Nobby Clarke

(91 year old war veteran) upon seeing this man's infamous face on his TV screen:

'I shot better men than him when I was in Sicily.'

My Neighbour

...Doug who is ninety told me of a dream he had. He was standing in a clearing in a forest with his wife and a childhood friend. 'Where have you been?' she asked him. 'We've been waiting such a long time.' Variations upon a theme - Doug has had this dream before. It is not always his wife who is waiting for him. Sometimes it is his wartime comrades. Sometimes it is me. Any dream analysts in the house?

From the profound to the trivial - my new Mac Mini arrived today. Pictures to be uploaded soon.

Less exciting news: I also bought a Dyson. All the better to clean Bella Cat's fur with. She is an indoor cat and sheds all year round. She is also a tortoiseshell white so the fur she sheds is multicoloured - black, white and brown. No fabric is left unmarked by Bella's presence. She is sitting at my feet now, plump and smug. An old-lady feline.

The Life and Times of Fred Unwin

Back to Fred Unwin...

Like Doug he was served in North Africa and Sicily during the war and, like Doug, he grew up on the 'mean streets' of Cambridge (it's not all college and May Balls, you know and, paradoxically, the war saved them both. After the war Doug, using his experience as a medic became what is now known as a paramedic but was by the less impressive sounding 'ambulance man' in those days. (There weren't a lot of women in the service back then.) Fred Unwin became a psychiatric nurse. (Contrary to popular perception there were quite a few male psychiatric nurses in those days - well, they needed some muscle to keep the nuts in line).

They led parallel lives and yet didn't meet until they were pensioners and they had both lost their wives. Fred Unwin is (I nearly wrote 'was') a locally renowned poet and writer. He wrote an auto-biographical study of psychiatric nursing in the late '50s entitled Dew On My Feet which focused on nurse training at Addenbrookes (yes, my old psychiatric Alma-Mater - S3, S4 and R4).

I am reluctant to go and see him even though Doug has suggested that I accompany him. As I said, I am unwilling to face what he has become. When I last encountered him it was at a poetry reading. He was tall and broad and did not look in the least like an octogenarian. He was part-poet, part-historian. Many of his books were self-published and before anyone cries contemptuously 'Vanity publishing, eh?' might I remind you that my own role-model - Virginia Woolf - owned her own publishing house, partially financed by her husband Leonard Woolf and many other writers - great and not so great - have done the same throughout literary history

He praised my rendition of Dorothy Parker's 'You Might As Well Live' and Philip Larkin's 'This Be the Verse'. (Choices that rather suit my curmudgeonly personality). He purchased a copy of my book and passed on his compliments through Doug. I want to remember him as he was then, not as he is now.

An alternative explanation is that I am a lazy, selfish cow.

Yes, the latter sounds much more plausible.

Doug

Doug
Originally uploaded by Bratcat1000.

Doug, without whom I would have spent Saturday night on a bench!

Mad Neighbours - Part II

Haven't updated in a couple of days and for once I have a wonderful excuse.

As I was writing Saturday night's post the woman upstairs (who from now on will be known as Little Miss Pyromaniac) was unleashing chaos. There I was, typing away, listening to REM through ear-phones, in my own little world, industrial head-phones clamped over my ears (to block out my wonderful neighbour's music) when I smelt something burning. I leapt off the bed and ran to the door. On the landing I was confronted by what I thought was an apparition - a fireman standing before me. Then I looked up and saw flames billowing out of the bedroom window of my upstairs neighbour.

My first reaction was fury. 'She's done it again. I told them this would happen*'

'Yes, well we can deal with this later. Now, is there anyone in there with you?'

'My cat,' I said. And then, 'Oh my God, I think she's got children up there. And her brother...'

'Yes, we know. We're dealing with it.'

I went back into my flat, scooped Bella up and stuffed her into her basket, gathered a few essential belongings (diary, kittyputer, folder of poems.). 'Aren't you going to put some shoes on?' asked the fireman. I shook my head. Little did he know he was talking to a woman who, as a child, had deliberately walked barefoot in the snow, to test her own endurance. No, my feet are tough. I am not afraid of cold ground but what I am is a pyrophobe (one of the few perfectly reasonable phobias, in my oh so humble opinion.)

As we reached the bottom of the staircase the bedroom window exploded outwards and shards of glass and sparks tumbled to the ground. I let out an involuntary scream and the fireman told me not to worry. I felt like saying, 'It's all right for you with your fire-proof clothing. I am not similarly protected.' And I dread to think how poor Bella must have been feeling, trapped in her basket with no idea of what was happening.

And the thought running through my head was, No one could possibly have lived through that.

The neighbours were all out, staring upwards. I think they'd been evacuated. The fireman told me to go and sit on the bench opposite but I didn't. I sought sanctuary where I always seek it. At Doug's.

I hovered around his door for a while to make sure he was still up. I think he was in bed reading. I called out and knocked the door lightly. As soon as he appeared I said, 'She's done it again.'

Doug was bewildered, 'Who? Who's done what again?'

He invited me in. I led him to the window and showed him the three fire engines with their flashing blue lights. He invited me to sit down and did what people always seem to do in these situations - he made me a cup of tea. I sank down into one of his armchairs, my head in my hands. 'She's destroyed it all, Doug. Herself, everything. Why? Why would she do such a thing?'

Then there was a knock at the door. It was Jill, a representative of the residents' committee, a bubbly, bouncy (in more ways than one) young woman who arrived in these flats in very much the same circumstances as me - i.e: as a result of mental health problems. She lightened the atmosphere. Doug popped out every now and then to check upon progress. The woman was rescued by firefighters. Her children, apparently, are elsewhere.

After Jill had gone Doug and I went into my flat to assess the damage. Most of it was water damage - confined to the bedroom. That will be covered by insurance.

I spent the night on Doug's sofa. Bella tried to take over the place. Freddi, curious at the presence of another animal in the house, approached Bella who shrieked at her and scratched the poor dog's nose. Naturally, I scolded Bella for abusing Freddi's hospitality.

I was tense and anxious and could not sleep.

I left at 7 am, Sunday morning.

(To be Continued...)