#12

I’ve just finished reading the No.42 bus schedule from 1978. Of course I’ve read that before but had forgotton many of the off-peak arrival times. The number 42 is the bus I would take if I were to go and visit John in the hospital. Though me being allowed to visit John in hospital has about as much chance of happening as waking up with fanny on my face.

There was fanny in the kitchen yesterday. Four full hours of it in the form of Verity. She arrived with some homeopathic calmants and a soggy piece of carrot and ginger cake. She was all cold and smelt of fresh air and life. To make her position between John and I easier she has laid down a few guidelines:

1. She will ONLY inform me of John’s health and mental condition.
2. She will NOT be used as a comment form to pass on any personal or hateful messages.
3. She will NOT have me use her number as an alternative to the Samaritans. (Apparently I have my mother for that.)
4. She WILL tell John exactly the same. 

As she was carefully stressing her rules I sat picking my sore finger and staring vacantly at the fliptop bin. I’ve always enjoyed lists but guidelines, no. And certainly not ones as controlling as that. I was silently furious. Each time she turned around to pour a fresh coffee I couldn’t help pulling faces and cursing her under my breath. Once she spun back around unexpectedly and caught me grimacing and giving her an under-arm salute. God, I just wish she would have committed to my side of the fence. That we could have sat around for 4 hours criticising John and agreeing on how screwed up and dangerous he is. Instead we discussed her new herb garden and how difficult it is growing Thai basil in South East London.

Insomnia still reigns, but at least I manage to get a few hours of tormented sleep each night. Tomorrow I will meet Steve and hopefully that will force me to freshen up and put a little powder on my arse. It is over a week since I last shaved or showered and I’m actually beginning to look like a man who is Waiting for John.