets up to leave.
Frank Spencer:
Stands up to shake hands, knocking his head on one of the (very) mock Tudor beams which in turn collapses on top of Dr Crane, pinning him to the floor by his neck.
Will you be sending the bill in the post then?
WHERE’S
If only I don’t bend and break/I’ll meet you on the other side/I’ll meet you in the light/If only I don’t suffocate/I’ll meet you in the morning when you wake (lyrics by Keane)
Normal day, I thought: my dad called me three times for breakfast; my big sister took too long in the bathroom and my mum dropped cigarette ash into the porridge as she stood over the pot with a More menthol crooked in her bottom lip. Her peach dressing gown was tied loosely around her waist, and I noticed she’d put on weight since she’d been away.
‘That’ll put hairs on your chest!’ she said, placing a bowl of her lumpy/grey speciality in front of me – it looked like the moon’s surface. But God, I loved my mum and I didn’t care about the food. She’d only been back home with us for a fortnight. The seasons had battered and shone on our red Beetle as we’d ferried back and forth to visit her.
I walked home from school with my mates and didn’t feel a part of things. I caught snippets about the Man United game and Scott, my best mate, had managed to get a date with Cindy Cochrane. I worried because I found it harder to concentrate. My standard-grades had gone well – better than expected, but I’d been feeling anxious, like when you know you haven’t swotted enough for an exam.
‘See you later, Kev, and wish me luck with Cindy!’ Scott beamed as he turned right into
I huddled into my Parka and strode out along
‘Is that you, Kev?’ Mum was still in her dressing gown.
‘Hi, Mum! Have you had a nice day?’
I was in the bath when it happened. Keane had been on the portable Sony radio and DJ Vee-jay was running through their gigs. I swear - I got the fright of my life. Something flicked through the gap between the toilet seat and the lid… well, that was enough for me… I knew that wasn’t right. How did it get from Bloomers to our house?
Dad was putting the kettle on when I went down to the kitchen for supper. His face was brown and healthy-looking from working outside, but I noticed furrows at the edge of his eyes for the first time – or had they always been there? They were shaped like the v-shaped tongue of the snake and he looked at me through narrowed slits.
I took my cheese-on-toast and hot chocolate through to the sitting room. Mum was staring at Big Brother and blowing smoke rings.
‘You alright, Kev? You can turn over to the sport if you want.’
‘I’m fine with that, Mum. I’ll just eat this then head up for a read.’ Dad came in just then with two mugs of cocoa on a tray and I noticed that the belt on Mum’s dressing gown had reptilian scales.
I felt sick. I was breathing fast. Katie’s telly murmured from her room. Should I tell her? She didn’t like snakes either though. I reached for my MP3 player and switched it to random. My bed was autumn leaves. Dad popped his head round the door to say goodnight and pointed to my alarm clock. I could hear hissing, like interference. I froze. Dared myself to look under the bed. Twigs slithered with forked tongues.
Red lines broadcast the time –
It’s
‘Kev!’ Katie looks awful – all mascara-eyed and fangs. I’ve woken the whole jungle and here comes Tarzan and Jane and I’m not Cheeta.
‘I’m not Cheeta!’ I’m crying blood and I’m naked apart from one of the dried leaves that I’ve strategically placed, or it could be a sock.
I’m lying in bed and Mum’s smoking a More menthol and clutching my hand. The doctor wants to know how I’m doing and I know if I admit the fear he’ll send me to the place where they make you shuffle and drool and I’m no fool - I rule. And I made Mum sick and I’m sick and it’s because her middle name is Eve, borne in the garden of Eden with no snake because it escaped. And I’m trapped and I’ve snapped and I feel like CRAP!
‘I love you, Mum, I love you, Mum…’ I mumble like a drum and suck my thumb but I’m sixteen. Maybe I’ve become allergic to fag ash.
Where’s normal gone?
Six months later I’m weaned off the anti-psychotics. My CPN (community psychiatric nurse) Paula, was brilliant and helped me a lot. I was lucky to have missed only a few weeks of school. The best news is that Mum is cool again. Like someone popped her bubble wrap and the world flooded back in.
She looked trendy with her jeans tucked in her suede boots and a kaftan-style top. She’s stopped smoking and started helping out at the young people’s unit where I was assessed. She’s assisting with art classes, which is just as well because cookery had been the other option.
I’m unnerved at times and embarrassed when I think about my family seeing me with just a sock on my dick. But I’ll get over that. I’ve met people who’ve done daft things too: Sara from the support group cut all the heads off her dad’s roses, then ran down their street brandishing the secateurs like an over-zealous gardener snipping any flower that swayed; Grant dyed his gran’s white poodle black and claimed it was the poodle’s idea; and Dana tried to hit on her headmaster at the end of term disco.
I know I’m not alone and it’s great to see Mum smile. It’s been like shaking off an old snakeskin.
MEN, HUH?
Mavis and Maude reminisce about the days when they were heterosexual… Are they the only lesbians in the WRVS?
Mavis loved her weekly coffee mornings with Maude. They’d become bosom buddies (literally) though they hadn’t slept together for about ten years now – each having met the woman of their dreams. They thoroughly enjoyed lounging in their monogamy, and when they got together they would often hark back to ‘hairier’ days.
‘I’ll never forget when my ex-husband went shopping by himself for the first time,’ Maude announced before plunging into a chocolate éclair. Mavis waited politely for Maude to finish her mouthful and lick the cream from her fingers.
‘He was annoyed that I couldn’t come with him – I think I had to take my mother to the vets or something, and out of spite he bought the worst pair of trousers in town!’
‘They can be very spiteful, Maude,’ said Mavis as she cut her jam doughnut in half and welded it back together with clotted cream.
‘He wasn’t the tallest of men, Mavis, and he came home with these denim bell-bottoms and they were…,’ Maude swivelled her head to see if anyone could overhear, then whispered, ‘…from C&A! They made him look like Babar the Elephant!’
‘Eew!’ Mavis’ face scrunched up as she dropped two sugar lumps into the froth.
‘Stubborn. Obstinate. That was my Henry. He hated me reading in bed at night - but would he wear the frilly-edged, heart-patterned night-night mask I’d bought him? Of course not! Said it made him feel like he was part of a teenage sleepover.’
‘That wouldn’t worry most men, Mavis.’
‘Exactly, Maude! There was always something atypical about my Henry.’
Maude dabbed her mouth with a napkin and drained her cup before continuing,
‘There was the time, just before we were married - we went with some friends for a nice bottle of sun-downer wine. You know the type of thing – hillock, tartan blanket, meant to be summer.’ Maude beckoned the waitress for a couple more coffees,
‘He had a psychosomatic attack of hay fever – brought on purely at will! He was determined he didn’t want to go up that hill and enjoy himself – he moaned the whole way in between sneezes and once we got there, he knocked the wine over and I was sitting down-slope from him – that man!’
Mavis nodded sympathetically,
‘I can still see Henry’s face the night I told him I was leaving,’ she confided as the waitress brought two overflowing cups.
‘What was it you told him again, Mavis?’ Maude’s green eyes looked like huge peridots.
‘I thanked him for an interesting marriage but said that I needed to find someone to stimulate me intellectually. I told him that I’d thought long and hard and that I’d come to the conclusion that being-a-lesbian-was-an-intelligent-choice. He spluttered Horlicks down his Aran cardigan, and all I could think was how happy I was not to have to soak it in Fairy Snow - ever again. I felt empty but free as I hung my stripy apron on the back of the kitchen door. I left half an hour later, just before the nine o’ clock news. But that’s enough about me, Maude. How’s
‘Yes, Mavis. But don’t get me started on Babar again!’
MUTATION
The two children trail me everywhere. Their dark eyes burrow and bone as they swing or see-saw when I walk Susie (the Yorkie) and Simon (the Westie) in the park. I bend to magic away their poo in blue plastic bags and cast a glance to the side – but they’re always there – creaking to and fro or taking off and landing.
The girl is the oldest – about five, school age – with a raven ponytail bunched high with her favourite purple scrunchy. She’s solemn-looking - kids shouldn’t be that sad, so weighted, like refugees. Her brother? Same droop of the candy-pink mouth but white-blond hair illuminates him. Maybe eighteen months or so between them. He wears pristine trainers with ticks on the sides.
I stand up and stare at the children - entranced – it’s like bonding. I blink and give in to Susie and Simon’s quick canine breaths, tugging leads - a yelp licks me on across the patchy grass. I put the nappies in the bin, like a good mother.
The two children trail me everywhere. Everywhere but home.
EXTERMINATION
The beautifully engineered skeletons swished up and down the runway lifting their polymer knees like playful ponies. Their hard hips pendulumed swatches and snatches of vibrant plaids from Scot Kane’s latest collection. Lush wigs, made from the hair of (formerly) real people, bobbed and curlicued to eighties’ retro music: she’s a model and she’s looking good.
Mick Jagger was dating the big (slight) star of the show: Sizzy Zero. They’d recently been photographed leaving the Groucho Club together, though Sizzy hardly had the strength to push Mick’s wheelchair.
The women in the audience felt good: reaffirmed and validated because they still had sex organs, some of them could still have children, and some even had real tits. They watched Mick looking up at Sizzy as she pivoted in Kane’s bespoke Chinese tartan. The mini-kilt she wore was indeed stunning: a rampant lion and a horny dragon copulating in emblematic red and fuchsia. Mick’s surgically-ironed face and trademarked® lips pressed together like an ancient wringer straining to lubricate his desiccation.
Sizzy’s Indian silk ‘made in America' blouson, vee-d to her Swarovski-encrusted navel, exposing two perfectly formed... nipples (one pale pink and one dark brown to add variation). The women nudged each other and with cocked heads, murmured, that Mick looked satisfied.
The women laughed. Sizzy couldn’t. There were rumours.
ESTELLE
When Estelle smiled it was like a glass engraving. That should have been the neon. I had never seen her delicate features so luminescent before, so unnatural, though it appeared natural at the time.
Amy flumed into the world – a bleating bundle with strawberry blond hair and dark blue eyes. Estelle’s husband fussed around – bringing her strong, sweet tea and rubbing her back. One year married and they shone like light bulbs.
Estelle was nineteen and had been daft about Damian since her fourth year of high school. Their engagement didn’t surprise us and we could only envelop them in hugs and chant our congratulations.
I guess we had spoiled Estelle. We bought her a silver Mini Cooper when she passed her A-levels - which she parked in the garage of the mews flat we gave her and Damian as a wedding present. We wanted to show how much we cared.
Her dad and I didn’t expect the axe swing. We were still suntanned from our holiday in
Two weeks after the birth of our first granddaughter we slanted into each other like squint gravestones. Our family doctor flourished his signature on the document committing Estelle to hospital. We went with her - two zombies book-ending a giggling diva, while Damian looked after Amy. Estelle was diagnosed with puerperal psychosis. She was high – she’d been darting around doing odd things - trying to microwave her bank cards and she thought Damian was poisoning her. A neighbour had discovered Estelle sitting outside their flat in the Mini, singing soprano-style, with nothing on but her nursing bra. Little Amy was sleeping in her car seat.
Four weeks later we sat at Estelle’s case conference. She wasn’t getting better. She was hard and shiny like a skyscraper and whooping up bedlam in the ward. The staff and patients were fond of her - the resident clown. She cheered them up with her hyperactivity, silly jokes and permanent grin. She bossed the nurses around, telling them to clean her salon aka ‘Fingertips Massage Parlour.’ She phoned for pizza and then was too busy to eat and would give it away to the others – and the plants and the goldfish.
Medicine hadn’t helped. ECT was mentioned. A Damian blur grabbed the consultant by his lapels and stapled him to the wall – a pair of grappling suits, and there was Estelle waving in at us from the corridor.
I drove home that afternoon like three monkeys rolled into one. I didn’t see the red light, or I didn’t understand it, and my scream was silent.
Amy starts school after the summer. A granddaughter to be proud of with beautiful long hair and freckles dotted across her nose. Estelle recovered rapidly after the ECT – coming out of her fugue like an elusive alpine flower. It’s as if it all never happened.
My husband pushes me down the aisle after the church service - I place money in the collection plate, then brace myself for the ramp and the cold air.
My first novel Mental will be available for publication and general viewing just as soon as I have finished a bit of redrafting... it won't be long now though! *sweats blood* 
In the meantime, I'm happy to show you the first few chapters:
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