Mulled Vine

Some of my best friends are dead, well actually most of them are, and it is not surprising really, given that I am dead too. We dwell in this dark nether world that is neither life nor oblivion and I’m not sure why we ended up here rather than passing on, but there it is.

And it is dead dull most of the time, if you’ll excuse the pun, but not today, because Bob is about to join us. You see he’s been screwing around and his psycho girl friend is none too happy about it. She didn’t know at first that he was shagging this other woman, but then we told her when she was sleeping; yes I know it is against the rules, but we were desperate – anything to spice things up a bit and alleviate the endless boredom.

Anyway here she comes – got to run and get a good seat – looks like she’s decided on stabbing. Hope she doesn’t carve him up too badly – it can be quite unnerving spending eternity with a mutilated ghoul – I shiver at the thought.

A government minister is getting a tour round a mental hospital and asks one of the nurses how they assess the patient’s before they are released back into society.

The nurse tells him, “We have a bath full of water and offer them a choice between a bucket, a pint glass and a spoon to empty it.”

“I see,” says the minister, “so the patient who takes the bucket is deemed sane and therefore released?”

“No,” the nurse tells him “if they’re sane they just pull the plug. Now would you like a bed with a window?”

(received this via email)

She wore black every day, did Rosie Malloy, just in case someone died, she said; for it seemed that an inordinate number of her friends and relatives had already passed away. It was the first thing I noticed about her, before even her refined beauty which was without compare and only slightly marred by the little lines that accompany a certain age.

I liked Rosie, because despite all the sorrow and loss she had a impish twinkle in her eye, as if she and she alone was in on some cosmic joke that was lost on the rest of us. But, life being what it is, our paths separated, through no fault or delibaration of our own, and we lost the touch that once felt so inseparable.

So it was with sadness and not a little regret that I attended her funeral, where as always she was well prepared in suitable attire for death. I paid my respects but it was not the same without her twinkle, at least until they announced the final hymn and the organist started to play Abba’s Dancing Queen.

She was sitting alone at the table, wearing a red rose in her lapel – the agreed sign. I kept my rose in my pocket, waiting. I wanted to scout the scene first, see what Ellie123 looked like. After all, I didn’t want to spend the evening with a complete minger. No, life was too short, and my image too fragile.
To my delight she looked fairly attractive. Petite, blonde, soft eyes – she would do. The glasses were a bit of a turn off, though. I hoped she wasn’t the bookish type.
In the end I decided to risk it. Putting my rose in my lapel, I sauntered over and smiled, flashing my new white smile.
“Ellie123?”
She looked up startled, no doubt at my good looks, then regaining her composure, looked me up and down appraisingly. I felt violated, I tell you, but waited. I was worth the wait.
Then she smiled and said, “No, I think you must have the wrong person. I’m waiting for someone else.”

Have you seen? next door? you know, the single bloke – he’s got somebody shacked up with him.

Really? how interesting! who?

She’s very young, young enough to be his daughter – it’s disgusting – somebody ought to do something – why, she even looks like him.

I agree, shameful – what’s the world coming to?

Have you noticed the new car too? probably a midlife crisis I should think – Joe is sick with envy – but I bet it’s not just the car.

Men, just can’t trust them – probably lured the poor young thing with it – we should do something; anyway nice talking to you and God bless – see you on Sunday – I do hope Pastor notices my new hat – he is so dishy, isn’t he?

Deimot Carling the Minister for Transport today announced that the UK would as of January 2010 drive on the right hand side of the road.

“This will pave the way to greater unity with the European Union,” said Mr Carling in a recent interview with Itchy Beard reporter Mulled Vine.

This landmark announcement follows extensive consultations with industry experts, the details of which will be published in a white paper this week.

Mr Carling was clearly excited about the findings and hinted that a unique approach was being adopted to ease the transition but would not say more when pressed, other than to say that the transition would be phased according to engine size, thus avoiding the “big bang” risk of an overnight transition.

She rested her head against my shoulder.
“I am so tired.”
I stroked her hair, my heart heavy with sorrow.
“I know, my love. Just try to rest, ok?”
She sighed, then suddenly sat bold upright and looked intently at the print on the wall opposite. A child’s drawing, filled with flowers, people, sun, moon and stars around a blue-green earth. I looked at her, dreading the next moment. She got up, went to the picture, peering at it closely, tracing around the earth with her hand.
“I see it,” she said, “I get it.” Then she turned to me wild-eyed.
“Do you see?”
I wished I did, but I didn’t, and shook my head.
“You never do,” she said, disappointed.
But I did. I saw everything; the gradual descent of the woman I loved most in all the world, into this.
It was her, but at the same time not her.
“Why don’t you come and sit down?”
She looked at me, her eyebrows furrowed as if struggling with some immense internal conflict.
“I can trust you.” It was at the same time a question as a statement. Then she sat down again, resting her head as before.
“I’m so tired.”
My heart wanted to break into a thousand bitter pieces but I didn’t let it. I had to remain in control.

Where was that doctor?

~~~~

“We’ll take good care of her,” the nurse said.
My eyes filled with tears as they walked her away, past the double doors, to the inpatient psychiatric ward. I had visions of white, padded cells, screaming, mutilated madmen, and leering, rapist guards with brutal hands. Tears in my eyes, I turned to the nurse. I was losing control.
“She will be Ok?”
She looked at me, a kindly old woman, and touched my arm.
“She will be fine, you’ll see.”
But I didn’t. How could this be made better? How could the God we both loved and served allow this to happen? An age old question to which I knew all the hollow intellectual answers, but now it was mine, cutting brutally through my heart.
I walked out of the hospital into the chilly night. The stars twinkled brightly overhead around a kindly moon, but I found no comfort. Great sobs escaped from deep inside me, and I looked up at the hand of the Creator, and cursed Him.

~~~~

She was playing Scrabble with some of the other patients. I hadn’t slept a wink and hurried back to the hospital as soon as visiting hours permitted. I approached cautiously, watching, waiting. She looked up, her face pale and wan, her eyes unrecognising. I said hello, but she looked away.
“The medication is quite strong in the beginning”, said the nurse at my side. “Give her time.”
I left, never before feeling so alone, but suppressed my anguish. The kids needed picking up from school.

~~~~

She stood at the top of the stairs, just woken from a nap, and pointed accusingly at my mother who had been tidying up.
“I don’t want you in my house.”
My mother looked at me, her eyes full of hurt, looking for comfort, but I had none to give. I shrugged.

~~~~

The dream now seems over, the nightmare nothing but a painful memory. Thanks to the marvel of medicine I have her back, or least someone like her. I feared her at first, expecting IT to pounce at any minute and wreck our lives like it did before. How I hated that illness that toyed with her mind. But then I learned to love her, to really love her, not the soppy romantic promises of a young fool who vows for better or for worse but knows not what he’s saying.
But I haven’t quite forgiven God, I don’t think, but He’s big enough to take that, and if not, well fuck it – I reckon I’ve been prepared for hell.

“Daddy, he asked me out!” she gasped. “What should I do?”
I looked at her, my young lady, tall and slender, with her mother’s long curly hair and gorgeous hazel eyes.
“Do you want to go out?” I asked, honoured that she had asked me, but wishing her mother was there.
She shook her head and I breathed a mental sigh of relief – the boy issue was safely avoided for another day.
“You should tell him.”
She frowned, “That would be awkward.”
I nodded, still wishing her mother would suddenly pop out of thin air and save the day, desperate for inspiration.
“I suppose you could text him later?” I ventured.
She brightened.
“Yes, good idea. Thanks, Dad.” and with that hurried back to her friends, leaving me to savour the moment.

She had a small, angular face, dark eyebrows and bright, piercing blue eyes. She held her hands together in front of her, looking at me anxiously.
“You want … how you say .. sexy?”
Sexy? At my age? I most certainly didn’t, well at least not with a complete stranger, pretty or not.
I shook my head and made to pass on, but she reached out and grabbed my arm.
“Please. I give … good time. Little money.”
I turned to her, looked into her hungry, imploring eyes, and smiled.
“How much?”
Her anxious expression returned.
“Tventy punds.”
I reached into my wallet, pulled out a £20 note, and gave it to her.
She looked at me expectantly, then took hold of my coat lapel.
“You see … I do nice.”
I took her hand gently and lowered it, shaking my head.
“No. You take the money and go home.”
She looked at me quizzically.
“Go home,” I repeated.

I remember our first walk together, the tentative words, the gradual nearing, the meeting of sweaty palms, the shy laughter. We were friends first, then husband and wife, then lovers. Then we sailed the oceans of life, sometimes through stormy waters and almost drowning in the process. But now the sea is calm, the sun bright and pleasant, the breeze cool. A blue, cloudless sky adorns the heavens. We stand at the helm of our ship, the little crew mates busying themselves below. Doing homework, I hope.