So I'm having another slobby Sunday in my pyjamas watching Big Brother and motor racing, and also a marvellous lunch of twelve Yorkshire Puddings in vegetarian Bisto gravy (alas, yes, the cupboard is bare). Just had a look out the window and decided "there's nothing out there," so I don't think I'll be going anywhere/doing anything today. Anyway, it's the Big Brother Psychology show in four hours – so obviously I wouldn't want to jeopardise missing that. (He says, tongue in cheek.) Plus I finally got around to watching my appearance on Countdown – hey, I have actually done a lot today! – which wasn't half as bad as I'd feared it would be; rather it gave me lots of giggles in places and seems like a lot of fun. Obviously a part of me wishes I'd tried (a little more) and maybe come up with a non-embarrassing score, or perhaps given Mikey a little better run for his money – but then what would that have achieved? All I could have shown for it was, at best, a teapot and another (yawn) appearance on the show – and, as I said before, Mikey was a much more worthwhile winner, far more deserving of the extra teevee-time – plus he could have had loads more points too, with a little more concentration and a little less silliness. Mostly, when I get down to it, I'm just rueing the missed opportunities for even more ridicularity (new word there) having now seen how many close-ups there were of me while the clock was ticking down – man, if I'd known that I coulda been doing all manner of silly thing: pens up nose, daft expressions, eyes closed when should be writing, laying on desk, etc. Still, I guess I can be proud. And though they cut out some of my finer moments – complaining that no-one told me the rules, declaring a three when I had a six – to be fair they did also cut some of my more embarrassing ones too, so it didn't come out so bad. Shame they cut Barry's bitches though! Anyway…
It's been quite a week, I guess, since I set off for London and Mother Meera (and Glastonbury, Bath, and a job interview) a little over seven times twenty-four hours ago. Funny, really, the changes that have happened – and that it's all pretty much exactly how it was. Let me explain.
I have this memory of owning a silver Mazda MX-5 convertible which I shuttled myself around in over the last few months; a nice little car, despite the leaking windows and trunk, stolen CD player and occasional spin off the road. I have this memory of the two of us setting off for London on a sunny Sunday morning with the top down, filling up with petrol and of not being in any hurry, so keeping it at seventy-five all the way down – which is most unlike me. I have this memory of jostling with some middle-lane loving Landrover, of my Mazda and I getting infuriated by his refusal to change positions in the road – regardless of etiquette and laws – and of us trying to teach him a lesson by getting in front of him and slowing right down, and slowing right down, and slowing right down again, until we were doing about fifty and he finally budged – and repeating the process until he got sick of it and got the message. I have this memory, also – and, don't worry, it's not what your thinking – of the sound of a little 'pop' from somewhere under the hood/on the road/in my car and then noticing I was slowing down, and noticing that a light had come on, just like it used to on my VW, which would stall every five hundred miles or so, for no real reason, and then start up again straight away. I have this memory, then, of getting over onto the hard shoulder, weaving in between some cones, and giving it a minute before trying the key, expecting it to fire up, surprised when it didn't. Five minutes later, still nothing. And five minutes after that…
I was broken down in this place where all these roadworks were going on; a sign just up the road said, "Free Recovery – Stay With Vehicle" (or something like that) – and I've always wondered what would happen in that situation. About twenty minutes after first conking out, I found out: a tow truck came and took me and my car on a little journey, and dropped us in some sort of works' headquarters/car park/pound. It was a lovely day; I was somewhere near Hemel Hempstead, just off Junction 8/the A414; I had ninety minutes to get to Mother Meera – and I didn't know what to do. I tossed a coin; the coin said, "hitch." I tried that; I got bored of it. I tossed another coin, and another – and then, a whole series of coins – and the coins said, "walk to the petrol station; try hitching again; now give up and go buy a sandwich; now – no, don't try hitching, or go back to your car, or walk into Hemel Hempstead and get a train – now have a sit down on that nice bit of grass in the sun, have a little relax and chill-out, and just enjoy your sandwich" – and that's what I did. Seemed like a good idea; trying to figure out what to do was just getting me nowhere, no answers were forthcoming and, anyway, in times of crisis – especially on a nice sunny day – surely the best thing to do is have a little chill in the warm and just try and stay positive. No point getting stressed out – and, anyway, this is Mother Meera we're talking about here, it's not like I can be late for her (what with 'her' being everywhere, and what with her knowing all about it) and, who knows, maybe she was the one making it happen; I wouldn't put it past her.
"A test," I says, "a challenge. To remain positive in the face of adversity. To trust the moment. To stay present, and calm, and happy – to let nothing steal my joy." I like the sun; I like my sandwich too (egg 'n' cress). I like the twist life has taken. I like the challenge of relaxation under pressure. I like that I'm winning. It is a lovely day and everything's gonna be all right, one way or another – I just don't know what that way is going to be.
But within twenty seconds of my sitting down I find out: a man filling up his car calls over to me and asks me if I need a ride. "I kind of do," I say – thinking secretly inside, "wow, coin/Mother, that was quick; here we go!" Thing is, though, he's going North, to Nottingham, and I need a ride to London if I'm gonna get to Chelsea in time. Shame. Still, we get chatting and I tell him about my car, and he says, "well I've got this auto-recovery type thing you could use, maybe they could get a truck out to have a look at your car" – and with that he's on the phone and getting them organised to come out and have a look ("I'm not in my normal car," he tells them, "is that okay?" They tell him it is) and then we're sitting having a little chat in the petrol station café and getting on quite famously, discovering lots in common, despite our twenty year age difference.
He asks me where I'm going – and rather than simply say, "London," as I very nearly do, I decide to tell him I'm off to see "this Indian spiritual-type lady" and he tells me about his interest in Hinduism. We get chatting about travel and stuff – and soon the subject turns to his adventures as a youth busking around the coast of France for six years, meditating in his tent, living in Paris, generally living the good life – sound familiar? – and that leads me to share my adventures in America. In turn, then, he tells me about his current situation, caught in a dilemma over whether to move to America with his girlfriend of the past eight years (she's American; she's got to go back home for family reasons) and then him saying that, "wow, you know, I really wasn't going to do it but suddenly talking with you has made me feel like, 'yeah, I can do that,' just reminded me of all the good things about that place, etcetera, etcetera" – and then, it seems to me, all this breaking down there and bumping into him has a purpose, I've got a message for him and – especially seeing as I was on my way to Mother Meera's – it all make sense. I'm actually glad for it; I'm smiling inside – and I'm keen, too, to get back to my car. "Surely," I'm thinking, "it'll start up now, now that purpose has been fulfilled" – at least, I wouldn't be surprised/I'm half expecting it. And off we go, me and my new found friend, over the road and back to that pound to revisit my soon-to-be-revived old found friend, my Mazda, my miracle.
Except, of course, it doesn't, and I'm…bummer.
He doesn't know much about cars, and neither do I. He's got to get off to Nottingham now, and there's not much else we can do. He's got the tow truck coming, though, and – "since you'll have to pretend to be me, and my deal is that I pay upfront for whatever needs doing and then get a rebate in the post in a week or two, I'd better leave you my debit card, and the PIN, and is it all right if you post it through my mother's letter box near Chelsea, as I really, really need it tomorrow 'cos I'm a bit broke and will have to get some cash?" – which is not the kind of thing one expects to happen in this day and age, in Britain, given the current climate/newspaper media bilge/fear-in-the-head nonsense some people like to propagate. But it happened to me. I wave him away – my by-now good buddy, my all-the-things-we've-got-in-common, my easy-to-talk-with friend – and there I am, holding his bank card – the key to his fortune – trusted, accepted, rescued and seen. I guess I should be surprised – I'm not. I suppose I expect those things; I suppose it's why I don't freak out. I guess I must give out a trustable vibe. I guess somebody up there likes me.
So what happens next? Well, the obvious thing is the tow truck comes, it's no big deal with my car, I'm on my way in no time, just make it to MM's as they're locking the doors, have a marvellous, humbling, enlightening and soul-elevating experience with her, restore my Earth-angel his bank card, and then I'm on the road again to Bristol for visit with lovely friend, next-day job interview in Wells (get it), smashing day in Glastonbury up the Tor and drinking the holy water and lovely evening and night with X in Bath before back to Yorkshire for gratitudes and tellings of stories and isn't it lovely how bright the sun shines and life is magical, I'm outta here, bye-ee! Oh, don'tcha just love it when a plan comes together! Oh, isn't it great how it all works out? Except, of course, life doesn't often work like that. What is it they say? "Man makes plans and God laughs?" Hm, how true! Listen…
There was once a young man who wasn't having such a good time in life; things always seemed to go wrong for him; if it wasn't for bad luck he'd have no luck at all; if he fell in a vat of breasts he'd come up sucking his thumb; etcetera. The neighbours always got wind of his latest piece of misfortune and wasted no time in sympathising with his parents.
"Isn't it terrible?" they'd say, "your boy's always in the wars; if it wasn't for bad luck he'd have no luck at all; if he fell in a vat of breasts he'd come up sucking his thumb; etcetera." The man's parents would stand at the garden gate and listen patiently.
"Terrible?" they'd say, "maybe it is and maybe it isn't – who can tell?" And with that the neighbours would disperse, clucking their hens and muttering amongst themselves about that "poor boy's strange and unfeeling parents," returning to their kitchens full of gossip and bristles. And so it went on.
One day, though, some altogether different news reached the ears of those clucking hens and guppies – for the unluckiest man in the world had been chosen to appear on a teevee show all about unlucky people, and would have the chance to win a very special prize.
"How lucky!" the neighbours said, "That all that bad luck should turn out to be good luck after all! Isn't it wonderful?" They crowed excitedly at the man's parent's gate.
"Maybe it is and maybe it isn't," the man's parents said – and once more the crowd dispersed, even more righteous than before.
"How can they be so unfeeling?" the bedraggled masses said as one, "you'd think they'd be happy now that their only son has finally found some good fortune in life," and they clucked one mighty cluck and ruffled their beaks to show their displeasure.
The whole village tuned in to watch the man's appearance on teevee, and all were delighted for him when he was gifted a brand new BMW Mini – the car he had always wanted, but had never been able to afford. In the weeks that followed he was often seen polishing his shiny new motor, taking it for spins in the country roads and hills that surrounded his house, tooting his horn at the passers-by and giving them a cheery wave. No one had ever seen him so happy. He found a job as an air steward; he started dating and met a nice young man in a neighbouring village; he even took up football and was soon proving a hit striker for the local team. Everyone agreed that his luck had finally changed.
Everyone, that is, apart from the no-longer poor, no-longer unlucky man's parents – all they could say to the neighbours demands of, "isn't it wonderful?" was the same old reply: "maybe it is, maybe it isn't…"
One day, while driving home from his boyfriend's house, the unlucky man's car was hit by a large, frozen fish falling from the sky, which shattered his windscreen and caused him to swerve violently across to the other side of the road, where he ploughed head-on into a just-that-second parked vehicle. The newspapers said it was a one-in-a-billion occurrence. The force of the impact trapped him inside his now-destroyed Mini, and though he suffered no major damage to his internal organs, his legs were subsequently amputated, from just below the knee. He was in intensive car for several months, during which time his boyfriend dumped him and he lost his job, without compensation (he was only on contract, you see). He became severely depressed and made a number of attempts on his own life. His parents, meanwhile, were forced to remortgage their home in order to pay for his medical treatment (this is all happening in the future, you see, when the UK has foolishly gone the way of America, and abolished the NHS, and come to require vast sums of money from its citizens in order to pay for what once was a basic, freely-given right) and had to move into a caravan in the corner of a local farmer's field.
Still, though it was a bit of a walk, their former neighbours still came to see them.
"Oh, isn't it terrible?" they wailed through their sackclothes and ashes, "I tell you, if it wasn't for bad luck that poor, poor boy of yours would have no luck at all…what a terrible, terrible thing!"
And still the same reply – though this time through the open top-half of an old caravan door – "maybe it is and maybe it isn't."
The months passed and the poor, poor unlucky man grew strong. His depression faded; he resolved to overcome his previous weakness of mind and to conquer his adversities. He started to play football again, and went on to win many medals during a long and glittering career, including a gold at the 2028 Dublin Paralympics. He became an inspiration to many young people, and personally helped several prevail over their own particular difficulties and go on to do great things. And he met a new man – a handsome male nurse who had been on duty the day he was brought into hospital – and though he didn't know it at the time, they were to go on to spend the rest of their lives together, and raise several children and many more grand- and great-grandchildren, and die in each other's arms at the ripe old age of a hundred and two, while on holiday in Corsica, due to carbon-monoxide poisoning. His own long-dead parents, meanwhile, had lived out their days in happiness, discovering that they much preferred caravan-life to the comforts and conveniences of electricity, labour-saving devices and teevee.
"It was," he would say to them, while they were all still living (and sometimes after they had died), "the best thing that ever happened to me." He would nod in his old dad's rocking chair and smile to himself, his heart bursting with gratitude, his hand holding his lover's hand tight, his lover's head resting on his artificial knee. "It was," he would say, "a wonderful, wonderful thing."
And in reply, his parents would say, "maybe it was, my son, and maybe it wasn't – who can tell?"
I thought about this (or rather, the original, far more concise Chinese proverb that inspired me to write that just now) often that day, during those long hours waiting for the tow truck to arrive, kicking my football, tossing my sticks, watching the clock drift past any sort of time that a meeting with Mother Meera might be possible. I thought about it, too, after the tow truck had been, and after the man there had informed me that the cambelt had gone, and that you can't get much more serious than that, and that it would cost between six hundred and a thousand pounds to fix, as it would have basically wrecked the engine. I've thought about that, in fact, in all my recent car shenanigans, in all my gettings-lost, in all my wrong turns – because, it seems to me that it's so easy to see where the things have gone wrong, but so difficult in the midst of that to imagine that just maybe the slightly bad – or even, quite bad – could have prevented something really, really bad. I mean, who knows what might have happened if I had continued on down that road? Or who knows what might have happened had my car been fixable, had I been driving it today, and for the seven days previous? A million things far worse than losing a thousand pounds are possible – and even though that's the only reality I can see, isn't it only fair to balance things out and consider all the other possibilities? How many times does something bad happen to us and we trace it back to some decision, to some crossroads and say, "oh, if only I hadn't done that"? And yet, who knows how many unknown and never-to-be-known bad things have been prevented by some other turning, some other decision? That's what I like to consider, what keeps me from cursing my luck and still thinking, "well I guess as long as I'm in one piece then I suppose it's what's meant to be." And not that I can say I feel that a hundred percent, by any means, but…it's mostly there, it's mostly how I feel. It's the overriding sentiment in my brain. Plus, far worse things happen to far nicer people…
In the event, I'll tell you what happened. The truck thing was useless, and though I could've had it towed somewhere, it just seemed kind of immoral – even if I wasn't paying for it, even if it was some faceless large insurance company – to spend all that money and time and effort on dragging a dead piece of metal halfway around the country. So I kinda waited, to see what would happen, and some time around eleven o'clock my new-found Earth-angel friend came back that way, invited me to ride along with him, and we loaded all my stuff in his car – which included many items way too unsuitable for a breakdown situation (e.g., my guitar, my football, my football boots, several changes of clothing, a big heavy laptop which I was supposed to be selling in London also). I said one final "adieu" to the Mazda and then it was on the road to London, to spend the night at his mother's place in Kensington. In the morning, over toast 'n' tea, we talked music – he has a recording studio, knows A&R men, wrote a song years back that got to number one in the US – and played each other a selection of our songs. He dug my stuff and I dug his, and we said we'd keep in touch and maybe meet up to play some tunes down London's open mic scene. I felt happy, and glad to be free of four wheels, and even though I then missed my job interview in Wells, for the Glastonbury Oxfam position, I felt like everything was still very much in place. So I lost a thousand pounds plus – well, as they say, "easy come, easy go" (it was only quizshow money, after all) – and surely something like this has to have happened for a reason: either because of something I've done recently – which I don't think there is – or something I did a while ago, in order to burn up some old karma (which is more than possible!) or to bring something good into my life/ prevent something bad, which is all well and good. Already, in fact, I can feel the benefit of being free from that money-eating, lazifying full-speed-ahead beast – for one, I might be able to lose some of the weight I've put on since I got my first car just under a year ago and forsook the slightly more humanly-paced methods of transport such as walking and riding a bicycle; for another, I wouldn't be surprised if it didn't improve my quality of life in terms of human interaction, in terms of being in the world – and, almost perversely, in terms of getting out and about; I know cars are supposed to give you the freedom "to go places" but, for me, I've pretty much found that hasn't been the case, and that the only place I've really managed to go was home, far quicker than I would have done otherwise! No leisurely strolls, no getting lost over hill 'n' vale, no meanderings 'round town killing time before the next train and discovering something wonderful and new – not when I've got my four-wheeled friend to speed me back in solitude and noise to the comforts of my four walls and 'home'. Plus, given that it was a choice between Wakefield+car or Leeds+nocar, I guess this means that I'll finally be heading somewhere far-better-suited a little sooner than I thought – so, thank You God for saving me from Wakefield, and automobiles, and averted tragedies unknown, and for delivering me into my much-improved future! I sure do appreciate it, y'all!
And now it's time for a break, and Big Brother the Psychology Edition – which I really do love! – and maybe to return later to finish it off – or maybe not, since I've probably got enough time to do it now, if I make it quick…
• So even though I missed my interview – the second of the three things that I had to do last weekend – I still went west-country way, wanting to see X and also dig a little something of Glastonbury, and I took a train to Bath after goodbyes with new-chum and sailure of laptop (another new word there). I must confess, I felt a bit glum on that long and dreary train ride – going for the cheap ticket option of slow trains via Basingstoke and Salisbury, which I probably wouldn't do again – but I guess I can forgive myself that.
• And Bath was beautiful! And seeing The X was jolly nice! And, who knows, maybe we'll be getting back together one of these days – and maybe not. But it was good to see her – we bond, we like each other, we fit – and now that Y's no longer speaking to me I suppose things look like they're heading in that direction…
• The following day – Tuesday; a finally sunny day – me and a good friend-from-yesteryear-recently-reconnected went and had our day in Glastonbury, drunk on Chalice Well water, giggling like children atop the Tor for no apparent reason except that we were feeling divinely high – oh, how reminiscent of Shawn and I with our feet in the snow on Mount Shasta! – and little magics in that magic little town. What a place that is! What a feeling I get when I go there! But – and pleased to say – I also realised that I wouldn't want to live there, that I like to keep it as a treat, that there are too many crusty old hippy weirdoes for me to want to deal with on a regular basis. I visited the Oxfam shop there and I felt nothing. I don't regret missing my interview. Glastonbury…a wonderful place to visit, but I wouldn't wanna live there – at least, not just yet…
• And one reason for that is, I feel like I want to stay in Yorkshire longer. I had a good week the week before my trip away, with a fun gig at The Little 'Un in South Elmsall, and some nice times with friends – plus I discovered something new to sink my teeth into at the old Oxfam shop: something that I was actually feeling pains not to do, should I have been offered the Glastonbury job – so that's all good (for now). Also, I'm resolved to hug more, and have been doing it lots with a select number of people, while I get back into the swing of things. So that's all groovy.
• Did I mention that my brother has become a ghost? Well, he has! See, at first he was like a ghoul, this dark, malodorous presence that (energetically) stunk out the home with his negativity, that skulked around and oppressed me in my sleep, giving me the shivers, the heebeegeebees, the ginsters. Well now something's changed – now it's like I can hardly see him; even when he's in the room he's just like something I catch out of the corner of my eye, something I'm not sure is really there. I can walk past him and not notice; I can forget he lives here too. In fact, it's only because he moves things around – i.e., because he washes all my dishes – that I know he's here at all. He's like a really mild poltergeist – but the best kind of poltergeist you could possibly get: one that buys loo roll when it runs out; one who empties the bins and sorts out the council tax; one who picks up plate after plate, cup after cup, and washes them, and puts them back in the cupboard, fresh and ready to be used again. He's a dream housemate in many ways – although, to be honest, I would probably want to have a conversation with my actual dream housemate every once in a while. But that he's become invisible to me can only be progress. I know it's harsh, but he's given me and the rest of the family enough heartache and headstrain with his non-willingness to do anything that resembles living over several years now, and so to accept that this is how he wants to live, and to let him be – to realise that, hey, some people do just live their lives in unceasingly dull ways, never work, never explore the world, never leave behind mummy's apron strings, etcetera, until the day they die – really does seem like the best course of action. Believe me, I've tried to give him a hand – now all I can do is let go.
• I sold my car on eBay for £310, so probably lost about a grand in total. Not so bad, I suppose.
And that really is it, popquiz fans. Just to let you know the ending of the story: that the once-unlucky, now-triumphed-against-the-odds, deeply-at-peace-with-the-world hero-of-our-tale's great-great-granddaughter went on to start World War III, wiped out ninety-nine percent of the population, killed all known elephants, lions and seals, and made Hitler look like a weally sweet wittle bunny wabbit all kitted out in pink doll's clothes, nose a-twitchin' and tiny wittle hoppity-hops awound the garden on gentle summer's day to the delighted squeals of toddlin' twin girls in their frilly dresses and blonde curls and smiles – and none of that would've happened if he hadn't met that handsome male nurse and fallen in love. In fact, had he not had that accident and stayed with his other boyfriend – the shallow one that dumped him when he lost his legs – they later would've adopted the child that gave birth to the girl that brought up the next Son-of-God, the saviour of mankind, the Divine-cum-down-to-Earth and general all-round top-drawer chap – which would've been better, right?
All together now…
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