Chasing dreams
Long before the curtain looked in the least inclined to lower, I used to ask those approaching The End the very first thing they would do Out There. For all the debasing talk that goes with being young males, matters reproductive - and to a lesser degree, affection - were surprisingly were well down the agenda.
In almost every case, the No 1 priority was the pub. Treating their friends to bathfuls of beer was the first desire. When captives leave, by the by, they go with sixty pounds handed out from the State. That must almost always go straight into publicans’ pockets.
My time has been longer than most, so I hope it's excusable to reveal a different set of priorities. Seeing the dearest daughter is #1. Yet very near the top was the pleasurable anticipation of replacing incisors with real scissors for manicuring. Oh, to be able to simply cut normally those gross inconveniences of a captive life, the nails at the southern extremity, rather than having to hack them with a miniature guillotine.
Other wretches put food only a little below the companionship of boozers. There were no wishes for grand steaks for me. But an avocado now, that would be terrific - if avocadoes still existed. The Rip Van Winkle life leaves you fearing that all the good things have disappeared - or will have disappeared - before one gets out, if one gets out.
Another high-ranking joy is to have denims the right length. Turning up turn-ups manually at each and every dressing time, seeing them slip down over laces at moments you least want to resemble the failure juries try to make of us, puts a tailor among the new faces I most want to meet.
This week the dreams came true. Nearly. I found perfect scissors, squeezing an avocado at the supermarket showed it to be exactly ready, and I took my newest denims into a friendly Turkish tailor near the internet café – who has a daughter to die for, as it just so happens. For a king's ransom - £10 - the trouser-leg wish too came true.
Just as my work was finishing at the café yesterday at the most frustrating moment of a frustrating session – with major problems with secure links to Summit’s server – a really objectionable cove (a former juror, I'll bet) kept pushing brusquely passed, hitting the chair, never apologising. How ridiculous to be upset after years of enduring exactly that every day and night. But it was a bother, and when the pumpkin time arrived, it clouded my dash for the bus back.
And once Number 65 was on the way, I remembered my almost-fulfilled dream. The very things I longed for for 7 years plus were back there. I had a vision of that amateur justice filching my bag of treasured goodies. I rang the café with Ron's mobile. An obliging voice answered - but couldn't hear me. Further along Petersham Road, I rang again, and again as I walked under the hibernating oak leaves of Church Road. Still the man couldn't hear me.
Back at Camp 020, I called the phone people. Yes, the phone was faulty, they said. An internet café with a faulty phone? 'Sorry, sir,' the technician replied. 'It does happen.'
Not inside, I thought. The lesson might be that dreams are better left as dreams. But I hope not, of course. Seeing Emily again is my strongest wish. I'd hate its pleasure to be snatched away too.
Long before the curtain looked in the least inclined to lower, I used to ask those approaching The End the very first thing they would do Out There. For all the debasing talk that goes with being young males, matters reproductive - and to a lesser degree, affection - were surprisingly were well down the agenda.
In almost every case, the No 1 priority was the pub. Treating their friends to bathfuls of beer was the first desire. When captives leave, by the by, they go with sixty pounds handed out from the State. That must almost always go straight into publicans’ pockets.
My time has been longer than most, so I hope it's excusable to reveal a different set of priorities. Seeing the dearest daughter is #1. Yet very near the top was the pleasurable anticipation of replacing incisors with real scissors for manicuring. Oh, to be able to simply cut normally those gross inconveniences of a captive life, the nails at the southern extremity, rather than having to hack them with a miniature guillotine.
Other wretches put food only a little below the companionship of boozers. There were no wishes for grand steaks for me. But an avocado now, that would be terrific - if avocadoes still existed. The Rip Van Winkle life leaves you fearing that all the good things have disappeared - or will have disappeared - before one gets out, if one gets out.
Another high-ranking joy is to have denims the right length. Turning up turn-ups manually at each and every dressing time, seeing them slip down over laces at moments you least want to resemble the failure juries try to make of us, puts a tailor among the new faces I most want to meet.
This week the dreams came true. Nearly. I found perfect scissors, squeezing an avocado at the supermarket showed it to be exactly ready, and I took my newest denims into a friendly Turkish tailor near the internet café – who has a daughter to die for, as it just so happens. For a king's ransom - £10 - the trouser-leg wish too came true.
Just as my work was finishing at the café yesterday at the most frustrating moment of a frustrating session – with major problems with secure links to Summit’s server – a really objectionable cove (a former juror, I'll bet) kept pushing brusquely passed, hitting the chair, never apologising. How ridiculous to be upset after years of enduring exactly that every day and night. But it was a bother, and when the pumpkin time arrived, it clouded my dash for the bus back.
And once Number 65 was on the way, I remembered my almost-fulfilled dream. The very things I longed for for 7 years plus were back there. I had a vision of that amateur justice filching my bag of treasured goodies. I rang the café with Ron's mobile. An obliging voice answered - but couldn't hear me. Further along Petersham Road, I rang again, and again as I walked under the hibernating oak leaves of Church Road. Still the man couldn't hear me.
Back at Camp 020, I called the phone people. Yes, the phone was faulty, they said. An internet café with a faulty phone? 'Sorry, sir,' the technician replied. 'It does happen.'
Not inside, I thought. The lesson might be that dreams are better left as dreams. But I hope not, of course. Seeing Emily again is my strongest wish. I'd hate its pleasure to be snatched away too.
posted by paul at 4:15 am
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