Andrew MacLaren-Scott's Blog, page 106

The Conversation - 8

"So how have you been feeling today?"

"Quite positive actually."

"You bloody joking?"

"No. I think I've been getting things into a more appropriate perspective and have been remembering that the future can be an opportunity to develop rather than necessarily an abyss of disasters to fear."

"You been on the booze?"

"Nope. Not a drop. And some people offered me praise today and I accepted it at face value rather than wondering what they were scheming."

"Ah, it must be the happy pills then. What ones are you on?"

"Not on any at all. I've just been managing to unload all of my exaggerated troubles off of my back and remember that the past has gone, and it can't be changed anyway, but I may have some ability to shape some of what is yet to come, and it might not all be bad. Some of it might even turn out to be quite good."

"You really are joking me, aren't you?"

"No. I'm just looking forward to tomorrow."

"And feeling quite happy?"

"Reasonably so... Quite content and positive, at least."

"In this world? In this life? In this bleedin' universe? You must be fucking mad!"

"Yes indeed... I think that's the secret isn't it?"

"Ah... Yes... Keep it up lad. You keep it up."


Track back through previous parts of The Conversation here

Sunshine breaks through again

 
Which gives me one out of five, in relation to the previous post: The Conversation - Part 7. Sufficient for one day, perhaps.

The Conversation - 7

"Sunshine."

"Yes."

"Sex."

"Yes."

"Eh... Being in green countryside on a warm day."

"Yes."

"With or without a ball to hit..."

"Yes."

"Laughing with friends."

"Yes."

"Maybe over a pint or two."

"Yes."

"Eh..."

"Nothing else? Good food? Films? Novels?"

"Oh... Food's okay, I suppose, but more of a requirement than fun for me. Films don't interest me much these days. They're all so crap and fake and implausible. Novels? Well, they're all just made up nonsense mostly..."

"So... Sunshine, sex, greenery, laughing and maybe a pint or two... Is that the sum total of things to be cheerful about for you?"

"It's all that comes to mind right now..."

"What about all the rest of it? The rest of life? All of your existence?"

"Mostly just a chore to be tolerated really..."

"While waiting on the sunshine and sex and greenery and laughing and maybe a pint or two?"

"Yes, and if they all came at the same time that would be worth the wait."

"Have they ever?"

"Eh... Hmm... Let me think... Four of the five have, I think. If I'd had a pint in my hand I would have spilled it..."

"Ah well... Still something to live for eh? Still a challenge out there for you to go for the five star treat."

"Oh... and writing rubbish."

"What about it?"

"I like that too."


Previous parts of The Conversation can be tracked through from here

Grey Day

One night

It was late one winter night in a flat in Leith when I decided to rise from my bed to investigate the prolonged shouting that had been coming from the top floor balcony, just one flight of stairs above my own. For about ten minutes a drunken male voice had been screaming many foul-mouthed variations on the theme of, 'let me in', while a muffled woman's voice had been reiterating, 'go away', in several foul-mouthed variations also.

Then for a while the stairwell had gone silent, until I heard a loud metallic scraping and a heavy panting slowly ascending the stairs and past my door. I looked out through the thin crack beside my letterbox flap to see an old and dishevelled man staggering slowly upwards, dragging a scaffolding pole behind him. It was a short linking section, maybe six feet long. I reckoned he was too drunk to notice me, so I opened my door as he reached the top floor and I leaned out sideways just enough to look up. I could see him as he began hammering the pole against the first door of the top floor like a battering ram, and he was screaming again.

'Let me in! Let, (bang) me, (bang) in, (bang) you fucking (bang) fucker!'

The final bang was followed by the crash of the pole falling onto the stone stairway. The woman inside began screaming. The old guy lifted up the pole again and resumed his attack on the door. I went back into my flat and headed for the phone, but someone must have beaten me to it because just as I picked up the handset I heard the police siren out on the street below.

The timing of what happened next was exquisite. With my door shut again and my face pressed to the letterbox I heard, and then saw, the two burly policemen running upwards, two steps at a time, but then pausing momentarily on my landing to gasp for breath and for one of them to wail, 'Why does it always have to be the top floor!'

And just as they tackled the first step towards the top floor I caught a glimpse of the drunk old guy, walking quite swiftly downwards. As the policemen approached him he blurted out, 'Thank Christ you're here lads, the buggers are going crazy!'

And just as the policemen rushed on past him I heard the door of the flat directly above me open and the young lad who lived up there shouted out, 'What the fuck are you...?'

But the phrase was never finished as the first policeman must have charged into him, and from the heavy thud above my head it was pretty clear he had knocked the young lad to the floor. Then the jumbled chaos of angry voices began: 'What the fuck are you doing?' 'Oh it's you again sonny is it?' 'What the fuck?' 'Stop struggling! You're under arrest.' 'Me? What the...' 'Shut up! Didn't you get enough of this last week eh?'

Then a scuffle, a few kicks, a punch. A wail. Then a bit of quiet. The jangle and click of handcuffs.

Then I heard, 'You stupid fucking Keystone Cops! I wasn't doing anything. It was the old guy. I was just coming to see what it was all about!'

'Shut up!'

Some more scuffling. The sound of another door opening, then an elderly woman's voice asking, quite calmly, 'What are you arresting him for? It was my old man Jim that was kicking in my door. Where is he? Have you let him go?'

I left my door and walked through my lounge to look out of the window, just in time to see the old guy - Jim I presumed - wandering down the path into the dark parkland across the road.

One night in Duke Street

It was late one winter night in a flat in Leith when I decided to rise from my bed to investigate the prolonged shouting that had been coming from the top floor balcony, just one flight of stairs above my own. For about ten minutes a drunken male voice had been screaming many foul-mouthed variations on the theme of, 'let me in', while a muffled woman's voice had been reiterating, 'go away', in several foul-mouthed variations also.

Then for a while the stairwell had gone silent, until I heard a loud metallic scraping and a heavy panting slowly ascending the stairs and past my door. I looked out through the thin crack beside my letterbox flap to see an old and dishevelled man staggering slowly upwards, dragging a scaffolding pole behind him. It was a short linking section, maybe six feet long. I reckoned he was too drunk to notice me, so I opened my door as he reached the top floor and I leaned out sideways just enough to look up. I could see him as he began hammering the pole against the first door of the top floor like a battering ram, and he was screaming again.

'Let me in! Let, (bang) me, (bang) in, (bang) you fucking (bang) fucker!'

The final bang was followed by the crash of the pole falling onto the stone stairway. The woman inside began screaming. The old guy lifted up the pole again and resumed his attack on the door. I went back into my flat and headed for the phone, but someone must have beaten me to it because just as I picked up the handset I heard the police siren out on the street below.

The timing of what happened next was exquisite. With my door shut again and my face pressed to the letterbox I heard, and then saw, the two burly policemen running upwards, two steps at a time, but then pausing momentarily on my landing to gasp for breath and for one of them to wail, 'Why does it always have to be the top floor!'

And just as they tackled the first step towards the top floor I caught a glimpse of the drunk old guy, walking quite swiftly downwards. As the policemen approached him he blurted out, 'Thank Christ you're here lads, the buggers are going crazy!'

And just as the policemen rushed on past him I heard the door of the flat directly above me open and the young lad who lived up there shouted out, 'What the fuck are you...?'

But the phrase was never finished as the first policeman must have charged into him, and from the heavy thud above my head it was pretty clear he had knocked the young lad to the floor. Then the jumbled chaos of angry voices began: 'What the fuck are you doing?' 'Oh it's you again sonny is it?' 'What the fuck?' 'Stop struggling! You're under arrest.' 'Me? What the...' 'Shut up! Didn't you get enough of this last week eh?'

Then a scuffle, a few kicks, a punch. A wail. Then a bit of quiet. The jangle and click of handcuffs.

Then I heard, 'You stupid fucking Keystone Cops! I wasn't doing anything. It was the old guy. I was just coming to see what it was all about!'

'Shut up!'

Some more scuffling. The sound of another door opening, then an elderly woman's voice asking, quite calmly, 'What are you arresting him for? It was my old man Jim that was kicking in my door. Where is he? Have you let him go?'

I left my door and walked through my lounge to look out of the window, just in time to see the old guy - Jim I presumed - wandering down the path into the dark parkland across the road.

Looking ahead

A sky with chairs as clouds

The Conversation - 6

"So what happened today?"

"Well when I awakened back into this mystery of consciousness I was depressed."

"Do you have to be so damn wordy all the time?"

"Well I woke up depressed."

"So what did you do about that?"

"I stayed in bed, drifting into and out of the mystery of sleep, pondering the nature of it all and..."

"Yes, yes, yes... So you stayed in bed."

"Yes."

"And did that help?"

"No."

"So what did you do then?"

"Remained in bed, depressed."

"Until?"

"Until eventually I dragged myself into a warm bath."

"And did that help?"

"No."

"And then?"

"And then I forced myself up, and out..."

"Feeling depressed?"

"Yes, until I found something needing done, and so I started to do it, reluctantly, on the computer, at a desk."

"And?"

"And then I began to feel better, and quite cheerful, and optimistic even, as I did these things that needed to be done and talked to people and exchanged opinions and ideas about things."

"Did you get a lot done?"

"Quite a lot."

"And now?"

"I feel okay really, but I am fearful of awakening in the morning and feeling depressed."

"And if you do, what will you then do?"

"Stay in bed and be depressed, probably."

"You never learn really, do you?"

"Not really."

"You're a bit of an idiot really, aren't you?"

"Oh yes."

"And do you not have anything cheerful, or funny to say? You're almost making me depressed."

"Ah... Cheerful... Funny... Next time, perhaps."


Previous parts of the conversation can be tracked through from here

Looking back