hillwalker
07-23-2011, 10:17 AM
DEAL OR NO DEAL?
They reckon everybody’s got one novel inside ‘em but I’m not so sure. Ok, some of us might stretch to a short story or two, but in my experience most people struggle to come up with one decent sentence of ten words or less. I mean, we’ve all got what they call this inner voice – at least I hope we have, or I’ve been hearing things for the last 40-odd years. It’s just that some of us are better at taking dictation than others.
Course, you notice it more in a place like this. Most of ‘em here have got nothing to do all day except replay their memories over and over again. Like they’re stuck in the 1940’s. Either that or they’re glued to the box. The steady, soul-destroying drip-feed of Jeremy Kyle….. and that bloody Noel Edmunds with his ‘Deal or No Deal’. Then there’s ‘Bargain Hunt’… ‘Murder She Wrote’… ‘Countdown’…
I never watch any of that crap – no way, man. That’s why I always hang out in Reception with pen and paper; writing page after page of notes and observations. I’m sure it’s the only thing that stops me going ga-ga like the rest of ‘em.
I get my share of funny looks, mind you. But having said that, what do you expect in this place? It’s worse during weekend visiting times when people turn up with their kids. There’s curiosity, pity even…. but mostly anger.
'How dare you grow so old!'
Well, kiddies, it beats the alternative. That’s what Surfer Sam always said. And anyway, I’m nowhere near as old as the rest of ‘em in here. I’m just the caretaker, see. I get to help ‘em out whenever I can. Keep an eye on everybody else. And, as I was saying, whenever I’ve got a spare minute or two, I sit here scribbling away. My own internal thoughts, like.
The rest of the staff don’t mind. I mean, they have strict limits on what people can get up to in a place like this. But I’m free to do pretty much what I want. Except for jig-saws. You’re only allowed to take jig-saws up to your room after six at night otherwise you could easily become some kind of recluse; spending days looking for that tiny little patch of blue sky when it’s the only missing piece in the whole puzzle.
Then there’s Bingo. God, they love that here… even the serial sleepers manage to liven up for that. And the ruddy sing-song. Is there anything guaranteed to bring you down more than a room full of grannies singing ‘Tie a Yellow Ribbon’? I mean, if they changed the record now and again it wouldn’t be so bad. Some Beatles, perhaps – ‘Why Don’t We Do It in The Road?’ – that would get ‘em going. The words are easy enough to remember, and even Dozy Dora could manage to play that on the old joanna.
Hell fire, I’m sure she can only play two or three tunes. That’s how come they always end up singing ‘Amazin’ Grace’ at the end of every sing-song. It’s like it’s our new national anthem or summat. I mean, come on… that tune’s as pseudo as sh1t… I get real bad vibes when I hear it… gives me the creeps…
Take last Christmas. I was actually looking forward to hearing some carols. I always loved ‘In The Bleak Midwinter’ when I was a kid. And ok, the concert wasn’t that bad even though they went and dragged in some happy, smiley school-kids to brighten the place up a bit. Poor little buggers. Looking like they’d gone and filled their pants most of ‘em. But then right at the end Dora says “Let’s all sing carol number 5 on the sheet, ‘While Shepherds Watch Their Flocks By Night’.” And for feck’s sake she starts playing that bloody tune again - ‘Amazin’ Grace’. Like it’s taken over the world…
I reckon they could do with a bit of Frank Zappa in here. ‘Titties And Beer’. That would get the old dears out of their armchairs. But I suppose it’s the same in every nursing home you go to. I mean, ‘We’ll Meet Again’ – is that supposed to be a song or some kind of threat? God, the coffin dodgers were singing that one when I was a nipper. I can hear me grand-dad humming it all the time. He never ever lets up. Always getting on at me to join in.
I don’t know why everybody thinks I’m so desperate to burst into song or plaster a ruddy big grin on me face with the rest of ‘em like everything’s hunky dory all of a sudden. No wonder we keep getting funny looks. I’d rather they leave me in peace.
Now take poor old Maggie over there. She’s ninety one today but she hasn’t got a clue what’s going on. Thinks she’s stopping at the ‘Ritz’ with her pearls and twin-sets. Reminds me a bit of that Jessica Fletcher on the telly, that murdershewroteb1tch. She’s always tarted-up in her trouser-suit, stupid mare. And who the hell thought it would be nice to tie two sparkly Powerpuff Girls balloons to the top of Maggie’s chair? It’s enough to scare her to death. Imagine her waking up to them and thinking the ruddy angels are looking down on ‘er.
Mind you, me grand-dad was just as bad with his tweed jackets and his dicky-bow. That fake smile with a set of false teeth two sizes too big for his gob. Always used to freak me out. And the same old tune…
“Come on, Billy boy. Penny for em, or what?”
Huh. Well I wouldn’t dare let on what was going through me mind at the time. It was either the exact texture of Linda Lawson’s underwear. The colour. God, the smell even. Or it was the music crashing round inside me skull after I’d had a couple of joints – all the groups I’d ever wanted to play with.
Imagine riding on the tour bus with Zappa, ‘n’ Flo ‘n’ Eddie. The conversations we’d have had… if I could talk. Like the politics of brown shoes… who exactly is the Duke of Prunes… or the concept of poodles and their owners. Far out, man.
Then a bit of Grateful Dead. Man, I’d be riffin’ with Jerry Garcia to ‘Casey Jones’ or ‘Uncle John’s Band’ ‘til me fingers were raw. And wow, how about some Velvets. Stood there with Lou Reed waitin’ for his man; John Cale’s piano sounding like it was being dragged down a flight of stairs while he was still playing it. An’ sh1t, that creepy story he read out on their second album – what was that all about?
That Waldo Jeffers. God, was he a loser or what?
So, anyway, I’ve worked out that if me grand-dad really does want to pay a penny for all me thoughts he’ll end up bankrupt. I mean, how do you even start counting your thoughts?
I suppose there are these mathematicians who could do it for you. That’s one of the things I never could get me head around. Most of me mates who stayed on in the 6th form did Pure and Applied. But what’s the point? I can count. I can work out the right change when we’re let out on one of our trips and stop for a cuppa. It’s always me they put in charge. And I can still recite me times tables up to 12… inside me head anyway. I can even beat that tidy piece of skirt on ‘Countdown’ when they have the numbers round. God, she’s better looking than that Carol Vorderman. Funny, isn’t it? You don’t hear much about her any more.
I mean, why make life so complicated? I reckon everybody has too much time on their hands these days. Too much time to think. It’s not healthy, man. Like on ‘Horizon’ last week - I think it was ‘Horizon’. Somebody was saying it’s impossible to measure anything now – not even a straight line. ‘Cause they can magnify everything so much that they’ve discovered all these dents in even the straightest line or the flattest surface.
Downer or what, man?
Jagger and the boys were so right. ‘What a drag it is getting old…’
Anyway, what I was going to say is, even the insides of one of them Powerpuff balloons could take you forever to measure. The surface area I mean. ‘Cause even if they took a tape measure and measured the smallest bit of straight line, that line would still have millions of dents in it that they’d missed. And each of those little dents or cavities would be the shape of another tiny balloon. Like bubbles of froth on top of your pint, I suppose. And even the shortest bit of straight line... in just one of them millions of tiny balloons… would have its own millions of cavities….. and each one of them cavities… they would be balloon-shaped and all. And, oh man, I’m confusing meself now… I mean it just goes on and on and on… like ‘Amazin’ Grace’…
Fractals they called ‘em… them mathematician blokes. Like the insides of our brains, I reckon. Mine anyway. My brain’s as fractal as you can get; as fractal as fu--… Well, fill in your own blank.
So anyway, it’s nearly two o’clock so I should get ready. I’ve decided if me grand-dad does come in today… in that nice clean white coat of his… pens in the top pocket… and his red dicky-bow… and his teeth… and he offers me a penny for every thought… I’m going to tell him. I’ll tell him all right.
‘Deal or no deal?’
‘Well, yeah, man. Deal!’
H
They reckon everybody’s got one novel inside ‘em but I’m not so sure. Ok, some of us might stretch to a short story or two, but in my experience most people struggle to come up with one decent sentence of ten words or less. I mean, we’ve all got what they call this inner voice – at least I hope we have, or I’ve been hearing things for the last 40-odd years. It’s just that some of us are better at taking dictation than others.
Course, you notice it more in a place like this. Most of ‘em here have got nothing to do all day except replay their memories over and over again. Like they’re stuck in the 1940’s. Either that or they’re glued to the box. The steady, soul-destroying drip-feed of Jeremy Kyle….. and that bloody Noel Edmunds with his ‘Deal or No Deal’. Then there’s ‘Bargain Hunt’… ‘Murder She Wrote’… ‘Countdown’…
I never watch any of that crap – no way, man. That’s why I always hang out in Reception with pen and paper; writing page after page of notes and observations. I’m sure it’s the only thing that stops me going ga-ga like the rest of ‘em.
I get my share of funny looks, mind you. But having said that, what do you expect in this place? It’s worse during weekend visiting times when people turn up with their kids. There’s curiosity, pity even…. but mostly anger.
'How dare you grow so old!'
Well, kiddies, it beats the alternative. That’s what Surfer Sam always said. And anyway, I’m nowhere near as old as the rest of ‘em in here. I’m just the caretaker, see. I get to help ‘em out whenever I can. Keep an eye on everybody else. And, as I was saying, whenever I’ve got a spare minute or two, I sit here scribbling away. My own internal thoughts, like.
The rest of the staff don’t mind. I mean, they have strict limits on what people can get up to in a place like this. But I’m free to do pretty much what I want. Except for jig-saws. You’re only allowed to take jig-saws up to your room after six at night otherwise you could easily become some kind of recluse; spending days looking for that tiny little patch of blue sky when it’s the only missing piece in the whole puzzle.
Then there’s Bingo. God, they love that here… even the serial sleepers manage to liven up for that. And the ruddy sing-song. Is there anything guaranteed to bring you down more than a room full of grannies singing ‘Tie a Yellow Ribbon’? I mean, if they changed the record now and again it wouldn’t be so bad. Some Beatles, perhaps – ‘Why Don’t We Do It in The Road?’ – that would get ‘em going. The words are easy enough to remember, and even Dozy Dora could manage to play that on the old joanna.
Hell fire, I’m sure she can only play two or three tunes. That’s how come they always end up singing ‘Amazin’ Grace’ at the end of every sing-song. It’s like it’s our new national anthem or summat. I mean, come on… that tune’s as pseudo as sh1t… I get real bad vibes when I hear it… gives me the creeps…
Take last Christmas. I was actually looking forward to hearing some carols. I always loved ‘In The Bleak Midwinter’ when I was a kid. And ok, the concert wasn’t that bad even though they went and dragged in some happy, smiley school-kids to brighten the place up a bit. Poor little buggers. Looking like they’d gone and filled their pants most of ‘em. But then right at the end Dora says “Let’s all sing carol number 5 on the sheet, ‘While Shepherds Watch Their Flocks By Night’.” And for feck’s sake she starts playing that bloody tune again - ‘Amazin’ Grace’. Like it’s taken over the world…
I reckon they could do with a bit of Frank Zappa in here. ‘Titties And Beer’. That would get the old dears out of their armchairs. But I suppose it’s the same in every nursing home you go to. I mean, ‘We’ll Meet Again’ – is that supposed to be a song or some kind of threat? God, the coffin dodgers were singing that one when I was a nipper. I can hear me grand-dad humming it all the time. He never ever lets up. Always getting on at me to join in.
I don’t know why everybody thinks I’m so desperate to burst into song or plaster a ruddy big grin on me face with the rest of ‘em like everything’s hunky dory all of a sudden. No wonder we keep getting funny looks. I’d rather they leave me in peace.
Now take poor old Maggie over there. She’s ninety one today but she hasn’t got a clue what’s going on. Thinks she’s stopping at the ‘Ritz’ with her pearls and twin-sets. Reminds me a bit of that Jessica Fletcher on the telly, that murdershewroteb1tch. She’s always tarted-up in her trouser-suit, stupid mare. And who the hell thought it would be nice to tie two sparkly Powerpuff Girls balloons to the top of Maggie’s chair? It’s enough to scare her to death. Imagine her waking up to them and thinking the ruddy angels are looking down on ‘er.
Mind you, me grand-dad was just as bad with his tweed jackets and his dicky-bow. That fake smile with a set of false teeth two sizes too big for his gob. Always used to freak me out. And the same old tune…
“Come on, Billy boy. Penny for em, or what?”
Huh. Well I wouldn’t dare let on what was going through me mind at the time. It was either the exact texture of Linda Lawson’s underwear. The colour. God, the smell even. Or it was the music crashing round inside me skull after I’d had a couple of joints – all the groups I’d ever wanted to play with.
Imagine riding on the tour bus with Zappa, ‘n’ Flo ‘n’ Eddie. The conversations we’d have had… if I could talk. Like the politics of brown shoes… who exactly is the Duke of Prunes… or the concept of poodles and their owners. Far out, man.
Then a bit of Grateful Dead. Man, I’d be riffin’ with Jerry Garcia to ‘Casey Jones’ or ‘Uncle John’s Band’ ‘til me fingers were raw. And wow, how about some Velvets. Stood there with Lou Reed waitin’ for his man; John Cale’s piano sounding like it was being dragged down a flight of stairs while he was still playing it. An’ sh1t, that creepy story he read out on their second album – what was that all about?
That Waldo Jeffers. God, was he a loser or what?
So, anyway, I’ve worked out that if me grand-dad really does want to pay a penny for all me thoughts he’ll end up bankrupt. I mean, how do you even start counting your thoughts?
I suppose there are these mathematicians who could do it for you. That’s one of the things I never could get me head around. Most of me mates who stayed on in the 6th form did Pure and Applied. But what’s the point? I can count. I can work out the right change when we’re let out on one of our trips and stop for a cuppa. It’s always me they put in charge. And I can still recite me times tables up to 12… inside me head anyway. I can even beat that tidy piece of skirt on ‘Countdown’ when they have the numbers round. God, she’s better looking than that Carol Vorderman. Funny, isn’t it? You don’t hear much about her any more.
I mean, why make life so complicated? I reckon everybody has too much time on their hands these days. Too much time to think. It’s not healthy, man. Like on ‘Horizon’ last week - I think it was ‘Horizon’. Somebody was saying it’s impossible to measure anything now – not even a straight line. ‘Cause they can magnify everything so much that they’ve discovered all these dents in even the straightest line or the flattest surface.
Downer or what, man?
Jagger and the boys were so right. ‘What a drag it is getting old…’
Anyway, what I was going to say is, even the insides of one of them Powerpuff balloons could take you forever to measure. The surface area I mean. ‘Cause even if they took a tape measure and measured the smallest bit of straight line, that line would still have millions of dents in it that they’d missed. And each of those little dents or cavities would be the shape of another tiny balloon. Like bubbles of froth on top of your pint, I suppose. And even the shortest bit of straight line... in just one of them millions of tiny balloons… would have its own millions of cavities….. and each one of them cavities… they would be balloon-shaped and all. And, oh man, I’m confusing meself now… I mean it just goes on and on and on… like ‘Amazin’ Grace’…
Fractals they called ‘em… them mathematician blokes. Like the insides of our brains, I reckon. Mine anyway. My brain’s as fractal as you can get; as fractal as fu--… Well, fill in your own blank.
So anyway, it’s nearly two o’clock so I should get ready. I’ve decided if me grand-dad does come in today… in that nice clean white coat of his… pens in the top pocket… and his red dicky-bow… and his teeth… and he offers me a penny for every thought… I’m going to tell him. I’ll tell him all right.
‘Deal or no deal?’
‘Well, yeah, man. Deal!’
H