A weekend in Swansea and an afternoon as a Zombie


Friday

“So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past,” moaned F. Scott Fitzgerald once, smooth tongued salesperson of exquisite melancholy.

Well this weekend, I’m upping oars and letting myself get swept back in time.

I’m having 3 days in Swansea with Harvey and Henry, my two best friends from school who are variously married & studying for a PhD, and happy father of 2 boys.

On the train to Marple to meet Henry, some teenage girls, fighting a fashion tug of war between chav and hipster, are laughing at the very idea of walkmen and cd players.

“The bit that snaps off and you can’t close it!” they snigger, “so shit!”

This makes me feel old, very old indeed. Thank God I’m spending the weekend with two people who have the same cultural references as me.

I remember when the first walkman came into my parents house. It happened to coincide with my mum’s Buddhist phase, and it appeared at the same time as a small white statue of an ugly squat man that she had bought and placed in reverence in her study.

“Have you seen the walkman?” my mum asked shortly afterwards.

I shuddered, thinking of the creepy glazed man, wondering if that thing walked of its own accord.

“N-no, and I don’t like it,” I said.

"But have you seen my Auto Reverse?"

“But have you seen my Auto Reverse?”

Anyway, I digress. Within minutes of our school reunion, our old triangular dynamics are reinstated:

  • Harvey turns his eccentricity up to 11 to give Andy ammunition to ridicule him.
  • I oscillate between laughing at Harvey to share Andy’s power, and defending Harvey on principle as a fellow weirdo.

Our love/hate triangle conducts the Alternating Current of youth. Being a teenager is like a fox hunt where you keep switching from fox to hunter: desperate for the safety of the clarion call to normalcy but also the animal individualist, scampering away at the sound. Or something.

We’re staying in the halls of residence where Harvey and his Japanese wife are living. The floors are covered with that abrasive synthetic carpet you get in all student accommodation.

‘That’d give you a nasty carpet burn,’ I think to myself, shuddering inwardly.

I end the evening with an impromptu wrestle with Henry in the halls Harvey is staying in.

“Shut up!” hisses Harvey as we grunt and holler in the echoey living room. Then as quickly as the impulse came over me, to let out 15 years of unspoken rivalry in one messy sprawl, it ebbs away and I peel myself from under him and go to bed.

Saturday

I wake up with a sore elbow. I lift it up to the pale morning light.

I was right about the carpets. A three inch elbow patch of skin has been scraped clean off. It kills.

Sunday

We walk off our second hangover in a row with a walk in beautiful Victorian Cwmdonkin Park, round the corner from Dylan Thomas’ house. There’s a pagoda with a plaque that says ‘Dedicated to Dylan Thomas,’ and underneath it are the remnants of a teenage boozathon; cans of beer and empty bottles of cheap vodka parade slidshod over the benches. A fitting tribute.

"I'm lying down because I'm louche, not because I can't stand up right now."

“I’m lying down because I’m louche, not because I can’t stand up right now.”

In the café next to the tennis courts, there’s a green velvet jacket hung on a nail.

“Does this belong to you?” the sign next to it says.

Such trust.

“Why yes, yes it does,” I want to say, and slip it on like a glove of immortality.

I picture desperate teenage poets drinking babycham from thimbles until dawn, their poems strewn over the bowling green, waking as the park warden drops his keys near the public toilets, climbing over the fence and crawling through their bedroom window before oblivious parents wake them up for Sixth Form, and only later realising that they have lost their jacket as they loll on the fetid common room sofa.

Bookending my trip two days later, there are some sixth formers on the train home laughing at emails.

“Emails? Emails?” they crow, “Who sends emails!?!”

Well, me actually.

Monday

It’s the weekly humiliation/comedy of the Mindfulness class.

“Today we’re going to start by looking out of the window,” the Kirsty Wark lookalike therapist tells us as we arrive.

We cluster near the oversized Victorian casement.

“We’re all going to focus on something out there for the next 20 minutes,” she says.

20 minutes!

As we stand there in silence, I can feel myself swaying from side to side, unaccustomed to standing without leaning against something. My eyes keep wandering, thinking there must be something better to look at. After a few minutes I force myself to zone out.

Then I make the mistake of imagining what we look like from outside. I picture myself walking past and happening to look in. We are a room full zombies- deathly silent, slack jawed, and swaying slightly. I have decided that the collective verb for a group of mindfulness patients is a Zombie.

I have to clench every muscle to stop laughing out loud.

That's me in the bottom right

That’s me in the bottom right

“So how was your homework?” Kirsty Wark asks when we have sat back down.

“I can’t stand the ways she says things on that cd,” says an annoyingly loud woman-child, “She says ‘doing’ instead of ‘do’ and ‘thinking’ instead of ‘think.’ It drives me mad!”

I pipe in.

“That’s right- everytime I listen, I make a mental note to look up what the hell that tense is-“
“It’s a gerund,” she says, finishing my sentence, “a bloody gerund.”

At least I learned something in this madness.

BAD as in BAD


"do you want a cup of tea? can I caress you?"

Arseholes, bastards, fucking cunts and pricks

This is what I was like in my dream. Everyone hated me because all I did was cuss all over the shop. Not like me at all. I was visiting some country mansion with a load of silver haired tourists.
In fact, the only person who liked me was this really cute young cleaner who worked for English Heritage. She followed me when I stormed out and we eloped.

But then as soon as she showed an interest, I stopped being an ice cold bad boy and became my usual room temp. self- needy and demanding: “you’re really beautiful”, “I love you”, and passion killer numero uno “do you really like me?”
I turned from a handsome, upright cactus into a saggy week old lettuce, pathetically dripping on the floor.
Yuck.

"place in a microwavable bowl for 2 mins before turning over. Serve with salad"

At least I’m not The Man with the Cold Meat Hands. Probably an urban myth, but I heard about this guy whose microwave had a hole in the door and for some reason he had to hold his food up through the hole while it was on. After a while, his hands started to feel funny, and he went to the doctors only to be told-
“You’ve cooked your hands. There’s nothing we can do”
Ugh.
Imagine having 2 cold dead lumps of meat where your hands should be. I imagine when you touch your own face it’s like being caressed by a dead man. It is the most disturbing thing I have ever heard, because it makes me realise that yes we are just lumps of flesh like the ones we fry and gobble down and that a simple cooking procedure would turn us from human to animal, from warm body to tepid meat.

Whenever I feel tired in the afternoon, Esther chirrups “you should be horizontal between the hours of 2 and 4 in the afternoon and 1 and 2 in the morning. This triggers the liver’s downtime”. This is the excuse she uses whenever there is a hard task to do after 2pm “I can’t, it’s liver down time”.

Apparently, Esther learned all her wisdom from Carol Kaplan, Cherie Blair’s “style guru”. Thanks Carol.

"Carol, I've stopped eating lemons, but I'm still not Queen"

Last night I couldn’t get to sleep because I was trying to work out a joke.

As Esther is dropping to sleep, I stifle a giggle but end up snorting with laughter.

“What’s so funny?” she demands

“One guy overhears his friend on the phone.

He’s saying “three ohhh…ten, ten, ten…two fifteens…” in a breathy voice.

“What the hell are you doing?” the friend asks.

“Oh, my wife loves it when I talk thirty” he admits”

I can barely get the punchline out because I’m sniggering so much.

As I chortle away, Esther rolls her eyes.

“That’s not even funny” she says and turns over.