Spot the cliches!
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times in a very real sense.Mary dreamed Stan was in heaven enjoying the company of Wittgenstein,Jesus and Pascal , not to mention Lady Jane Grey Ann of Cleves,Juliet,Cleopatra and an angel.At least at this point in time he can’t sleep with them ,she thought as she woke up.Though did that matter? Can men be faithful and monogamous? Look at Leonard Cohen.Was he better off flitting from flower to flower? Was he so stunning that women threw themselves at him and he could not resist?Sometimes people are actuallyafraid of intimacy or feel life is short and want some new experiences.Was he a wolf? It t akes one to know one
It was indeed almost the worst of times when Mary remembered she had no food in the house except cat food for Emile.He was all she had now as her daughter Lyra lived in Australia and Stan was in heaven, she hoped.
Here I am, she thought, pondering unanswerable questions and not looking after myself .It is probably best to err on the side of buying food and going out rather than lying in the bed wondering if life has any inherent meaning. or if we must create our own.
Even discussing that with someone else would be better.But men folk don’t want to discuss serious topics with their lovers.
It was an even worse time when she recalled a man who once loved her leaving her because she asked him if he knew what post-modernism was one night after going to the cinema to see a comedy.She realised then that she would have to play a part,To act like a woman.So far it was but moderately successful owing to her myopic view of life
If only I had kept quiet, she told herself,I could be lying beside him now enjoying a few kisses and hugs and asking him how to light the electric fire.Still ,there’s many a slip twixt cup and lip
Now then, said a loud voice.Stop ruminating and get up. One stitch in time saves nine.
Who are you to say that to me, she called nervously ?She wondered of stress had driven her round the bend.She had begun reading a book which said mental illness in not an illness like flu.It is a reaction to bad events and other life strains.
It doesn’t matter who I am,just do as I say, came the answer
Mary recognised the voice.It was her dad who had died when she was 9.
Dad, she called, why are you here now?
Because Jesus told us to love our family, he revealed pleasantly.
Why now after all these years? she persisted.I have missed you.
I always did have a bad sense of direction,he told her.But do as I say.You won’t recover easily if you never get up.Stan is here but he is busy cleaning the gold cutlery for an angel.
Alright, but I never knew there was cutlery up there, she murmured as she put on her new clothes.She had bought some purple trousers and two new jumpers.One was pink and one was teal.The trousers were exceptionally comfortable being in a last years sale by a famous label..She then found some Weetabix in the cupboard and some long life milk.As she drank her tea she admired the acer’s brilliant red leaves.
Almost too bright, she thought.It’s due to the hot September.Plants are affected by their environment and so are we.Especially by bad or hot tempered men and women
Poor people may have more than in the past but they tend to live in the ugliest areas of the town with no gardens nor parks.
And seeing the better off walk by wearing expensive clothes it is surprising there are not even more muggings.
She recalled seeing a man with a Rolex watch and gold earrings on talking on his new iPhone as he wandered through the Mall.I suppose we think everybody else is like us; we don’t mix with very poor or very rich people on the whole.Unless we are one of those two types.
Mary went outside and found a neighbour wheeling in her bins.
Thanks ,Tom, she cried.I wondered who it was.I am very grateful.What is post modernism,by the way?Nobody will tell me.
Emile was watching from the window sill.
I knew it was Tom, he mewed.
But you didn’t tell me,Mary replied.
You didn’t ask.
Tom wandered off ,while Mary admired the autumn trees lining the road.Tom turned back and looked at her but she didn’t notice.
Time for coffee, she muttered and went inside again.She was embroidering a table mat which said “Rumination is for the birds”.Where it had come from was a puzzle.
How my heart sings 