Habeas Corpus

I passed the two weeks that elapsed between the out of the blue phone call and last Monday in an aimless fugue. It would not be a lazy metaphor to say that I was like a pilot in a thick fog. Landing was out of the question but so was knowing where I was going ... or knowing when I was about to arrive. I was, however, in little doubt that when the moment of arrival came, I would have no problem noticing. Which is sort of ironic in a squaring the circle kind of way because I began this blog with the idea that armageddon was somehow lurking beyond our species' perceptual horizon; that we could sense it and that we were waiting with patient resignation for its arrival.

That was me alright on Monday. I had crawled out of bed and found very little in the way of motivation for anything. My living conditions, having for a time emerged from a heavy dose of bekippling that had required some serious trips to the municipal dump and recycling centre, not to mention industrial quantities of bleach, had returned to the squalid mess that I find so hateful and depressing. I had a mother-in-law who was a depressive. She was probably bi-polar and she rode waves and troughs in line with her weight. Depressed she would stop eating and get skinny. Skinny, her mood would elevate and this would encourage further mood-boosting activity like buying a new wardrobe. Then the bills arrived and bang! Back to the pits! I'm somewhat the same with mess and housework. Clean me up and I get happy; let me get too happy and I go out to buy stuff. Stuff gets dirty, clutters up the cupboards, and that makes me feel bad. As soon as I start feeling bad I figure the best solution is leave it alone for a day ... I'll definitely feel more like cleaning up tomorrow. (I know I won't, but I'm the only one who doesn't believe my outrageous lies and anyway by the time I get to stage of lying to myself I am beyond caring.

Perversely, as these things go, I had finally succeeded in turning down my jumping at shadows threshold, having passed the last ten days leaping out of my skin every time I heard a bump or thump. I failed to hear the EP breaking into my back garden. The first indication that I was not the only human being on the property was a loud and vigorous rapping at the window followed quickly by some violent crashing at the back door. Cautiously I looked around the edge of the curtain and saw the EP (with his wife in tow) in the back yard. He was engaged in some strenuous activity that seemed intended to kick his way through the back door. That then was my chuckle number one. Kicking down the door would have expensive and time consuming consequences. The door however had a cat door installed in a knock-out panel. Easier and cheaper to get past. Never one to be slow on the uptake, I quickly apprehended that the EP was one extremely pissed-off chappie and that he was therefore beyond reason and unpredictable.

Wanton damage is not an activity I live with happily. I hate to see it and I so rarely have been a party to it I am genuinely stuck for an example ... I must have done something once or twice, but then it was probably more accidental than deliberate. I headed for the back door. The EP spotted me on the other side of the glass and ordered me to open the door. Yeah! Like I felt there was a choice; open it or wait for it crash in still bolted and hinged to it's frame. (And given the ant activity in the neighboring brickwork It wouldn't have surprised me if half the wall wouldn't have come down with the door ... but that's a conjectural luxury I can only dream about.

As soon as the door was open he was inside and shouting demands for information concerning the bike. Where was it? Etc. If the sudden presence in my house of two angry shouting people hadn't been so intimidating the situation would have been quite funny. Whatever the man's suspicions wasn't there even a trace of a possibility that the bike had in fact just been stolen by passing opportunist criminals? His mindless anger and his unreasonably accurate landing on the truth was ... well, irksome. Plan A had called for denial of everything. There wasn't a plan B. I created one on the spot.

"I sold it," I said. I flounced away, mainly in the hope of avoiding another spit-shower. Why do angry folks need to shout into people's faces? I do not know what reply he had expected and I guess I'll never know. It hurts to think that he maybe anticipated hearing that I'd had it crushed, or even that I had acted out of spite. It wasn't spite that motivated me. It was actually a a feeling for the machinery. I don't have much in the way of empathy for machines but there is great historical and cultural value in old bits of engineering and even if I don't share it directly I can sense and acknowledge that cherishing and preserving such material is a worthwhile activity.

The fact is that more than 15 months had elapsed since I had last heard from him, and that only by telephone. During that time I had been to some pretty dark and dingy pits of despair. During that time I had lost a raft of computer and cell phone records and in consequence had no way of contacting the silly arse anyway. During that time he had known that I was depressed because I had told him I was under treatment at the time of last contact. For all he knew I was dead ... by my own hands or by neglect. In all that time neither he, nor the new Mrs EP, had once made an effort to check upon the security and status of his property — not the real estate, not the metal stored inside it. And now, suddenly I am to be made the scapegoat for his careless complacency? Well, yes it seems I was. Oh well, my shoulders are broad.

Over the following ten minutes I was accused of a lot of things. Most were untrue and most of the rest were founded in false assumptions. Me? I figured I'd said enough already. I was given the rest of the day to get my "stuff" and get out of there! I didn't take that too seriously, but only a fool shows a hand before needs be. I said I'd be gone by the end of the week — I'd had what I wanted, thank you very much, I didn't need to stick around now. No sir!

They left, taking a key with them. Fair enough. They said they were going to see a lawyer to see about sorting out the financial mess I had "created" ... er, excuse me, isn't all of this in your name, sunshine? It wasn't me who fucked off to the Wildnerness leaving behind debts that you have never acknowledged but luckily for you are not the arrestable kind. While they were gone I made some urgent phone calls. I was a bit tearful at times. It was shock, I guess. Within an hour I had a removal company booked to arrive at 10am on Wednesday and, even better, someone from the company would drop off some packing cases within an hour. There are things I hate about city living, but being able fix up just about anything at an hours notice isn't one of them!

At 5 past 2 there was a knock at the front door. A cheerful man delivered 20 large flat cartons that had (according to the printing on the outside) been made for Panasonic microwave ovens. Unfortunately no-one had thought to consider that flat cartons need strong sticky tape to hold them together. The delivery guy had none in his van and I said that it was OK cos I could lay my hand on all I wanted at the hardware shop at the end of the street. We bid farewell and adieu until the day after tomorrow and I closed the door and started dragging the cartons to rooms. So many here, this many there, a couple for that room. I even started to hum-sing a cheery little song ... corny but true I improvised my way through a few bars of Gloria Gaynor's I will Survive. Of course what was happening was the corniest of Hollywood hiatuses between the final acts. The guillotine blade was jittering on its restraining peg and was about to fall with a dreadful crunch.

There was another knock at the door. There were few possibilities as to who was at the door. Packing case delivery man has found some sticky tape ... or EP has lost another key. (I forgot to mention that losing keys is as close as I found him to get as regards finding a vocation.) I approached the front door with my usual caution and was thankful for that. Because I could hear voices outside, human voices and metallic disemebodied ones, the kind of voices that come out of walkie-talkies; I could even hear the squelches between the short sharp speeches. I also heard my name in connection with a "we're at the address of ...". I panicked and went upstairs to look out from behind a bedroom window curtain. I decided that I really had lost all of my marbles because some words flashed into my mind:

Who's that knocking Could it be the police? They come and take me for a ride-ride

Oh no man! I haven't got the time!

So I decided that I had lost it. Lost the plot. Lost my mind. I was out to lunch. No-one was home. Tilt. Game Over. DO NOT PASS GO ... erm, but I had collected £400 enough for hotel on Mayfair and Park Lane! I looked out the bedroom window. Yep, there's a cop car outside. While I am still contemplating a rooftop escape &mdash damn my fear of heights &mdash I hear my name being called by voices I do not know. Interestingly they are in the house.

Oh ... My ... God! They're coming to take me away. All the same, hope springs eternal and my mouth has never let me down, I can talk my way out of it, sure I can ....

Of course it turned out that I couldn't ... well, not there and then, I couldn't.