Berberis' World

Thursday, 1st April 2010, Royal Academy of Arts.

The first rule of queuing is don’t do it on an empty stomach. The second rule of queuing is don’t do it on an empty stomach. In the chill of an April morning, standing in an ever-lengthening line of like-minded individuals, shuffling forward no more than a yard or two every ten minutes – envying the half dozen frozen individuals who, having reached the queue’s head, were ushered into the relative warmth of the tented entrance – I realised why everyone else had coffee and nibbles to hand.

By the time I emerged, light-headed and blinking, into the early afternoon, I was famished. In the four hours between, I had the privilege of seeing some of the most wonderful art I have ever set eyes on. Vincent van Gogh, an artist whose work I have admired ever since borrowing a dog-eared paperback copy of the abridged letters from my local library. This was a deeply passionate individual, whose almost compulsively-obsessive attitude to everything he did – his theological studies, his drawing, his painting – was to lead to his increasingly frequent downward spirals into an emotional abyss from which he was, at the end, unable to emerge.

Understanding this, then, quite the most moving exhibit was the unfinished draft of Vincent’s final letter to his brother, Theo. A sheet of yellowing paper on which were several darker stains. The placing of the stains showed how the letter had been folded, presumably tucked in a pocket. On closer inspection, they were clearly not ink, nor water, and nothing similar was present on any of the other letters in the exhibition. A scribbled note, in pencil, written by Theo, indicated that this was the letter found on Vincent the day he shot himself. The stains were blood.

For me, as much as the tiny pencil sketches, the oddly restrained watecolours and the thickly daubed oil on canvas, this small sheet of aging paper with its spidery hand and brown blotches was Vincent van Gogh.

The man himself wrote: “Great things are done by a series of small things brought together.” I’d gone to the RA the day before, deciding against joining the queue when I overheard a guide say the wait was over 2 hours. It was already midday, and I (wrongly) assumed there would be no tickets left by the time I managed to get to the desk. I went earlier on the Thursday. I’m very glad I did. For a man plagued with life-long self-doubt, Vincent was right. Great things…

Sunday, 30th August 2009.

We’ve been married for 23 years today. To celebrate, we went for dinner with our two children at a local restaurant.

Normally, when we eat out we don’t talk. As far as I’m concerned this is almost entirely due to the fact that when I was at primary school the headmaster, Mr Barry, forbade all talking during lunchtime. He would stand behind his desk surveying the children in his charge, making those who spoke stand facing the window at the front of the canteen and therefore unable to finish their meal. You ate in silence and, because you wanted to talk, you ate as quickly as possible so you could get out. Nowadays, kids can run around cafes and restaurants and cinemas and do what the fuck they like, even if it means pissing other people off, because to restrict them is to ‘infringe their human rights’. Bollocks. You want human rights violations? Go to the Imperial War Museum. See how children had their human rights infringed by being starved to death by people allowed to run riot in others’ countries. And then talk to me about kids being able to run riot in restaurants.

Make the little sods sit down and behave themselves. Make them aware of others feelings and opinions. Make them more considerate. Stop them being so fucking selfish and self obsessed. And, while you’re at it, stop indulging their every bloody whim, stop telling them that they’re ‘special’ when they clearly are just average and, for everyone’s sake, stop making them believe that they can be famous when they have no talent for anything except being bloody obnoxious.

We have two kids, both of whom are blessedly normal, i.e. neither of them have learning difficulties or physical or mental problems. For this I am very grateful, as I am well aware that there are children who have huge problems simply being alive. Both ours have been brought up to know right from wrong, to appreciate that other people matter, and to do whatever they do to the best of their ability. Neither have been ‘hot-housed’ or pushed to be more than they are, or berated when they have failed to attain unattainable standards. They are both well-balanced, considerate and happy, and I am thankful for this. I’m glad that neither of them passed a GCSE when they were 6, or got 14 A* GCSEs at their first attempt, because I don’t think I could live with myself for having produced such shallow, results-obsessed people.

I love both our kids unconditionally. I’d like our daughter to find herself a job where she is appreciated for her organisational abilities and people skills, I’d like our son to do well in his GCSEs, but not at the expense of their happiness. If, as they get older, they make mistakes, lose all their money and/or their enthusiasm, I’ll be there to counsel them/bail them out/cheer them up.

Right now, we’re all sitting in the front room, each with a laptop. Part of me thinks this is quite sad, but another part is content that we are, at least, in the same room talking to each other now and again. Which is more than a lot of people do, and certainly more than I and my parents used to do on a Sunday evening. Or any evening, come to that.

There’s not much going on, singing-wise. I’ve been off for a week and haven’t been inclined to do any listening, practice, or even getting drunk and roaring along to Brahms Requiem, which is always a good standby activity. Instead, what I seem to have done most of is laundry, laundry and more laundry. At least the banana yogurt remnants are now gone from the sofa cushion cover.

I’ve also (almost) convinced our 15 year old son to spare whatever small part of his brain is unaffected by the endless and combined stimuli of video games and Red Dwarf re-runs for his GCSE set text, Silas Marner, as read by Andrew Sachs. You can lead a boy to books but, sadly, you cannot make him read.

Or is it Jonathan Sachs? If he ever decides to give up being Chief Rabbi, he should definitely go into audio books.

The most frustrating conversation I’ve had this week (apart from the constant one I have with myself) was with James at whatever call centre deals with our banking queries. Much of the 21 minutes that I was on the telephone was spent navigating their “press 1 for loans, press 2 for complaints, press 3 for limb amputation” system of call misdirecting screening. Once connected to the human being department, James twice tried to sell me insurance and a mortgage, told me that I should not be using my husband’s log-on details to access our joint account – the joint account we had spent all the previous day balancing (me trying to suppress my terror at our increasing overdraft) – and failed three times to answer my actual question. All this and they don’t pay interest on credit balances anymore! Basterds.

After all this I took the train to Charing X, got lost in Soho, had a meal in Eat Tokyo, a drink at The Market Porter (unbelievably busy outside, room to breathe inside) then came home, not really in a drinking mood.

“It’s all bollocks, all of it; astrology, numerology, palm reading, tarot, iridology… All total crap. Don’t believe a word of any of it.”

“You are so cynical! Not even in a slight, could-be-persuaded kind of way, just plain old sceptical through and through.”

“That’s me… don’t believe in any of it.”

“Is it the randomness of it that bothers you? The ‘how can this apply to so many people’ kind of thing?”

“Well, it’s that with the astrology. I mean, how many people are there in the world? Ten billion? Ok, let’s assume it’s six billion for argument’s sake. Now, six billion people, who are all born in an even spread over the twelve months of the year, so we’ve got half a billion people who are born under the sign of … oh, let’s say Aries, just to pick one.”

“And because you’re one.”

“Maybe, don’t interrupt. So, there are half a billion people born under the same sign, all of whom are supposed to have the same personality traits, the same behavioural characteristics. The same physical shape and stuff like that. Are you telling me that if you were to read the daily forecast in the Sun or the Mirror or the Daily Star or whatever rag you read, then every single one of those half a billion people are going to be facing the same kind of day? I think not.”

“Yeah, but the things are so vague that they could apply to any one of them and, depending on how you interpret them, they could apply to all of the six or ten billion people in the world.”

“Your point?”

“Just because it doesn’t apply to you doesn’t mean it doesn’t apply to some of those half a billion. It depends on your interpretation.”

“Which is why they can’t possibly be accurate, because if they were anywhere near the truth they’d have to be about three pages long and cover every single birthday in that month.”

“You’ve had too much to drink and you’re rambling.”

“I’m stuffed. I think we should have stuck at two. Eyes bigger etcetera. Never happened before…”

“Oh, of course not. Like the beers have never happened.”

“Quite. And I think we should avoid the pub on the way home and not go in and drink several more pints of lager.”

“And them we should not go home drunk and put a film on and finish the contents of our drinks cabinet.”

“We don’t have a drinks cabinet.”

“I know that. Perhaps we should have. A pink and green luminous cocktail cabinet, maybe. Filled with the most revolting drinks we can think of.”

“Eggnog and ouzo. Brandy and… oh, let’s see, washing up liquid…”

“You’re disgusting. Can you imagine what that would taste like? Eeeeewww.”

“Yeah, but you wouldn’t have to wash the glass afterwards, would you?”

“Well, on that basis you could have red wine and meths. Or white wine and white spirit. No need to clean the glasses there, either.”

“Exactly. Besides, after two or three of them you wouldn’t actually be able to find the glasses to clean them.”

“Or give a fuck.”

“Or give a fuck indeed. Shall we have some more tea?”

“Yeah, and a couple of fortune cookies. I feel in the need for some papery sugary stuff.”

“Which stabs you in the mouth when you bite into it.”

“Of course. The taste of blood combines so well with the cookie itself.”

“A pleasurable eating experience all round, then.”

“You could say that.”

“I just did.”

“I know. Don’t be so only child.”

“Whaddya mean?”

“You do that only child thing. Whenever I make some off-hand comment about anything you have to analyse it to death and somehow the fun goes out of being sarcastic.”

“Ooooh! Excu-use me.”

“I should think so too. Taking everything so literally. It’s not normal.”

“Well that me, not normal. You’ve met my mother. How can I possibly be normal?”

“Hmm. You said it.”

“Which means that you can’t be normal ’cause you’re here having dinner with me.”

“Good God, so I am! How the fuck did that happen?”

“I got you drunk and got you on a bus.”

“You filthy old sod.”

“Do they have cameras on the upstairs of buses?”

“Chances are, knowing our luck, yes they do. And they are, as we speak, editing the film down for Police Camera Action, or whatever is currently showing the nation how fucking stupid people really are.”

“Police Camera Bollocks, more like. Some of those people on those videos should be sterilised to prevent them breeding.”

“I didn’t have you down for a eugeneticistic.”

“A what? How much have you had?”

“I’d like to know what they put in this tea…”

“It’s gunpowder green.”

“So, gunpowder them. That’s nice. Tastes lovely. Yum yum.”

“Let’s have some more.”

“Okay. Make mine a double.”

“Are you going to finish that duck?”

“Fuck a duck.”

“No thanks. Can I have it?

“You can indeed. It’s out of luck. It’s a fucked duck.”

“Stop it, they’re watching us. We’ll get kicked out.”

“We’re their best customers at this time of day, on this particular day.”

“For eating crispy fucked duck, we are.”

“Here, can we have some more of this?”

“You could say please.”

“Pleeeeeeeease?”

“You’ve embarrassed her now. Poor girl. I’m sorry about him, he’s an idiot.”

“Ah, but you love me.”

“According to our star signs we should be hideously incompatible.”

“We are.”

“Shut up. Now let’s see what that fortune cookie has in store for us. ‘Your destiny lies with a short man with green teeth.'”

“‘Made in China’.”

“Oh right. Like it’s not been brought in from Birmingham or somewhere. Why import these from China?”

“They get a good deal?”

“With the cost of sending them from Birmingham they probably do. I reckon it would cost them less to fly them from China than to send them down the M6.”

“And they’d get here quicker.”

“Of course.”

“So, you still think astrology is crap?”

“I do, and I’d be willing to stake my reputation on it.”

“What reputation? You don’t have one.”

“I could have. I could have a reputation as… ooh, the biggest twat in the world.”

“No you haven’t. I’ve seen it.”

“Gah! Stop that. Maybe I’m the nicest person in Poundstretcher on a Friday afternoon.”

“How hard would that be?”

“That’s unfair. Some of them are alright.”

“Your destiny is to be the most coherent person in the pub in about half an hour’s time.”

“We can soon put a stop to that.”

“As we ought to. You’re brilliant when you’re pissed.”

“You don’t half talk rubbish. How brilliant is anyone when they’re pissed?”

“You get all chatty and flirty and sexy. I like that.”

“You’re just a pervert.”

“Your point?”

“No, don’t have one.”

“Open that bloody cookie then. Let’s have a look. A lookie. A lookie in your cookie.”

“It says…. ‘Made in China’…. no it doesn’t. It says, ‘Made in Brumigham’… no! It actually says… ‘Help, I’m trapped in a fortune cookie!’…”

“No it bloody doesn’t. Don’t piss about. Gimme…”

“Oh go on. Give me that one.”

“Pig.”

“Oink.”

“It says… ‘Donkey’s lips do not fit onto a horse’s mouth.'”

“Eh? Now what the fuck does that mean?”

“It means a donkey won’t kiss a horse.”

“Like bollocks it does. I reckon it means that you can’t… you shouldn’t have botox injections. Or Angelina Jolie’s lips would look stupid on Jeremy Clarkson.”

“Well duh. She’s got nice lips, mind.”

“She’s gorgeous. I’d have her lips. She should give them to me.”

“Then her face would fray. Ugh. Let’s see what this one says… ‘No wind, no waves.'”

“No wind, no bad smell under the duvet.”

“Hmmm. Let’s have a handful more.”

“‘Vicious as a tigress can be, she never eats her own cubs.'”

“Lions do, y’know. If a lion finds some other lion cubs in his pride, he’ll kill them. Did you know that?”

“I know everything.”

“Then why isn’t your brain the size of a planet?”

“It is. Just a very small planet.”

“Liar.”

“I know.”

“What does that one say?”

“‘He who asks is a fool for five minutes, but he who does not ask remains a fool forever.'”

“It depends what you ask, I would think.”

“How about ‘Can we have some more tea’? or ‘Another portion of crispy duck, please’?”

“Would you like me to be sick over the table?”

“That’s not one.”

“Might well as be.”

“Eh?”

“Might as well be, I meant.”

“Fair enough. Here’s one. ‘To know the road ahead, ask those coming back.'”

“Very deep.”

“I liked that fool one, kind of reminds me of something.”

“Oh? What?”

“I wanted to ask you… will you marry me?”

“Where does it say that? Gimme that…”

“It doesn’t. I’m asking you. Will you marry me?”

“Umm… are you serious? Is this the drink talking? Or the duck? Quaack…”

“No, it’s me asking you if you will marry me. Trust you to take the piss…”

“You’re serious. Fuck!”

“Not here. But yes, I’m serious.”

“This one says ‘Be not afraid of growing slowly, be afraid only of standing still.'”

“Yes, but what do you say?”

“Yes.”

“So there is something in this astrology lark then.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You’ve made a decision based on the contents of a sugary papery thing. Some rationalist you are.”

“I never mentioned fortune cookies. I believe in them…”

“That’s fortunate.”

“No, that’s fortune, cookie.”

“That is so bad.”

“But you love me.”

“I do indeed.”

“Shall we toast our good fortune?”

“I thought you’d said yes…”

“Very funny.”

“More tea?”

“No, let’s go to the pub and get really drunk.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Cookie. I like that. I’m going to call you that from now on.”

“You dare.”

“You pay and I’ll take a pee. Meet you downstairs?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“Fuck off.”

“Duck off. Duck’s off.”

“That’s why I feel ill.”

“You do?”

“Don’t be so only child again.”

“I can’t help it.”

“I’ll live with it.”

“Hopefully.”

“I’ve said yes, haven’t I?”

“The fortune cookie said yes. You just agreed with it.”

“I’m bursting. We’ll continue this in the pub.”

“Take your knickers off too.”

“Bollocks.”

My September song is ‘Message In A Bottle’ by The Police.

I can remember where I was the moment I first heard it; in the back room of the house where I lived in Bristol, trying desperately to find an excuse to not revise for my O levels. I was sitting in the bay window which looked out over a courtyard of perhaps fifteen foot by twenty, now paved in cream and pink tiles – quite as awful as it sounds – where there was once a patch of worn turf. Certainly not enough on which to play football, or tennis, or any other sport interesting to a teenager. Tennis was mine. I couldn’t play that in such a confined space, either.

(Just a castaway, an island lost at sea-o…)

We’d moved to the house partly because we needed more space. Three adults and three children in a chalet bungalow was proving claustrophobic, and when one of those adults was keen to relocate in order to avoid village gossip, the excuse of needing more space was the one which was quoted to those who asked why we were leaving behind our 200′ garden with its two pears trees, two plum trees and an apple tree, its vegetable patch and its laburnum, and its seemingly endless privet hedges.

(Anuzzer lonely day, with no one here but me-o…)

Don’t get me wrong; we were in no way rich. We were lucky to have such a marvellous garden, although, as with much that you have and take for granted, you don’t miss it, really miss it with a part of you that never forgets and never quite forgives, until you look out of the bay window and see a cream and pink paved courtyard with no space for even a bonsai tree, let alone a full sized specimen. Small gardens breed pots. Usually plastic and garish, and in no way an adequate substitute for a double-dug bed stuffed with rhubarb. Small gardens have no time for compost heaps, the festering, rotting, multicoloured pile of potato peelings and carrot tops and pea shells and grass clippings  They do not accommodate swings and heavy iron rollers and miles and miles of washing line for the Widow Twankee amount of laundry done every Monday, as regular as clockwork.

(More loneliness than any man could bear…)

Courtyards require washing to be hung high, on display to all who care to look out of their back windows and purse their lips at yet another load of jeans and tee-shirts and sheets and pillowcases. Where other households dried their washing was a mystery. Perhaps they all took it up to the launderette. Courtyards are no place for bicycles and motorbikes and dustbins, there is no room for sheds and workbenches and other things that a large garden can hide in its lush foliage, or conceal behind tree trunks and bushes.

(Rescue me before I fall in to despair-o…)

At that time, Radio 1 ended transmission at 5.45 pm, following a fifteen minute news programme called ‘Newsbeat’. The DJ for the final show before this, in September 1979, was ‘Kid’ Jensen. I don’t remember his first name, but he was called ‘Kid’ because he was young. He came from Canada, and his was an exotic voice on what was still a RP-filled station. I’d heard the song before but not really taken much notice of it, not the way I do now with songs that catch my ear. Then, if it sounded good, the words didn’t really matter. Now, the words matter more than the tune and even the most perfectly structured melody in the universe will not redeem lyrics which speak of anger and violence and abuse.

(I’ll send an S.O.S to the world…)

I don’t really know what it was about this particular day, about this particular time it was played, but something in the lyrics, something in the tune, touched a nerve and I can see still the old sofa bed – dark green and rough-textured – that stood under the bay window, cushions which didn’t match it or each other arranged, diamond-like, along its back. It was the same sofa that had stood in the front room of our old house, against the wall opposite the window, the heavy, clunking, hard sofa which was used by my father whilst my mother took the bed in the back room.

(I hope that someone gets my message in a bottle…)

Anyone who really knows me will know me now. I’m not sure if I’m still on that island, lonely, sending out an S.O.S, my message in a bottle, hoping to be rescued before I fall into despair. I like to think that I’m not, that my message was received and understood. There are times, though, as the days grow shorter and the leaves begin to turn and the air carries with it the unmistakeable chill of autumn, that my September song comes to mind and I’m back in that room, looking out onto that courtyard and seeing, in my mind’s eye, 200′ of grass and green and fruit trees.

And I send out another S.O.S. Just in case no one was listening the first time.