ROAD MAP OF A MID-LIFE CRISIS (9)

ROAD MAP OF A MID-LIFE CRISIS (9)

THE GREATEST STORY NEVER TOLD

It’s that dead time between Christmas and New Year and I ‘m alone in the flat. With nothing better to do I decide to play one of the 2 war movies I received as Christmas gifts on my PC, but which should I chose. I study the covers. Rather implausibly both claim to tell “the greatest untold story of the Second World War”. The people who do the marketing for war films know that their viewers are the same sad acts who watch the Military History channel, can recite “The World at War” from memory and can tell you the names of Goebel’s children. They know their audience has a voracious appetite for fresh information and so every war film claims to be telling some previously untold story, which is patently rubbish. There can be no period of history that has been as painstakingly picked over, documented and analysed as WWII. Whole TV channels devote around the clock coverage to every conceivable aspect of the conflict. Somewhere my grandmother’s visit to the chiropodist in 1942 is captured and is showing on “Home Movies of World War II: Bunions and Barrage Balloons (In Colour)”. I guess what I’m trying to say is that if the story really hasn’t been told by now it’s more than likely because it’s not worth the telling. Rather like those magazines that promise to reveal 20 things you never knew about Jordan. (That’s Jordan as in Katie Price and not Jordan the country.) You know with a confidence that borders on certainty that these are things that no right thinking person ever needed or wanted to know.

The covers of the two films are both remarkably similar; a battle weary soldier with his back to the viewer gazes towards a horizon over which the unstoppable forces of mechanised warfare are advancing. We know from the image that he has fought against the odds and shown uncommon valour to safeguard the fate of nations. I notice that “Final Sacrifice” a European production is festooned with emblematic wreaths whilst “Pathfinders” a US straight to video affair has no such commendations. There was a time when the fact that a film had won awards would have swayed my choice but now seemingly every low budget European film has won some plaudit or another. On closer inspection the awards engender little confidence. “Official selection Frimley Film Festival” is not the Oscars just as “Shortlisted for Les Ballons D’Or de le Chien at the Ghent Film Festival” is not going to have anyone snatching the film of the shelf. Then I spot it. “Final Sacrifice” claims to have been 7 years in the making. This isn’t just another formulaic war flick this is a labour of love, this is art. I sit down and ready myself to appreciate this classic piece of cinematography.

Out of a sense of deep loyalty to those who follow my blog and because I’m sure Mark Kermode will not be covering this particular release, I will tell you what happened in the 81 minute film it took the Director 7 years to finish so that you don’t have to go through the same experience:

A small band of battle weary German soldiers are fighting a rearguard action in Northern Italy. They are being harassed by local partisans and American air raids which result in one of their number losing a leg. They are reinforced by a group of untried Italian troops led by a charismatic Captain Correlli type who appears to have spent the war in an eat all you want pasta buffet. The Germans and Italians do not get on and come to blows. They continue to be harassed by partisans and air raids until a messenger arrives and tells the officer commanding the German troops that the Americans are advancing, the rest of the German army is retreating but he and his men are to hold their position to the last man. The German officer who is demoralised by all the harassment he and his men have suffered asks for two volunteers and orders the rest of his men to join the retreat. One can sense that things are going to end badly when one of the volunteers is the one legged man who is at this point hobbling around on a crudely made crutch that looks like it was made by Fred Flintstone. The Italians form up and march off without a backward glance and the German officer and his two comrades ready themselves for their act of senseless sacrifice. At this point I prepare myself for scenes of heroic resistance against overwhelming odds as the Germans hurl back vastly superior American forces. Instead I watch as the heroes are speedily overwhelmed and killed inflicting minimal casualties on their attackers.

As the camera focuses on their dead bodies the final credits begin to roll and I am left thinking “how could this possibly have taken 7 years?” There is no narrative arc, no resolution, what were they doing? And then I think of some of the projects I have begun in the past seven years and I mellow. As I put the DVD in its case and earmark it for the charity shop I wonder whether I should put some laurel wreaths on my blog to entice readers. Perhaps not.

ROAD MAP OF A MID-LIFE CRISIS (8)

CONFERENCE DIARY 2

WEASEL BLOUSE

For the benefit of those who did not read my last blog or for those who did but suffer short term memory loss I will recap. My boss has asked me to deliver a speech at a conference being held in Belgrade. My preparation has been far from ideal culminating in a late night drinking session with some of my fellow delegates. Read on.

Thursday morning in central Belgrade: The hangover from last night’s outing rattles through my head like a Siberian draught blowing in an empty room. Today I will represent the company and speak authoritatively on “Implementing a system of internal controls.” Word of my assured performance will filter back to the office and I will be marked out as a candidate for advancement. At least that was the plan but as I take my seat at the front of the hall the fear joins forces with the after effects of too much alcohol so that I am coated in a fine film of perspiration.

I look out at my audience who are equipped with headphones to allow for simultaneous translation from Serbo-Croat to English and vice-versa. They look like Cybermen. Through the double doors at the side of the hall I spy Eva and Carlos with whom I was drinking last night. They are giggling over cups of the thick black coffee that is being served to delegates. Towards the front of the audience I spot Xavier. He waves to me and I am relieved that he appears not to have taken to heart the jokes I made at his expense in the early hours of this morning.

All too quickly the audience are asked to take their seats and we begin. Our Serbian host gives a short introduction before handing over to the first speaker who is a Japanese Professor of Economics. He talks in English on the subject of “Reducing Regulatory Risk,” a subject that is quite as riveting as it sounds and enlivened only by the speaker’s inability to pronounce the letter “r” which emerges from his lips as “l”. As he draws to a conclusion I feel a rising sense of dread that is only partly eased by the audience’s polite applause. And then I am on.

I give my presentation aware of a nervous tremor in my voice and an unsteadiness in my hand as I turn the pages of my speaking notes. The bored thousand yard stares of the audience only add to my discomfort but suddenly I find myself on the last page and a wave of relief sweeps over me as I finish speaking. There is a slight delay as the translation catches up and then there is a round of applause. I take a sip of water and sit back triumphant. The host turns to me and asks whether I will take questions. I can hardly refuse and so I nod as if it is a matter of no consequence to me one way or the other. The invitation to ask questions meets general indifference until Xavier raises his arm and is invited to put his question.

“Can you tell us please, what is your policy for weasel blouse?” asks Xavier.

The audience look at me expectantly as I flounder. “Sorry can you repeat the question?” I ask.

“Yes. How do you deal with weasel blouse?” asks Xavier deadpan and then I get it. This is some sly Iberian revenge for the sleights suffered last night. Xavier wants to humiliate me in front of this audience. Well I have news for you my cunning Spanish amigo, I do not buckle under pressure. I smile to let Xavier know I am onto his little joke and then I say, “We are very relaxed about blouses for weasels and we also permit waistcoats for ferrets”. I am feeling pleased with the rapier like speed of my riposte when I note the look of horror on the faces of certain members of the audience and the total bewilderment on the faces of others and as I register all of this it suddenly occurs to me with an awful clarity what in fact Xavier was asking. Xavier wanted to know how we treat whistleblowers.

The host intervenes and voices some perfunctory thanks for my presentation and we break for coffee. As I leave the stage nobody wants to catch my eye and with almost indecent haste a taxi is found to take me to the airport. The car is small and of Eastern European origins so that the engine noise is deafening as we travel along the main road to the airport. I feel like I am fleeing the scene of some terrible crime and I welcome the distance I am putting between myself and the spot where doubtless people are shaking their heads in disbelief at my crass stupidity. I pray that Newman does not get to hear of what has happened and I mentally shelve my plans for a leather executive chair.

ROAD MAP OF A MID-LIFE CRISIS (7)

ROAD MAP OF A MID-LIFE CRISIS (7)

CONFERENCE DIARY Part I

"Hope in reality is the worst of all evils, because it prolongs the torments of man." So wrote Frederich Nietszche a man who knew a thing or two about life’s disappointments.

I am at my desk when I get a summons to the top floor. As I travel up in the lift I rack my brain trying to think of what I might have done wrong but I needn’t have worried. As I enter his office, Newman cracks what for him counts as a smile. It seems that I have been selected to represent the office at a compliance conference to be held overseas. My mind struggles to compute what impact this will have on my prospects for promotion whilst simultaneously imagining a host of potential far flung, exotic venues. I am to give a presentation on the snappily titled subject, “Implementing a system of internal controls”. Newman spends a lot of time impressing upon me the significant opportunity he is presenting me with. I nod dumbly. By the time he is drawing to a close I am mentally packing the sun tan lotion and choosing the décor for my new executive office, so it takes a little while for it to sink in when Newman announces that my destination is Belgrade.

I land in Belgrade at midday and take a taxi to the hotel. Goran, my driver, is a valuable source of local information despite his limited English. From him I learn that Serbs love Chelsea football club, that it is difficult doing business in Serbia because of interference from corrupt politicians and that as I have no wedding ring I will have no trouble attracting one of Belgrade's many lovely women. I thank Goran and decline his offer of help on this last matter. He charges me 3000 dinar (roughly £25).

After checking in at the hotel I have four hours to kill. I decide to explore my surroundings and heading out with no particular plan I find myself at Belgrade's fortress which houses the military museum. Having paid roughly 80 pence I learn that Serbia has experienced many rulers and invasions by foreign powers. The Romans were followed by the Celts, the Slavs and the Turks. All of these peoples brought with them large pointy bits of metal to kill the locals. I also get a crash course in Serbia's 20th century history and conclude that the military museum is much better value than Goran.

On the way back to the hotel I am on the lookout for replica football kits to take home for Emile and Oscar. Tucked away on a back street I find a stall that has counterfeit Red Star and Partizan tops. The stall holder who has a lit cigarette surgically fixed to his lips tells me that he visited London for 2 weeks in 1976 and that he loves Chelsea. I buy 2 Red Star tops and he throws in 2 pairs of shorts for good measure.

Back at the hotel I smarten up for the evening reception. I consider adding the finishing touches to my speech but think better of it. I meet with the other delegates in the hotel lobby and we are taken in a convoy of coaches to the Royal Palaces on the outskirts of Belgrade where we receive a guided tour. The palaces were built in the 1920's by King Alexander and following the Royal Families exile in 1941 were used by Yugoslavia's communist leaders. We see the damage caused by NATO bombing in 1999 (an obvious sore point) and I am surprised to learn that the Serb Republic still has a Royal Family. Even more surprisingly His Royal Highness the Crown Prince and his wife are present to meet us. I line up for the group photo with HRH. I am really impressed at the trouble our Serb hosts are taking to make us welcome. There is only one problem. It is now 9 o'clock and there is no sign of food other than the trays of rather uninspiring cocktail snacks circulating around the room.

At 10 o'clock coaches arrive to pick us up and drop us back in the centre of Belgrade. I consider an early night so that I am fresh for my big speech in the morning but I’m persuaded, rather too easily, to join a group who are having a drink in a bar. My companions are a cosmopolitan bunch. Pieter is Dutch, Eva is German and flirts outrageously with Carlos who epitomizes the stereotype of hirsute, Argentine machismo. The final member of the group is Xavier, a Catalan whose English is heavily accented. As the drinks follow one after the other into empty stomachs inhibitions recede and soon we are laughing and joking like old friends.

I would like to be able to say that from our time together we each learn something valuable about the others’ culture and background. Unfortunately, and I’m not proud of this, I find myself, in imitation of Xavier, doing impressions of Manuel from Fawlty Towers. Xavier appears to take this in good part and the others present seem amused but it may well be they are simply embarrassed on Xavier’s behalf. Whatever, we finish up at about 3 am and make our way back to the hotel parting as friends. The finishing touches to the speech will have to wait until the morning. (To be continued..)

ROAD MAP OF A MID-LIFE CRISIS (6)

RMOAMLC (6)

OTHERWISE OCCUPIED

It’s Monday morning and joy of joys I have an out of office meeting in Ludgate Circus. I have left myself plenty of time to spare and exit the tube at Bank to walk the remainder of the way. As I walk along Cheapside it occurs to me that I haven’t met up with Julian for a while so I call him.

“Hi Julian, its Olly.”

“Olly, I was going to call you.”

“Well what do you know I’ve saved you the trouble. I was wondering if you wanted to meet up this week.”

“Definitely. Love to. What did you have in mind?”

“I thought we could have a few beers and get a curry,” I venture.

There is a definite pause at the other end of the line. It is pregnant with unease. “I’m not sure I fancy that,” says Julian.

I’m taken aback. “Well what do you want to do instead?” I ask.

“I’m not sure really. I just don’t fancy beer and curry.”

It just goes to show you never really know another person. Julian and I always have beer and curry. Sometimes if we're in a rush we might skip the curry but I thought we held a shared belief that beer and curry represented the zenith of human social interaction. “What’s wrong with beer and curry?” I ask unable to keep a slight edge of petulance out of my voice

“There’s nothing wrong with it as such,” says Julian sounding defensive.

“’As such?’ ‘As such?’” I repeat, “We always have beer and curry what’s changed?”

“Well if you must know,” says Julian, I’m tired of waking up with a thick head and a bad stomach.”

I’m forced to pause and consider these points. There is more than a grain of truth in his objection but before I can acknowledge this Julian goes on, “And I’m fed up of waking in the middle of the night with a raging thirst because of all the salt…..” This too is something I am familiar with but there is more, “..And we always end up talking shit…”

“But its entertaining shit,” I interject hoping Julian will laugh and realise how petty his objections sound but he is warming to his subject and is not about to be deflected.

“…And the last time we went out I fell asleep on the train and woke up at the end of the line. It cost me £50 to get home by taxi…..”

“Well you can’t complain if you have to pay the idiot tax,” I joke.

“…And Tamzin made me sleep on the sofa when I got in and didn’t speak to me for 2 days.”

“Well that’s marriage for you,” I say in what I hope is a sympathetic tone.

“Oh it’s alright for you. No wonder you’re separated.”

This last comment brings the conversation to a juddering halt as we both realise that Julian has crossed an invisible line.

“I’m sorry I shouldn’t have said that last bit.”

“Don’t mention it,” I say magnanimously. “So let me just summarise where we are. You are suggesting that just because it gives you a headache, bad stomach, disturbed sleep, makes you talk nonsense, renders you incapable of alighting from a train at the correct stop, costs you £50 and damages your relationship with your wife this somehow outweighs the positive sensations you get from the complex matrix of delights that is created when you mix beer and curry.” I’m confident that striped down and stated starkly like this Julian will see the folly of his position.

“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying,” says Julian seemingly blind to the obvious flaws in his case.

I try another tack. “So what do you suggest we do?”

“I don’t know,” says Julian, “I haven’t given it much thought.”

I seize on this. “Well you seem to have given an awful lot of thought to the negatives,” I pause to let this well made point sink in, “I simply thought that if you were going to suggest that beer and curry  was somehow deficient as a night out you might have taken time to consider how we might improve on it.”

“We could have a coffee,” proffers Julian apologetically.

I snort derisively, “Oh yes, let’s buy Vespas and pinch young girls’ bottoms while we’re at it.”

“Well, like I say I haven’t really given it much thought,” says Julian.

“Obviously!”

“Surely as two mature adults we could conceive of some alternative way of spending the evening,” implores Julian.

“The floor is all yours,” I say, “You name it and we’ll give it a go.”

“Oh I don’t know,” sighs Julian with a resigned air, “how about we meet at the Red Lion?”

“Great idea,” I answer triumphantly and as I approach St Paul’s Cathedral and ring off I can almost taste the chicken biryani. Out of idle curiosity I decide to visit the collection of tents that house the Occupy London protest. On my inspection it appears that capitalism can sleep safely in its bed. The tightly packed tents seem to significantly outnumber those visibly protesting. A young man is labouring energetically to produce a sound from two small hand drums and another man is producing a very proficient depiction of St Pauls on the pavement using chalks. Neither of these two exertions seems likely to bring the existing world order to its knees so I turn my attention to the sheets of agitprop taped to every available wall in the vicinity. I’m reading a fascinating polemic against the global conspiracy of bankers and have just reached the point where I‘m invited to consider the works of David Icke for further information on the subject when I am approached by a woman wearing a woolly hat. “You a banker?” she asks.

“No,” I reply. The woman seems a little disappointed. “Would it matter if I was?” I ask helpfully.

“Course it would. Bankers are why we’re in the mess we’re in.”

I suspect that Woolly Hat could talk at some length on this topic and so, hoping to throw her off her stride, I launch a pre-emptive strike. “Surely bankers are not solely responsible,” I say. She looks at me with a mixture of pity and dismay and emboldened by her evident surprise I go on, “Our current problems are symptoms of far bigger issues; it is a feature of our economic system that there will be cycles of boom and bust.”

“Exactly!” says Woolly Hat and now it is my turn to be surprised. I’m not quite sure how I come to be in agreement with this woman. “The whole system is corrupt, it needs to be changed,” she asserts stridently.

“So you are advocating that we do away with capitalism are you?” As I ask my question I am confident that Woolly Hat does not realise the rhetorical trap I’m setting for her.

“Most definitely,” she responds.

“Right, and what do you say we should put in its place?” I ask.

I haven’t given it much thought,” replies my interlocutor.

“Ha! I thought as much,” I comment and as I head to my meeting I congratulate myself on not one but two victories for cool headed reason over the perils of woolly thinking in the course of a single morning.

ROAD MAP OF A MID-LIFE CRISIS (5)

RMOAMLC

LIVES OF THE ARTISTS No. 1

Listen to the news, read a paper or speak to friends and you would believe that any time you go on-line your personal information is available to anyone who cares to see it; millions of people just sitting in front of their screen waiting on your every key stroke. Fear not, I have the answer to your internet security concerns. Publish all your personal data in a blog and then be assured that nobody will be remotely interested in it. If you are reading this congratulate yourself on being part of a select band. I appreciate that blogging is very noughties and that I ought to be Tweeting but when I started I had hoped that my audience wouldn’t all fit in my car.

Not that small can’t be beautiful; I am very grateful to my American readership and would like to thank you both for your loyalty. It has occurred to me that perhaps you are sitting in some CIA reading room like Robert Redford in Three Days of the Condor. If you are, let me assure you that I have no plans to subvert the world order but please don’t let that deter you from continuing to read this blog. I need all the followers I can get and there are more laughs in this than in an Islamist chat room.

Appreciating what it is to be ignored I have decided to pay homage to other artists who were unappreciated in their own time in a series of profiles entitled “Lives of the Artists”.

****************************************************************************************

  

Claude Beaudaire

“Absinthe makes the heart grow fonder,” is perhaps the best known of

Beaudaire’s many bon mots. The man whose passion for life was exceeded only by his capacity for vast quantities of industrial strength alcohol is little known now but in his time his light shone as brightly as any of the famed artists of the Paris demi-monde. A voracious and undiscerning lover of women he was a habitué of the Moulin Rouge and friend of the artistic elite. Paul Cezanne said of him “He sees the world through the eyes of a child and paints it with the hands of an arthritic blacksmith.” Toulouse Latrec is said to have commented, “I look up to Monsieur Beaudaire”.

Born in 1854 in the tiny hamlet of Oublie in the Loire Valley, Beaudaire was the youngest of five children. His father an accountant died in a freak accident while  sorting the tax affairs of a local land agent. This incident is seen by many biographers as a defining event in the life of the young Beaudaire. The art historian, Clough, in his work “Bad Impressions”, claims that the painting “Les Livres Sur Mon Pere” was an attempt by the adult Beaudaire to come to terms with the childhood trauma. 

The death of his father left Beaudaire in a female dominated household. His four older sisters and doting mother are said to have dressed the young Claude like a doll. Whatever the emotional consequences of this upbringing, it is plain that as a man Beaudaire was never happier than when in the intimate company of women. In his most famous series of works Beaudaire gives us an uncompromising representation of the female form in a variety of poses. “Tournebroche” (literally translated as “Spit Roast”), as this series of works is generally referred to in artistic circles, was painted between 1880 and 1882 while Beaudaire was at the height of his powers. Many commentators have been struck by the bold application of oil on canvass to create images that are both visceral and visually arresting.

Undoubtedly his unashamedly sexual representation of women meant that Beaudaire’s work never enjoyed a wide audience. While he enjoyed a good deal of fame if not notoriety within the permissive confines of Paris’ artistic community the wider world was subject to a far stricter moral code and his paintings struggled to find an audience.

Beaudaire’s ability to polarise contemporary opinion can be seen in a cutting from the London Daily News from September 17^th 1888. It is reported that a small exhibition of impressionist paintings was held in the Stubbings Gallery in Whitechapel. Beaudaire was among the artists whose work was selected for display. After only a single day the exhibition was picketed by a cross section of local womens, temperance and church groups all professing outrage at the images portrayed in Beaudaire’s work. After some public disorder the gallery suffered fire which was extinguished before it could do serious harm but nevertheless it resulted in the closure of e exhibition.

This event appears to have been a turning point in Beaudaire’s life. Thereafter he struggled to exhibit or sell his work and his life began a downward spiral. He found himself living in a brothel in one of Paris’ poorer quarters. He used the establishment’s employees as models and his paintings reflect the seedier and less glamorous side of life. “Elle non perspirant bien pour une grande femme,” is a striking example of his work in this period. It is interesting to note that much of Beadaire’s work from this time was exchanged for the necessaries of life and his paintings from this time have surfaced in some rather bizarre circumstances.

In 1892 Beaudaire’s health began to deteriorate. This was almost certainly as a result of excessive drinking. He moved to a hospital just outside Paris catering for the long term sick and run by the Sisters of Constant Virtue. Very few paintings from this period of his life remain. Whether Beaudaire was simply unable to work at the same rate as before or whether his work was destroyed after his death cannot be said. The few pictures that we do have suggest Beaudaire, whilst physically unwell washappy in his surroundings. His use of colour at this time is reminiscent of his earlier work and his choice of subject is certainly more spiritual than his previous work. “La Novice,” depicting a young woman in a shift nightdress is thought to be a picture of a novice nun involved in Beaudaire’s care. Whilst chaste in comparison to other work there remains a hint of surpressed carnality that reassures us that Beaudaire’s appetites had not entirely deserted him. Beaudaire died in 1897 and was buried in the small burial ground attached to the hospital in which he spent his final years. There was little interest in his work after his death but in the late 1960’s he enjoyed a brief renaissance his work being favoured particularly by those who espoused free love. His rehabilitation was short lived. Feminist commentators objected to his depiction of women and his work was one more consigned to oblivion. Beaudaire’s work is not on show in any major museum but some examples can be seen in the Town Hall in Oublie, his place of birth. 

ROAD MAP OF A MID-LIFE CRISIS (4)

RMOAMLC (4)

WORDS OF ADVICE

It’s Tuesday morning and I’m on the school run. Ask any parent and they will tell you, modern day education is a minefield of cliques, gangs and bullying. And then there are the kids.  Suburban schools are no longer governed by teachers instead they are run by mothers who control their domain like Chicago gang bosses. Fathers are treated as non-combatants, tolerated and allowed to drop off their offspring just so long as they make sure not to attempt to involve themselves in any aspect of school life.

After several years of regular drop offs I had earned the occasional peremptory “Hello,” or glacial smile from the other parents. That was, of course, until I committed the ultimate suburban sin of leaving home, news of which spread like herpes on a Club 18-30’s holiday. Ever since I have been treated rather worse than a pariah and so, as far as possible, I try to stay away from school.

This morning I am late picking the boys up and I’m in a rush to drop them off. There is an air of tension in the car. “If it’s alright with you I’m going to drop and scoot,” I say trying to sound upbeat. There is a non-committal grunt from the back of the car. “Only I Have a meeting to get to,” I add as if they might be remotely interested. When, finally, we near the school every possible parking space is taken. “Just drop us off here,” says Emil. I do as he suggests and pull onto the pavement where the kerb drops to allow access to the staff car park. The boys collect their bags and get out of the car. I am so busy saying goodbye and waving as they exit from the passenger side of the car that I don’t notice the figure that appears at the driver’s side window and knocks sharply.

My head snaps round to see the stern face of authority. I say “stern face” but in reality the visage gurning at me through the window looks like Mr Potato Head let himself go a bit. I say “authority” but as I wind down the window I notice that what I took to be a police uniform has the tell-tale blue flashings that denote  I’m dealing with a police community support officer. “Good morning sir,” he says in a world weary monotone that manages the neat trick of injecting the word “sir” with total disrespect.

“Morning,” I respond.

“You know what I want to speak to you about?”

“Parking?” I venture apologetically.

“Correct. We do not park on the pavement outside a busy school.”

At this moment I have 3 options:

A          Apologise and point out that I am somewhat pushed for time so could we please take it as read that I am fully contrite, won’t do it again in order that I can get on with my day.

B          Moral outrage that in these lawless times my time and taxes are being expended in this pointless charade.

C         Suck it up.

I play it safe and opt for C.

“I’m not going to issue you with a penalty notice,” says Potato Head and my heart lifts momentarily until he continues, “instead I will be offering you words of advice which I will record on this ticket.” With this he produces a carbonated form about 1 foot long which he proceeds to write upon with all the urgency of a dyslexic with writer’s block. From time to time he asks me to provide some vital information such as my name but for the most part he paces around the car examining it from all angles with an air of grave suspicion while at the same time he talks into his radio.

By now I am acutely aware that this particular piece of theatre is playing out in front of all the parents dropping off their charges to school and that they must think I am involved in a jihadist terror plot or at best am peddling drugs to their children at the school gates. While I’m writhing with embarrassment Potato Head appears once more at the driver’s door. He continues his meticulous written record of our encounter and as he writes I notice a pattern of criss-cross scars on the inside of his left forearm running from his wrist to his elbow at which point his arm disappears into the sleeve of his shirt.

Finally he finishes writing and leans down until his face is level with mine. “Just one more question sir; Are you happy with the way this stop has been conducted?”

I ponder the question. Am I happy to have been publicly humiliated by a charmless cretin who self harms in front of a group of people who need little encouragement to think badly of me for the trifling offence of parking for 30 seconds on the pavement and the now I have to do a customer satisfaction survey? “Yes,” I respond.

Potato Head records my response mechanically before tearing off one of the copies of the ticket which he hands to me. “Have a good day,” he says with no hint of irony.

“Thank you,” I reply in a tone dripping with it but I’m pretty certain it’s wasted effort. 

I HAVE A DREAM

My new found home is reminiscent of the flats that that people who have spent a lot of time in institutional care find themselves in after release. The walls are a uniform magnolia and the carpet, which is fitted everywhere save the kitchen and bathroom, is a suspicious blue that could be hiding any number of grubby secrets. The curtains, which hang limply at the windows, are the colour of old ladies’ support hose and in the bedroom the central lightshade appears to have been fashioned from human skin. It is a dirty yellow colour and at night, when the light is on, it bathes the room in a deathly hue. Perhaps the landlord picked it up from a garage sale at Hannibal Lecter’s place.

 To date I have not done a great deal to make my surroundings more comfortable. I have an inflatable mattress for a bed and a blue, nylon camping chair in the front room. This tends to be where I do most of my deep thinking. Given the Spartan surroundings I am unlikely to be coming up with a new General Theory of Relativity any time soon.

It is unsurprising that I try my hardest not to be at home. Nevertheless, and much to my irritation, the place still gets dirty; especially the bathroom. I strongly suspect that when I lock the door on my way out a hairy tramp climbs in through the window and spends the time I am away sleeping naked in the bath, rousing himself only to scratch furiously. When I return home the bathroom is ankle deep in hair. Things have got so bad that I have given serious thought to buying a vacuum cleaner. Speaking as a man who doesn’t have a TV I am worried that my priorities may be seriously out of whack.

All of this is a long winded explanation of why it is I find myself on a Sunday afternoon in Homebase looking at bathroom accessories.

I am weighing up the competing aesthetic claims of various toothbrush holders. There is a smart if somewhat dull, white, china cup, a shiny black receptacle which I imagine appeals to the type of person who has silk sheets and an unhealthy penchant for leopard print, and then there is a very stylish brushed steel tube. This is without doubt the toothbrush holder for me. It speaks of a certain understated style. It is masculine without being macho, functional and yet it communicates something positive that I can’t quite put my finger on about its owner. It is the Audi of toothbrush holders. I reach it down from the shelf and look at the base to check the price.

And that is when I see it! My toothbrush holder has a name. On the sticky white label alongside the bar code and the seemingly random jumble of numbers is the word “aspirational”.  “Aspirational!” I feel insulted; belittled. Do the people at Homebase really believe that my life is so small, that my horizons are so narrow and my ambitions so limited that I lie in bed at night dreaming of owning a toothbrush holder? When Martin Luther King proclaimed that he had a dream was it that his toothbrush should be contained in a stylish metal cup? No it was not, and while I don’t claim to have such lofty ambitions as MLK I flatter myself that my sights are set slightly higher than the bathroom shelf.

I imagine the chino wearing designers grasping espressos as they clap each other on the back at Homebase HQ. “Oh I think we’ve cracked it this time guys!” they say to each other. “Absolutely smashed it! This is most definitely the toothbrush holder for anybody with the faintest desire for self improvement,” they assure each other. “What shall we call it?” they ask. Then almost simultaneously the same word occurs to each of them and rises from the group as one utterance, “ASPIRATIONAL”. They applaud themselves and decide to nip off to Nandos for a celebratory lunch.

I look at the toothbrush holder. I suppose it is rather neat and if I scrape of the label no-one need ever know that my horizons are defined by my toothbrush holder.

Back home I enter the bathroom. Small balls of hair are rolling across the floor like tumbleweed.  I curse the hairy tramp and put my new toothbrush holder on the sink. I put my toothbrush and toothpaste in the holder and stand back. There is no denying that it looks good. It is a small step on my upward trajectory.