dog. He did a lot of shuffling and spent a long time examining the floral clock. Its hands are planted in a white succulent and are impressive against the blue forget-me-nots of the clock face.
I turned to watch him leave and noticed a new message scrawled in pink on the brick wall near the entrance. I did not know who had left the graffiti but it must have been someone with a civic conscience because it had been written in chalk: ‘THE TIME HAS COMETH FOR ALL THE GOOD MEN.’ Each capital letter had been written in a very firm hand and the choice of ‘COMETH’ was unusual. The author was clearly a passionate, even biblically–minded person.
This was the second message I had found in the rose gardens within two days. The first was a piece of paper with a single word, ‘Beefeater’, written in curly handwriting and attached to the mesh fence outside the urinal. The paper had been pleated lengthways and neatly tied to the wire with a single, flattened knot. It is a custom in Japan to leave such paper messages outside Buddhist temples. This is done to invite good fortune or ward off bad luck. The Japanese are a very pragmatic people but they are also highly superstitious. This is called a paradox and cannot be easily explained.
Another person might not have noticed the messages in the rose gardens but the written word has uncommon appeal for me. When I enter a building, I read ‘Push’ on the door handle out loud in my mind. I have seen people idly step over a crisp bag on the pavement while I pause to read ‘Enjoy the tongue-curling pleasure of tangy salt and vinegar.’
I have a file for FOUND WORDS in a subsection of my OBSERVATIONS ring binder. This binder is organised in chronological order and begins with an entry on December sixth of last year: ‘Mr Chin changed the locks today. The newsagent put up a new window display of birthday cards decorated with pressed flowers. No one knew it was my birthday.’
My mother would have described a window display of birthday cards on someone’s birthday as a coincidence. I have stopped using that word because it implies chance events in a random existence and, as I have already noted, life does not follow a random or even logical course.
The author B. Sigmund Pappenheimer believes that the meaning of life is to find the meaning of life, which is one of those ideas like infinity that I find difficult to grasp. If I think about it too long I get an empty feeling behind my sternum, which is the long flat bone located in the centre of the chest. You should avoid being punched on the sternum because the bone can shatter and puncture the lungs. Professional boxers take this risk every time they enter the ring. Boxing is a dangerous activity, like riding a motorcycle without a helmet. It is not something I plan to take up in the future. I think punching does more harm than good.
I am a big fan of B.S. Pappenheimer’s series ‘Nuggets of Life’, and own all eight of his books. These I bought by mail order from a PO box address. The books have a small paragraph inside the back cover, which explains that B.S. Pappenheimer is a Troubadour Philosopher with a PhD in Philosophology from an American university. It also says that he is a recluse and lives at an unknown location. It is unfortunate that B.S. Pappenheimer does not have a real address. I would like to meet him or at least write to him and discuss his theories. His ideas are challenging for someone without training in philosophology but his writing is very compelling.
Here is a quote from his latest book, Wheels Within Wheels: ‘Seen from above, the world is a swirling ball of dust. Its inhabitants, a wriggling swamp of DNA curls.’ His writing is very poignant and I would not be surprised if he won a Nobel Prize one day. He certainly makes me put on my thinking cap and that has to be a good thing.
The world was a lot more confusing for me before I created my OBSERVATIONS ring binder and began organising my thoughts. At least now I recognise certain patterns in human behaviour. But recognising is not the same as understanding or engaging, as well I know. For as long as I can remember, I have felt suspended over human society in a Perspex pod. This is quite an isolated position, and while my separateness poses no obstacle to observation and information-gathering, I still have a long way to go in terms of understanding human nature.
I have now compiled substantial character profiles of nearly everyone I know and it makes me aware of just how unusual people can be. I have learned that everyone has at least one tic that would be considered unusual if you read about it in an encyclopaedia. For example, Mr Chin likes to clean his ears with a paper clip. He does this at least once a day with his eyes closed and his lips pursed into a point. I have seen the paper clip he uses. It is always the same one and it has been half unbent to allow deeper penetration. This may sound like a strange if not dangerous habit but Mr Chin is a successful businessman and is not the least bit self-conscious about cleaning his ears this way.
One of my mother’s tics was to take on a completely different personality when she visited Mr Da Silva’s butcher’s shop. As she entered, her top lip would stop moving and she would use only the bottom half of her mouth to talk. This made her sound like Marlon Brando’s Don Corleone but she never did anything violent or illegal like the cinematic character. When she was in the butcher’s shop, she would act in a very respectful manner and give the various meats the same attention that a nun would give the Bible.
I have not heard from my mother for over half a year since she left to marry a sheep farmer in New Zealand called Barry Bunker. They met through a dating service for bachelor farmers and enjoyed a whirlwind romance over the telephone. Pastoral life has its advantages but it can be a lonely and isolated existence. Mr Bunker sent photos of his farm to my mother who was impressed with its acreage and sheep population. The farm was located in hill country and a one-hour tractor ride from its closest neighbour.
My life has been a lot simpler since my mother left. She was a fierce woman and believed she knew best about raising a child despite having never received formal training or supervision. When I was five years old, she launched a campaign to stop me biting my nails. Her method involved creeping up behind me and slapping my hand away from my mouth. This approach did not stop my nail biting but it did prompt a twitch to develop on one side of my face. The twitch went away once she lost interest and ceased her campaign.
Nail biting has always given me genuine pleasure but like all good things, you can take it too far. It was Mr Chin who pointed out that the habit had gone on long enough.
‘This chew, chew, chew get on my nerve,’ he said.
‘It’s a nervous habit,’ I said. ‘From childhood.’
‘Rolling of drawer not from childhood. Rolly, rolly, rolly always and constantly get on my nerve.’
He was referring to my habit of opening and shutting my large file drawer at least one hundred times a day. I knew it was one hundred times because I kept a written tally. Again, this was something that gave me pleasure. The metal drawer was heavy but extremely well-designed. Its small plastic wheels made a delightful whir as they moved quickly along their metal guide rails, never catching or jamming.
‘Sorry.’
‘Sorry not enough.’ Mr Chin shook his head and handed me a copy of the town’s free newspaper, the Cockerel. ‘You need a kind of hurdy-gurdy man with pendulum that swing. Best quality gurdy man from Hong Kong. But beggar not chooser.’
On the back page, he had circled an advertisement in the Classifieds: ‘Harrison Tanderhill, Registered Hypnotherapist and Master Chakraologist Imperial Grade A. Put yourself in the hands of an expert. Will cure addictions, perversions and overeating.’
I was interested in the addictions part.
2
I must have had expectations because I was disappointed when I arrived at the address. Mr Tanderhill lived on a service road running parallel to Industry Drive. This was not a very attractive setting for a professional therapist. His brick bungalow looked rundown and lonely beside all the warehouses, car-sales yards and showrooms.
In the days when Britain used to produce things, Industry Drive was the pride of the town and was called the ‘Golden Mile’. You can see how it once looked at the photo display in the council annexe building. The photos show smoke pumping out of chimneys and busy conveyor belts inside battery and bottle factories, men in overalls inspecting