Of Heterogeneous Disposition

OF HETEROGENEOUS

DISPOSITION

ANDRE F. DEPUIS

Copyright © 2013 by Andre F. Depuis.

Library of Congress Control Number:       2013913411

ISBN:         Hardcover                               978-1-4836-7276-2

                   Softcover                                 978-1-4836-7275-5

                   Ebook                                      978-1-4836-7277-9

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Rev. date: 07/30/2013

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Dedication:

To Joanne, Alex and her daughter and son.

A Hermit Writes…

What do you have when you have nothing?

No job.

No friends.

No money… well, three, or was that four, weeks later, £2.50 to be exact.

There are animals, birds, insects, and other wildlife, and I live in the middle of a small town. I see cats and dogs, and humans, yet consider myself to be practically a hermit.

Food from supermarkets can be sourced by self-service, and the few words that are exchanged, are usually ‘excuse me’ or ‘sorry’ and ‘thank you’ as territories are challenged. Hardly any other word is muttered.

Water is available from the tap.

I am no beggar.

Some pennies are credited to a quiet bank account.

What then to do in a day?

Time drags, if you are watching it, the clock.

In the book Blind Sunflowers, it is said time only exists for the living.

But I am not dead.

I resolve to do a few things to keep me going.

Like a diary, I will record a leap year’s worth of incident, and other things. Perhaps part of my one good deed a day.

I do not know if I am being generous by allowing an extra day in the year, to the reader of the diary.

But who wants to read a hermit’s view—the alien who has landed and wants to fit in, the student arriving at a new, faraway college, or the expat who has left their country for a life, on the bare necessities

To ‘keep me going’, I have decided to read at least a page of poetry, or prose, a day and mull over some matters as they arise, in the hope of helping others in a similar position.

Or is that a similar condition?

Before I walk out from my ‘four white walls’, I put on the song ‘Bailero’ by Canteloube.

The six minutes pass quickly, as the shepherdess sings in the hope of catching the ear of a neighbouring shepherd. Although, there will be 366 pages of effort in my book, I further resolve to measure time by the books I am reading.

No newspapers will be purchased; I will try to be tempted by only the one luxury.

News will be sourced from the library computer, which will also serve as the recall of my tales.

Joining the library is not difficult—details of a driving licence or council tax bill, for citizen recognition, are all that is required. And from my position, the library could be described as a ‘paradise found’.

There is a wealth of information available, a plethora of resources, fiction and factual books.

‘Hi,’ someone says as I walk back home.

I nod. We walk past each other.

I celebrate with a cup of coffee. Toast with margarine. Strawberry jam.

It has taken me twenty minutes to walk from the library to home. Two slices of toast await me, from a generous morning. I also switch on to Radio Three for the ‘Essential Classics’.

Despite having the cold, or flu, I feel I am well served.

My £2.50 has been well budgeted.

I have already taken my multi-vitamin pills at a cost of 3-5 pence each, along with a coffee, and toast this morning.

I sit down, and reach for Aesop’s Fables, number four. The fox is busy. The tale reminds me to redouble my resolve to finish this exercise of mine.

I wonder if my exercise is ‘character building’.

Is it fashioned from necessity?

Maybe, I am seeking revenge on the local inhabitants, or on myself, for past demeanours.

But I have been too long in the ‘game’ to recognise it as neither. Although, no doubt there will be influences, distractions and interference.

When you have little money, not all is attainable, and to make ends meet, it takes inventive physical and psychological tricks to, as I say, ‘keep going’.

To survive.

I sip the coffee, which cost five pence. My cold doesn’t allow me to smell much.

Supermarkets and shops mark down items which are ‘best before’ that day, and I have picked up two 45 pence loafs, some ‘saver’ jam, margarine, and a small jar of coffee. Supplies.

I think of other books that could be useful reference to my position/condition.

But who would publish my work?

In my delusion, I decide it should be Penguin or Cannongate Classic.

I count the letter characters of each line to see how spaced out my writing should be.

About 60 characters a line should do.

50 lines a page. The ‘Word document’.

The first book I read is Flying by Henry Sutton.

It had good reviews on the back of the book cover, and I thought it would be a good test of my concentration.

Hmm. So it proved to be.

As I have said, I had some time on my hands.

The second book I read was Blind Sunflowers by Alberto Mendez and this was compelling and splendid. I seem to enjoy the books more if they are short stories, or have short chapters in them. They seem to impart greater information through the application of conciseness.

Blind Sunflowers (winner of the National Prize for Literature) is about many things, including a number of ‘defeats’.

I think I know how they felt.

War stories always make me shudder.

I didn’t think I was up to surviving, like those in the desperate circumstances of Blind Sunflowers, and I have often wondered about the veracity of some of the stories. For instance, apparently, during wartime, wallpaper was boiled up to release vitamins and minerals for food.

My present ‘four walls’ have white emulsion paint, to allow as much light to be reflected, I suppose.

I also resolve to spend my pennies wisely, if possible.

I sip the last of my present coffee.

Today’s total of two slices of toast cost 11 pence each, and about 4 pence for jam and margarine.

Total cost so far, 36 pence.

Time for more exercise, physical and mental.

I read a little of Life of Pi by Yann Martel, and two more pages of Aesop’s Fables.

This time, a different walk back down to the library is sought. I note the birdlife. Crows, a seagull, and a blackbird. A winter’s catch.

Some human, I presume, had let hen eggs fall, by the mess, of half a dozen broken eggshells, by a kerb of the road.

The crows surely would not waste them.

I am surprised.

Another human is walking towards me, so soon after leaving my home. It is a quiet street, but I suppose it is that time of day. The human even recognises me, and we exchange ‘Hi !’s. Further along, the lollipop man is standing to attention, and we exchange pleasantries about the weather.

The usual.

That was three people who responded to my presence, and it was only morning. I wondered if I was wrong about my diagnosis of my condition as a ‘hermit’.

I needn’t have worried. That was all the communications for that day.

I enter the library and welcome the heat.

I sit down with some notepaper and start a list. All the things I can think of doing that might cost nothing in the town.

Window shopping.

A day at the races, or at least, a visit to the bookies and some more heat.

A walkabout.

The library.

A visit to the two charity shops for supplies.

Watch a local football/rugby/hockey match.

Hmm. I don’t seem to have too many options.

I have at home my books and music. I can pass some time by writing, or tidying up, the property.

Life’s little wonders, would need much greater work, I thought.

Apparently, where there’s a will, there’s a way.

I seek comfort in this and decide to invest in a big bag of potatoes, if my bank account allows me to indulge.

A bag of chips is to be my saviour this evening.

In a solid, stainless steel saucepan, I pour vegetable fat from my table-top kitchen supplies. I ignite some gas and proceed to chop up about 40 pence worth of potatoes. When I think the heat has distributed the fat oil to a reasonable level, I toss in a chip to see how much frying is going on. This saves burning the bottom of the pan with cold chips and just warm oil meeting together. I have no chip basket, so use an eating fork to scoop out the chips. They are placed to dry, on two kitchen towels, cost 2 pence, which have some salt spread on them. I find a satchel of tomato sauce and a bottle of brown sauce to experiment for the ‘Best Taste Of The Day’.

But regrettably, no mayonnaise.

Supplies are low.

The next day, after my usual two coffees to wake me up, it is time for some early morning exercise, since the temperature is 3 degrees, and it is a pleasant day. I read a little more of Life of Pi and two more pages of Aesop’s Fables, before adventuring out. The rest of the potatoes would make some mash, if I can find some parsnips and carrots as well. Beef or mince would be welcome, but only from my freezer supplies, as it is unlikely there will be the chance of cut-price meats from the supermarket this day. Usually, they have cheap bread and yoghurts.

I remember David Hume writing, ‘There is no such thing as chance.’

I believe he may have won at backgammon that night playing with his mates. I take out half of the available mince from my freezer to defrost.

Maybe I should have just the mash, with some melted cheese on top.

I spy the £3 voucher I had received from Cadbury’s for writing to them about a problem with one of their ‘Crunchie’ bars. The ‘best before’ date had been not printed right.

This was another means of boosting my income—writing to food manufacturers with complaints, suggestions, or reports on their products.

It may be ‘chocolate money’, but it was much welcomed.

I read two more poems from The Tide Breathes Out, work of local writers.

That’s three books I’ve got on the go at the same time now.

Having all this time, you would think a person would take time to make something nice to eat.

But most of the time I just couldn’t be bothered.

Time was still to be measured in the books I read. Even the daily exercise is sometimes a grind, and not just because of the weather. Hunger, in part, plays on the mind, and sometimes you simply just want a fast-food service.

Toast, coffee, multi-vitamin pill.

‘They’ say, or ‘some’ say, that the academic wakes up each morning anticipating what book they will read that day.

But I am no academic.

I’m surviving.

Just.

You cannot eat books or gold, but some things could be traded for money, to buy the finest food.

I think of Van Gogh’s little yellow chair. Did he try and bite it like a rabid dog?

This is the system.

It is the middle of December in the Northern Hemisphere, and the long dark nights are sometimes hard.

I wonder if anyone writes Michelin-starred cookery books. Maybe there will be no Michelin stars for my mince and mash, but it will taste good.

Then again maybe, I could have some cheese and mango-pickled ‘toasties’.

Hot, or cold, I don’t mind.

It is about getting the right flavour of the toastie to match its texture. I remember years ago having mince toasties, dripping with cheese, that were very filling and tasty.

Choices, choices.

Luckily, today, at 3 degrees, and relatively mild of late, my mood is calm.

‘Keep calm, keep going.’

But to what ends?

Again, I resolve to write the 366 pages for a calendar leap year.

At least a page worth of reading each day, with some tip, nugget of wisdom, piece of humour, or recipe for frugal living.

Perhaps a new way of living.

A different way of living.

I remember my list of ‘free’ things.

It needs extending.

Boredom too is a big worry, and self-doubt at finishing 150 pages, let alone 366. This would be my first completed book. The stresses and strains of the operation will be noted as well.

I have my other books.

I have paper to write. But will any inspiration be trampled on by boredom, hunger, money worries, or would some other anxiety blow me off course?

I considered the luxury some writers have by taking a holiday to write up their notes.

I also remember how J. K. Rowling would often sit in the coffee café, writing her novels.

I look for another saving grace.

Massenet’s ‘Meditation’ in Thais is such—a beautiful and haunting piece of music, although it can be a bit depressing, if caught in the wrong mood. Still, such beauty usually shines through in the end, and I hoped my book would have some of the same shining light.

Doubt crept in.

How could a prospective book about such mundane things shimmer, or throw a glint of gold, like a seagull wheeling in the summer sunshine?

I thought of the Bible that challenges doubt, Jesus’s doubt and others’. The great Mark E. Smith, of the group The Fall, said that ‘self-doubt can be a laugh’.

Hunger makes the mince and mash taste like Michelin stars, even if I have to say so myself.

This is my reality, this is my Gospel Truth.

I also fear going round and round in circles, like the hyena in Life of Pi, or salivating like one of Pavlov’s dogs.

What was the chance of a tiger being in Piscine’s boat? Very small but not impossible.

I wonder if Hume’s ‘miracles’ are simply, seemingly ‘impossibilities’.

Cause and no effect.

No effect and no cause.

Could there ne no effect and cause, cause and no effect ?

No such thing, as something from nothing, perhaps.

I finish the last of the mash.

What chance had I got with my meagre rations and imagination to write a book, let alone get one published?

I see some crumbs from earlier toast.

I doubly resolve to manage my budget.

God knows how. I cannot eat my books or the music records and CDs, and I think it is a bit difficult living on just oxygen.

Hunger gives you a taste on the tongue of oxygen.

But this isn’t summer, and the old bones need nourishment as well.

I drink some water from the tap.

What other stocks have I got?

I think I will have to be nearly teetotal, as a pint of ale costs about £3.50, and I don’t have that kind of money every day.

It’ll just have to be tea, coffee, and milk rations, unless I can scrape together some more money.

Can one pint make one an alcoholic?

A sociable alcoholic?

A thirst for social gatherings?

Does all this socialising behaviour not make for a hermit?

I think about taking a chance with some ready meals, to relieve the boredom, if nothing else.

A change if nothing else.

Maybe I am more like a social outcast or an outsider, than a hermit?

I decide to read Albert Camus’ The Outsider, but not quite yet. I will wait till I have finished my book, for fear of his being a hundred times better, and mine simply an embarrassment. I recall the name of another book I have, The Diary of a Nobody.

That’s one possible title I won’t be able to use.

Stubbornly, I will carry on.

Who knows best?

Isn’t it the case that humans are the dominant species because they are the best ‘all-rounders’?

Camus reminds me of the Myth of Sisyphus and my own particular take on an ending.

I had Sisyphus teaming up with Atlas to shake their ties away. Sisyphus’s daughter was supposed to know Atlas, and Atlas had plenty of time to ponder the gravity of the universe, along with the rest of the world’s worries.

Also, Sisyphus had managed to cheat his way out of a previous, seemingly impossible, task.

My take is that Sisyphus finds the key to moving the stone with the help of Atlas and, in turn, relieves Atlas of some of his worries.

Atlas then relieves Sisyphus of his worry concerning the problematic stone.

Sisyphus’s motivation subsides.

His ambition subsides.

They both exit stage left, laughing at their stupidity.

Now I am on the lookout for treats, physical and psychological.

I look round my home and see some CDs, but they aren’t ‘talking’ to me.

I think I need to get out.

I read Fable five—‘Fools Die for Want of Wisdom’.

I remember the cold, the effort, the aimless wandering, at times. Each one should be a treat, for it is something different. Something different from these silenced, ‘four white walls’.

For example, a visit to the charity shop, to discover a CD, or a book bargain, for a single pound.

Could be cheap for an evening’s entertainment.

But not tonight.

It has to be the pub for some entertainment, I think. I will myself to go out.

I haven’t been out to a pub, since that chance meeting with the adorable teenagers I met last Wednesday.

I work it out. The money and the number of days.

I feel I will be comfortable and could produce more writing. At least, that’s my excuse.

But is it backed by solid evidence?

Well, no. I haven’t tried writing a book, a diary, in a pub before.

The temptation proves too much.

I am going to have one pint.

My ‘savings’, or at least, the money not spent over the past few days, allows this.

Not two or three.

One. One pint.

But I also have my cold, and any alcohol weakens the weakling, I think.

I realise I am going around in circles.

Or, is it like the cabin fever, in Flying?

Fleetingly, I ponder if it will all end similarly. In wine and pills.

I have this urge to breakout, to be rebellious.

Down to the pub with no jukebox, it shall be.

I have tried this walk before. I did a ‘dry run’ to see the closing time of the pub and had thought of getting a single pint near midnight.

But I was too tired, it was too late, that night.

What did I do instead?

I read some of Life of Pi. ‘The number one bestseller’. I am now at the pages where Pi has just discovered his lifeboat.

I think the description of the sad demise of the zebra will give me nightmares tonight.

I check the time. It is 5.20 p.m.

It’s early.

I resolve to do some reading, more Life of Pi.

Page 179.

I could also read the book in the pub.

Have you seen me?

The last visit to a pub yielded a real beauty.

Why shouldn’t I get the same return from this visit?

I thought maybe I’m expecting too much.

I gathered another book, Titus Alone by Mervyn Peake.

Is this another ‘hermit’s book’?

I decide to wade in deep.

I open the book randomly, at… page 142, Chapter sixty-four, ‘Cursing the moon, for it was full.’

So this is the life of the writer.

A pint, a book to fuel the imagination, and a budget, of sorts.

I worry about publishing again. But they say ‘everybody has a book in them’. I could do it, at least, for the children. Or, just self-publish.

It might cost, but at least it would get done.

I could live with the idea that it would be instantaneously forgotten, or ignored. A Grand Delusion.

Did it matter, my life, work, thoughts, the struggles, and so on?

What, or where, did the steely resolve come from?

Where would it lead?

I am in the pub. 6.30 p.m. I sip.

It is good cask ale.

Mind you, I knew I would have difficulty in having just the one pint. I decide I would not have a ‘treat’, but it would now be a ‘reward’ for already writing so much, so soon. At this rate, I wouldn’t need the full year to finish 366 pages.

Was this a foolish step?

As in a lot of philosophy, it has both a yes and no answer.

The material for my book maybe would just have to become more dense, but would it have the added danger of becoming more mundane?

Anyway, I think I can also develop writer’s block.

I had tried writing a short story before, and all I managed was twenty-five pages.

Maybe the same thing would happen again, and I would drift on to other things.

Sometimes you just have to hit and hope.

I think of Britney Spears and the song ‘(Baby) Hit Me One More Time’.

I resolve to not let my loneliness kill me.

What was the Aesop Fable again?

Another saying—‘No fair maiden was won by the timid or shy man.’

Hmm.

I look at the next fable—‘Look Before You Leap’.

Oh dear.

I have already waded in at the deep end.

Do I really know what I am embarking on?

I had hesitated at the kitchen, before I came out, looking at my ‘savings’.

Before taking the lot. A whole £15.

I didn’t want to blow the whole lot and be back at square one, though.

I sought a compromise.

Before I went out, I drank a half bottle of Cotes De Rhone in my ‘supermarket versus private supplier’ taster-test experiment.

One private company bottle cost £7.50, the other similar supermarket one had won an award, and cost only £5.50.

I took one glug and memorised the taste and score.

I then told myself that I hadn’t been out for ages in the town and was ‘needing it’.

It would be not a treat, or reward, but now my only ‘luxury’ for the day.

Maybe, for the week.

Money has been tight. Income is down, and expenditure is up, even on just the basic essentials.

I resolve to sort out my budgeting problems, once and for all.

A guilt of mine arises.

I wish I had done this years ago.

I’m not a new student, in a new town, with a small grant.

I have been the monkey in the Fable, caught in the snare, a few times, too many.

I wonder about the book again.

Would it be too dense, or too solemn, or will I just find the whole writing ritual, too tasking?

Maybe, instead of a page a day, a paragraph a day will suffice for the reader. Sometimes, we live in hope.

For the pub, I took a fresh new page.

Maybe there would be some juicy gossip, or I would chance upon some wise pub philosophy.

A chance meeting with an old ‘acquaintance’.

I set forth on the adventure, and just before I left, I picked out three books for consideration to take with me.

One has a coloured visual trick, as to the pattern of two pictures, on its cover. Fundamentals of Psychology. Also Anna of Five Towns and A Grain of Truth.

When I walked downtown, I could hardly believe the mess of rubbish on the streets. I pick one up and put it in a nearby wheelie bin.

My good deed for the day.

Indeed, my third good deed for the day.

One other item of rubbish, I had carried back into my home, and put the item, a plastic bottle, in my recycling box. Some of the drink bottles, I find on the street, are nearly full, as if to say the carrier is too tired to finish the drink, and also too tired to put it in a rubbish bin.

Yet, they have already carried it some considerable distance. Puzzling.

By the time I got to the bar, between my hunger, cold, exercise, and the half bottle of Haute Marone, I am somehow, nearly fainting.

I ordered the staple cask ale. Cost £3.45.

I am five pence lucky.

Worse, the first person I see in the bar recognises me. I let him pass by. Others are out on a Christmas night out.

I recognise none else.

I found a snug place and contemplated the ‘action’.

McEwan’s Scottish Ale.

‘Aye’ the beer mat said on one side and ‘Naw’ on the other side. One side has a picture of full pint, the other, apparently, an empty pint. It was worth a cough.

What of the other ?

The half pint?

Better the half pint drunk and still a half pint left, I think.

But then this is a full pint reduced to a half pint.

Does it qualify for the ‘half glass full-half glass empty’ riddle?

Mind you, the full pint, half drunk also costs more.

I look around to see if any glasses can now be rescued, or recycled.

If there are plastic bottles on the streets half empty, why not in the pub?

Two pint glasses next to me have only chunks of ice at the bottom. I assume the two bottles of ‘premium cider’ next to the glasses are well dredged.

I still have hardly touched my pint.

Christmas lights dazzle around my already weary and out-of-focus eyes. The clock in the pub still doesn’t work and is now minus its minute hand.

It is festooned with Christmas glitter and glam.

Such is the cackle from the group of six across from me, that my ears genuinely hurt. I sift the information.

Office gossip at best. No pub philosophy, but people simply enjoying letting their hair down.

‘So you can play the old piano…’

I hear in the background a pub sound system playing The Pogues.

I feel like my head is bursting with writing information.

I know I need a rest.

The nearby table is cleared by the barmaid, so I move there and sit down, and sip some more.

I prefer that position, that corner.

Did anyone notice me?

Am I still, the invisible man?

This pint could last me for ages.

I take up a book.

Chapter 64 again. ‘Cursing the moon…’

I look around at the nearby assembly. They could have been anybody, ‘ . . . for it was full’.

I don’t know if the moon is actually full on this night, as it is too cloudy to be visible.

The fresh writing page is though devoid of work. The pub gets busier. I have new neighbours, but my pint is barely touched.

It seems a man and his two sons.

Or, work colleagues?

Maybe both.

The usual small talk.

I finally manage to shut off.

It is all too much. The cackling group gets louder. And here’s me thinking this was the ‘quiet pub’.

I see there are newspapers on the premises.

I look at the front and back pages.

Twenty-six young children are massacred at a school in the United States of America. The back page is instantaneously forgettable, but inside there is something about Bradley Wiggins maybe winning the BBC Sports Personality of the Year.

Some ‘system’. Some ‘news’.

As I write this down, the bandit pays out.

I try influencing the nearby cackling table, by pressing both my ears. To the nearby table, on my other side, the left side, I produce the three books.

I go to the toilet.

When I comeback, my glass has gone, as have the man and the two youngsters. I complain at the bar and get an apology, and another free, half pint.

The best half pint.

No fiction.

I think I have written the best first 12 pages of any book, including the Bible. The problem is writing the other 354 odd pages I have promised.

Maybe time has shifted, and ‘real’ numbers don’t count anymore.

I celebrate this notion with a glug of more ‘Abbot’. And cough. I sense maybe the only way is downhill.

How am I going to disguise this?

More alcohol, more books, more expensive rest?

Are my three books now redundant?

Here we go again.

‘Let me tell you a story’ was a Max Bygraves saying. And he told a few.

I wonder what time is closing time.

I glance at my mobile phone.

8.38 p.m.

Maybe it’s time for a new pub. A different pub.

I’ve been supposedly banned from two others, so that only leaves the other two existing pubs in the town. One, I don’t use much, because it is too near my home, and I would worry about it being too ‘handy’. It affords the opportunity of getting steaming drunk, as if I would, with only a fifty-yard walk back home, and some stairs to negotiate.

Plus, why spend £3.50 odd on a pint of beer, just two minutes walk away, when you can drink from a supermarket can for about 70 pence.

I’m armed with a half pint of beer, and I am going to take my time contemplating the wisdom of a move, or not, as the case may be.

Bag of crisps anyone?

New page, little inspiration.

I look at my ‘tarot cards’, ‘the beer mats’.

‘Aye’, ‘aye’, ‘Naw’, ‘aye’.

The ayes have it.

In my own time, of course.

Another fable, number six. ‘Dead Men Tell No Tales’ is the title. I catch a glance at the fable on the opposite page.

I can hardly believe it—‘Look Before You Leap’.

I think again. Maybe this is exactly what I have been doing. Anticipating. Pre-cognition. And then jumping in at the deep end.

Exactly what I intend doing.

I decide to close the book on this one, and after all, apparently, ‘Prosecco’ is £14 a bottle in this pub!

I’d better write something down.

I get to the other pub. It is quiet.

Does this place ever liven up?

10.01 p.m.

I hope an extra, slumbering pint is worth it. I look at the chairs. They are of wooden lattice, with blue, grey, and white cotton fabric.

I think of Van Gogh’s yellow chair.

It wasn’t worth him going round and round in circles, till he shot himself.

I engage with the barmaid and two of the punters.

It is so long ago since I have seen one of them, I wonder if he thought I was dead.

Well, he doesn’t remember my name.

It becomes a ‘guess my name’ game, and we chat on from there.

A third person situated at the bar knows my name.

I got found out.

I wake up the next day with my head throbbing.

I don’t know if it is hangover, or merely this persistent cold. I count everything I can possibly credit myself with.

I have £1.89.

Before I came out, I had at least £15 pounds. Four pints and a few games of pool saw to that sum.

There is something in economics called ‘opportunity cost’.

I contemplate about what else I could have got for £15.

A nice carry-out, some money to spend in the charity shops, and so on.

I think, again. Yeah, maybe I would have to be near teetotal to balance things out correctly. My supermarket taster session would have to stay snug in the fridge, awaiting my next splurge on alcohol.

Hunger, even after two slices of toast, tells me a carry-out from the local Indian or Chinese takeaways would have been money better spent.

I decide that could be my next want, need, reward, or luxury. Although it would probably be weeks before I have enough money ‘credited’ again.

The prospect of many days of toast and jam, or beans, doesn’t fill me with much enjoyment.

I look at my almost blank page from the pubs.

I did enjoy my time there, playing pool, and conversing with a couple of bar talkers, but I had little writing to show for it.

I resolve to be more creative in my spending.

Maybe this will make me more creative in my writing.

I try to think what this could mean.

A blank mind is all that exists.

Then, I think of the writing up of a ‘student recipe book’.

I tuck in to more mash and glance at my meagre supplies of onions, some pickles, and the freezer.

To duck under the £3.50 a day spend, I reach for more supplies from the freezer, and onions, and potatoes.

Ah well.

Chips again this evening, with brown sauce.

I could get a jar of mayonnaise, if it was on special offer, and since it was reasonable weather, I could get my exercise by taking the full hour’s walk to Tesco, and back, later on.

I reach for my books again.

What would happen if I fell out of love with them?

I put on Radio 3.

What would happen if I got bored with all the classical, background music?

I need another ‘job’.

Tidying up, was one. So I throw out some old pens that don’t work.

At random, I select three pages, from the three previous books I had noted.

Page 166 of Fundamentals of Psychology by C. J. Adcock. It had a new chapter titled ‘Thinking’.

Page 126 of A Grain of Truth by Jack Webster and, page 88 of Anna of Five Towns by Arnold Bennett.

I would take them to the library and read them in the nice warm rooms.

As I walk down the familiar streets, I notice lichen which had fallen off the trees onto the pavements.

Should I pick them up and superglue them back to the tree?

What looks would I get?

What questions would be asked?

Maybe none.

I remember in one of my books I’m reading just now.

‘. . . On the lee face of a wall,

figures of lichen freeze.’

‘Inverkeilor’ by Marianne Nicoll.

The library has a small exhibition on India.

An Indian tiger’s skull, two black-and-white photographs of Indian people, and two elephants teeth.

The headline of the local paper reads, ‘Rescuers In Crisis After Storm Smash boats’.

I type up a page of my book on the computer’s Microsoft Word facility, and save.

My head is still throbbing. I think of Lucozade or more cold/flu tablets. Usually, I come through a cold after three to four days, but this is day six of the episode.

I think I need more sustenance.

I have already decided on the evening meal.

Pork chop with homemade rowan jelly, roast potatoes and onions, and also decide to ‘take out’ the two pages of the psychology book.

‘Thinking, so far, we have covered with the cognitive reference frames at the level of perception…’

I think of the existential argument.

How we are all supposed to be so small and an insignificant part of the universe and how this gives rise to our anxieties and fears.

But is it just the case of a misunderstanding of one’s surroundings, that gives you fears and anxieties? ‘Motivation is always in terms of affective satisfaction…’

I think of possibilties of chance and the content of the book The Diceman.

I think the notion of self-harming.

Lucozade doesn’t seem like the ‘thrill of adventure’, and it will also cost me 99 pence for a small bottle.

Or, so my cold is telling me.

It is much needed just now, but the pennies in my pocket are telling me I’d be better surviving on water from the tap. And my ‘thrill seeking’ would just have to be a good walk in the fresh air, to see if some other inspiration or experience augments this new-found passion for writing.

‘Manipulation of Coding.’

The library is empty apart from me and the librarians. It is warm, and I have about thirty-three minutes left of the computer’s time for typing.

I cough.

There is a coffee and tea machine at the door, one which I have never used, but no Lucozade.

The sun is shining; it is almost exactly noon.

I decide to walk out into the sunshine. Looking at the library books, I find none of them will cure my cold. Although perhaps some may contain helpful hints.

I decide to return home and take two ‘cold relief capsules’ and a drink of tea, even if it takes me the twenty minutes to walk home. I will probably have to return to the library later.

Such is the power of the wallet.

Or, the loose change in my pocket.

All £1.89 of it.

I remind myself it is still only midday and resolve to read the other passages of the book, when I get home.

I am tempted to ask the librarians for a cold remedy before I go, but I don’t want to look completely useless.

‘Hot toddy’ anyone?

When I leave the library, I notice my legs are already weary.

On the pavements, a woman with a double buggy draws near me. I step sideways on to the road to let her by.

She says thank you.

Walking further along, I remember the time I was kindly offered a lift in a car, which I had greedily taken.

It was such a novel experience. Alas in all my sixteen years of living in this town, it had been the only time.

I reach home.

No supplies of Lucozade, or mayonnaise. I feel a shopping list coming on.

I have no car.

It is far too expensive for me to run, although its convenience would be a great enjoyment. Sadly, only a ‘possible luxury’.

I decide to have half my cup of tea now and have some more later if it tasted any good. I fish out A Grain of Truth from my plastic carry bag.

Page 126: ‘ . . . was then outstripping its local rival in prosperity.’

I put less milk in the second cup of tea and also note that I would need more milk from the shops soon. I calculate one jar of mayonnaise, about fifty pence, one small carton of milk, forty-five pence, and the Lucozade, possibly ninety-nine pence.

Total cost £1.94.

Or, as much as £3.95, with a six pack of Lucozade.

Five of them, ‘credited’ to the ‘stock of supplies’.

I decide, no Lucozade.

Never mind.

How bad could a cold get?

Also, I have the chance of trying some of my own homemade Elderflower Cordial and it, doing the ‘trick’.

‘The great January gale of that year…’

I look at the bottom of the jar. I look at the top of the jar.

My homemade Elderflower Cordial has some dregs of sugar, at the bottom, and some flotsam at the top. I use a tissue to take off the flotsam and pour slowly into the glass tumbler.

It could have been champagne; such were the number of delicate, air bubbles that surged to the top, for release. It has already made me feel better, just looking at it.

Anticipating it.

It tastes superb.

On the reading of passages, of pages in the books, I am stunned by the coincidence of themes in the books, my writing, and the words used in both and by what is happening on the streets.

I think these coincidences will run out. Pass over. Pass by.

Or, so I think.

One minute, I would be drinking Elderflower Cordial, and the next minute, I would be reading say, The Gentle Art of Mathematics or something else, seemingly, totally irrelevant to my existence.

Yet seemingly connected.

I still have a substantial part of Life of Pi to read yet.

I resolve to try and finish it, and as soon as possible, but there is another yearning that says, ‘Pick another book, and open at a random page.’

I remember sometime ago.

It was in the library.

I had looked at ‘The Top 500 Albums of All Time’, or something similarly titled.

I opened to see if my favourite group was in there, The Fall.

You should have seen the shock on my face when I opened the book at exactly the one page, where The Fall had there, one entry.

Out of a book of about 450 pages.

I look around at my small study and wonder if I would take a chance and risk multiplying the numbers of books I have ‘on the go’.

But will this disperse my ‘concentration’?

I sip the last of my second cup of tea.

Even in the distant past, I had as much as ten books on the go at the same time. This present few are already making my head spin, along with the sense of writing.

Either that, or it is the cold.

I decide to select a book at random, but not open it.

I choose The Colossus of Maroussi by Henry Miller.

I can read a little snippet, two pages, maybe, to see if it is to be any good. Then, I remember I had tried, and failed, to read the whole book before.

Anyway, that is for another day. I have plenty on the go as it is.

I consider this position.

Am I ‘filling my time’ better?

Is it passing more quickly?

Has the writing become easier?

Did it feel like better, ‘quality’ time?

I remember I had failed to finish that book and think I am unlikely to succeed this time. My concentration seems poorer, I think. I decide to place the book near at hand and try to give as much time as possible to read it.

A quick look indicates there are about 250 pages. Reading one page a day would take, perhaps, past the end my ‘writing adventure’.

Maybe this will be the last book I will read.

An overlap.

Ever.

I deliberately select a couple of pages near the end of the book, so it would be sure to be unfamiliar. If it is any good, then it might be worth the struggle to get to at least that distance.

I select pages 186-187 and put the book in a prominent position for later—subsequently, known as the ‘possible’ shelf.

After I read some of Life of Pi, I tell myself, ‘Time to go back to the library.’

It is now 1.25 p.m.

I think of nothing much, errands, the tea later, my cold.

I think of going to the library and coming back around 4 p.m.

That’s about how long I have for ‘computer time’, an hour, and I can take Life of Pi and pass some pages.

I also take some hardboiled sweets. They might perk me up.

The Elderflower Cordial goes down a treat and it has whetted my appetite for more food.

Toast, anyone?

Since I still seem hungry, I decide to make a toastie.

I have plenty of cheese, mango chutney, and red onion. Anything else available? I wonder.

Or maybe, some different mixture of ingredients?

I decide to stick to the ‘tried and tested’. With a little added of shredded garlic leaves.

It is so delicious, the toothpick came out, to hoover the barest of crumbs, in my mouth.

On walking down to the library, I realise I would have to break a promise to myself.

The previous Wednesday gave me a joyous ‘people watching’ experience in a pub in the city, and I had promised myself to come back the following week, at the same time, to watch for more.

It was just a young couple each enjoying their own presence, oblivious of others.

But it would cost me at least two times, £2.09 pints of beer, if I am honest, and the only way I can afford this is if I ‘borrow’ from future ‘savings’.

‘Credit’.

A little disappointingly, this did not appeal to me.

An hour and a quarter journey to get there, in God knows what weather, for two people—who probably wouldn’t turn up.

I tell you, such is the power of the wallet, sometimes.

I decide the wallet needs mending, before it can be successfully ignored. Maybe it is like mending a cave and then passing it on.

At my own expense, free, to the rest of the world.

My book would have to be more important than my wallet, and my cave.

Hence ‘A Hermit writes…’

I wonder. If I can hardly afford Lucozade, how can I afford something like a car?

Swiftly this is the end of the matter. Such is the power of the wallet.

I do though have a pleasant experience on the way back from the library.

I see someone pick up something, just by the kerbside of the main road.

If it is not litter, is it money perhaps?

In my sixteen years in this town, few times have I seen anyone pick anything up.

I can’t remember the last occasion.

As I near home, a second good deed awaits me.

The rubbish bins of my neighbours and mine have been emptied, and I customarily put them back to the rear of the flats, back into their usual standing positions.

I resolve to try and de-clutter my flat by filling the fortnightly rubbish bin, till I have either, things ‘too big’ to throw out or, nothing ‘useless’ left.

The fresh air and the little extra exercise have done little for my cold, so it is with a cup of tea that I settle down to read Anna of the Five Towns.

Page 88, ‘Is it about the rent… ?’

Money coincidence.

I remember another distant experiment with tea bags. One time, I got a total of six uses, and reuses, of the same teabag.

I have even used the microwave to make tea.

I realised the microwave could be timed to the second to make the perfect cup of tea. All I had to do was experiment, and refill my cup, with the same amount of water, at the same temperature.

If I remember right, one minute and twenty seconds was the ‘perfect timing’. Some days though, perhaps the water, cup or mug could be a different temperature.

Now, as well as time, I also find I have an abundance of teabags.

The only other thing, apart from wine built up over the years, from ‘savings’, or at least, money not spent, is homemade Elderflower Cordial. I ponder whether this can replace the nagging ‘suggestions’ from my cold fever, for ‘isotonic’ drinks.

I doubt it.

But as some say, ‘If you don’t try, you’ll never know.’

I have old wine bottles, plastic containers, and glass jars full of this sweet Elderflower drink. Indeed, the first one I tasted used an old plastic Lucozade bottle as a container.

I remember it tasted so good.

I would give it another try, even though this was hardly the time of year for such a drink.

A jar was sourced and a nice clean glass.

But I would have to finish my tea first and a couple of pages of my reading book.

‘Yes,’ he said.

I glance at the heater but reason I would soon be walking back to the library, or even the shops.

The tea quickly grows cold, and I make a second cup.

The kettle takes a little while to boil, because of some fresh water from the tap. I pace about, and around, in a small circle. I think of the jar of cordial and decide to try some more.

I drink half a small plastic bottle’s worth. About 250 ml.

There are birds chirping outside.

A sparrow and some starlings.

There are no other communications for the day.

When I return home, I feel a lot better.

Less feelings of loneliness, more feelings of coping.

I finish the Elderflower Cordial.

It definitely has something about it, and I look forward to the next time I am in need of a different, refreshing drink.

I have already absolved myself from the previous night’s splurge at the pubs.

It wouldn’t, I promise, happen again for some time.

I seem happier to see my home. The weather is still relatively mild, and I look forward to the roast pork and potatoes, for later.

Of course, the usual problems persist.

What to do in the meantime?

It is going to be music and reading again.

I may go for a walk later on, but I am not keen on night-time walking in the dark.

Unless, it’s for cut-price shopping.

I think of my supplies. I need more than what I have in my pocket.

£1.89, or whatever it is.

I think, maybe some chocolate, later on, would also be soothing.

I haven’t felt this relaxed for some time.

But would boredom set in again?

It is only 4.45 p.m.

I hope my books, and Life of Pi in particular, would come to my rescue.

The boiling potatoes are already on, when I look round to see if any tidying up can be done. I have an empty wheelie bin, I suddenly remember.

I pace about. Lots of things can perhaps go, but they seem to have their own ‘places’ for just now.

Spots.

Keeping out some void, or other.

I see some Christmas wrapping paper and wonder if there are any more Christmas presents I can buy.

But then, the same Christmas budget was there, full, and already worked out. A long time ago.

I fleetingly wonder if the writing will take over from the reading.

But to write, I think you have to be doing something as well.

Life of Pi, page 191. Onwards I read.

A sneeze tells me that my cold isn’t giving up that easily.

I put the book down and pick the fat from the pork meat. I amuse myself with the thought of just buying ‘takeaways’.

All the time.

It seems in some way to be a matter of principle.

I can cook.

It is rewarding.

Anyway, I can’t afford to live on takeaways, the same as I can’t afford a pint of beer, every day.

Not unless I have nothing else to buy.

The meal I am making tonight would probably cost at least £5.99 in a pub or restaurant, whilst it has actually cost me about £1.

With this, my kind of reasoning, it means that I can spend £4.99 on something else. E. G. A bottle of wine.

Ceteris paribus.

I pick up Life of Pi again. After draining the boiled potatoes and putting some homemade rowan jelly on the pork.

I set aside the meal for eating later in the evening. The warm heat from the kitchen has made the living room cosy.

It is 5 p.m., and I clean a glass.

I will have no more company