Caffeine
Busy brain, bossy brain,
busy busy bossy brain.
Bossy brain, busy brain,
busy busy bossy brain.
Bossy, busy, busy bossy,
Bossy, busy, bossy brain.
Brain brain, busy brain,
Bossy, busy bossy brain
Busy brain, bossy brain,
bossy busy, bossy brain.
Brain brain, busy busy
Bossy brain brain.
Busy busy bossy brain.
Bossy busy busy brain.
Brain brain busy brain.
Busy, busy bossy brain.
Guthrie
The Native American softly sings ‘This Land is Your Land’ whilst sweeping up the cigarette butts outside the casino.
Mid-Morning Sherry, and Other Unfashionable Behaviours
Agatha, a women with purpose, walks in to what remains of the public library, taking long, sure strides. The sight of the job centre furniture annoys her instantly, as it always does. She cried in seventy three when the council modernised. It still smarts fifty years on. Arriving in front of the desk, she tuts loudly.
The librarian, (if you can call him that, in his American sweat shirt and jeans), greets Agatha without bothering to look up. He felt her coming. A pile of books comes crashing down on to the desk, with a deadening thump. Demanding the librarian’s attention. Calmly placing his pen on the desk in front of him, exhaling, the librarian raises his face. ‘Ms Warren-Smith, what delight to see you again.’
Agatha, her chin held firmly aloft, reminds the librarian that sarcasm is ‘the refuge of scoundrels’. The librarian smiles. Here begins the weekly ritual of dry humoured banter followed by a book list slipped across the desk. (Ms Warren-Smith’s continuing home studies are often discussed in the back room. Apparently, she reads a book and chooses three titles from the references in the said book, ordering them the following week. Like a rabbit through a hillside, she tunnels through information. Absorbing the knowledge of others to take to her own, workshop like mind.
The librarian studies the list, telling Ms Warren-Smith that he will order them for her. In return, Ms Warren-Smith asks, (knowing the answer will be to the negative), if any of the titles are on the shelves. ‘No’, replies the librarian, allowing Agatha to feel the warm rush of satisfaction she feels whenever modernity let’s her down. Assuring her sense of superiority in a world of useless men that had made such a ‘bally mess of things’. (A fact attested to by the majority of her male ancestors loosing their lives on foreign battlefields).
Standing up, the librarian turns to collect the books Ms Warren-Smith had previously ordered. Turning back to place them next to her ‘returns’. Quite quietly with little intention, as he lifts the returns from the desk, he utters, ‘these can be placed on the returns shelf next to the self service point’. Wincing in anticipation of the coming response.
Agatha’s anti self service tirade is delivered with an articulate accuracy capable only with extensive rehearsal, ending with the line, ‘should the library service wish to pay me for my time, I shall be more than happy to perform the duty of a librarian’. At which she scoops up her pile of books, cradling them to her chest.
Popping himself back in to his chair, the librarian, quite jovially explains to Ms Warren-Smith, that today is, in fact, his day off and he has volunteered to come in for the day, free of charge, to ensure the library should stay open whilst two staff members are off sick. The library service not having the funds available to either pay him any over time or cover the cost of agency staff. A mute point, he goes on to explain, considering the public libraries have been designated ‘warm rooms’, for members of the public who are unable to meet the cost of heating their homes. The librarian then begins to tap away on his keyboard, before looking up at Ms Warren-Smith to deliver a cheery ‘ho-hum’. Grinning through tight lips. ‘oh, for goodness sake’, is all Agatha can muster. Exasperated, she turns to leave.
With her internal dialogue formulating a speech on the state of contemporary society, Agatha scans the room, noticing a collection of silver haired people hunched over paper cups. These must be the ‘warm room’ lot, she thinks to herself. Always keen to explore a fresh cultural phenomenon Agatha moves some way towards them.
Four tables have been pushed together to make a large table with eight chairs around it. Six of the chairs are occupied. Agatha winces to see four of the occupants publicly self harming with newspapers. The remaining two are staring in to space. None of them, she notes are reading a book. As with other first encounters, Agatha stands just back from the group, observing. Processing the information.
She sees a group of senior citizens brought together by the necessity of warmth. The library being a public building with a heat source and furniture is, in a very basic capacity, the ideal choice. Being society’s last remaining public building, not requiring the paying of an entrance fee. (Disregarding churches, of course, which are she thinks, ironically, always cold).
The library, to Agatha’s mind, is functioning to purpose, but it is municipal, with a bureaucratic ambience, offering little comfort. She tuts, shaking her head. ‘Surely society can do better than this’, she thinks to herself, as her internal dialogue sets to work devising solutions.
While Agatha assess the scene, one of the ‘self harmers’, squints at her from across the table. Removing her reading glasses, she mouths, ‘Agatha Warren-Smith’ as she stands up to make her way around the table to where Agatha is standing.
‘Aggy?’ the women enquires, ‘Agatha Warren-Smith’. The sound of her name being spoken brings Agatha back from her thoughts. Blinking she looks at the woman and, without a hint of surprise, says, ‘Oh hello Bunty’, as if she had last seen her old classmate the other day, rather than when they’d left school sixty years before.
Bunty asks Aggy if she is going to join them at the table. With some affront, Aggy replies that ‘nothing could persuade her’. In fact, she was about to head to ‘The Lamb’, for a mid-morning sherry and a beef sandwich. Adding that she could see no reason why Bunty shouldn’t join her.
Shaking her head and looking horrified at the prospect of Aggy drinking at eleven thirty in the morning, Bunty declines. ‘Poppycock’, responded Agatha. ‘Sherry isn’t drinking, and anyway, it’s a perfectly civilised drink at a perfectly civilised time’. Going on to enquire as to whether Bunty had become one of these ‘Neo-Puritans’ she had read so much about. Before pointing out that Bunty was choosing to spend the day under fluorescent strip lighting in the company of the destitute, over a glass of sherry, by the fire, in a cosy pub with an old school chum. ‘Are you alright Bunty?’, she asked raising an eyebrow. Taking a look at the table, then another at Aggy, Bunty walks off to collect her things, and comes back to stand next to Agatha, in her overcoat, clutching her bag. Without another word, Agatha leads them from the library.
Cold air takes their breath away as the reach the street. Clouds streaming from their mouths. Agatha strides off in the direction of the pub as Bunty calls for her to stop. Letting Agatha know, that she can’t possibly walk that fast. Disgruntled, Agatha waits for Bunty to catch up before beginning the slow, shuffling walk to the end of the road.
Small talk and chitter chatter are of little interest to Agatha. Whilst Bunty remarks what a small world it is and how miraculous that the two of them should be reunited after all these years, Agatha, pragmatically deduces that it is a wonder that they have managed to not see one another, considering they both live in such a small town. More remarkable to Agatha is the fact that personal hardship had forced Bunty to be in the library, somewhere Agatha had visited on a weekly basis her entire adult life. Out of politeness Agatha decides against mentioning it and lets Bunty natter away. Choosing to interject with nods and affirmations when she feels they are needed.
Eventually, much to Agatha’s relief, the couple reach the door of the pub. Agatha pulls it open and a wave of warm, comfortable air washes over them. With a gentle push on the back, Agatha persuades Bunty in, suggesting that she take the table by the fire while Agatha goes to the bar to order drinks. Tony, the landlord is affable enough and before long Agatha is joining Bunty at the table, placing down two large schooners of sherry.
‘Isn’t that better? ‘, Agatha asks, hanging her coat on the back of her chair. Bunty grins. Not having seen each other for such a long time it is essential that a summery of their lives takes place. After a sip of sherry, (that she evidently enjoys), Bunty begins to tell her tale. After school she had gone to secretarial college, followed by a job in London, where she met her husband John, a civil servant. They had one son, Robert, who Bunty now, seldom sees. John and Bunty were married for thirty years in which time Bunty enjoyed the role of wife and mother. Finding the time to volunteer and fund raise for worthy causes. After John died, fifteen years ago, Robert persuaded Bunty to cash in John’s pension and made some ill-informed financial investments that came to nothing, leaving Bunty to survive on a meagre state pension. This latest energy crisis has really left her desperate, ‘hence Aggy finding her keeping warm in the library.’
Listening to Bunty’s story left Agatha feeling rather ashamed for having such good fortune. With reticence she shared her own tale. After school Agatha returned to her family’s estate in Kent, where she divided her time between studying and managing the estate with her father. When her father died at a hundred and four, both her elder brothers had already died, leaving Agatha as the sole heir. Seeing as none of her nieces or nephews were interested in running a country estate, she sold the old place, dividing the proceeds accordingly.
With her share, Agatha had bought a rather sweet, antiquated town house. With the remainder of the money she bought gold, burying it in her garden. Twice a year she digs a bit up and sells it for cash to keep her ticking over. ‘The great thing is Bunty, that it appreciates in value every day’. Agatha lifts her glass to make a silent toast before taking a sip.
Bunty asks if Agatha had ever been married, causing Agatha to scoff. ‘Good God no. Never found anyone worth the bother’. Bunty asks about love. To which Agatha replies that a good dog suffices. Causing Bunty to smile and remember a moment from their schooldays.
Tony arrives carrying a plated beef sandwich and two small side plates. Agatha orders another two glasses of sherry, (much to Bunty’s protest), and proceeds to divide the food on to the two smaller plates. Half a beef sandwich, a sprinkle of salad and a few crisps makes a tidy lunch. Bunty, having not experienced such luxury for some time, takes a moment to let her senses absorb the trappings of her good fortune, before tucking in.
Between mouthfuls Bunty finds it necessary to regurgitate the news. ‘Wasn’t this terrible’, ‘isn’t that awful’, ‘did you see this, did you hear that’, and ‘if it wasn’t for that terrible Russian’. Agatha sits listening, wondering if Bunty had any thoughts of her own. After five minutes she’s heard enough. ‘Cancel your direct debits’. Agatha barks across the table, with a mouthful of sandwich. Bunty sits agog, shocked by the unconnected outburst.
‘Stop paying the energy companies so much money, they don’t need it’. Bunty recoils slightly before replying that she ‘couldn’t possibly do that’, being afraid her supply would be disconnected, and ‘what would she do then?’ Agatha looks around the pub before leaning across the table to ask Bunty, ever so quietly, if she can keep a secret. Bunty, with a raised eyebrow, reminds Agatha that she can.
Agatha composes herself before asking Bunty how much she thinks Agatha pays for her gas and electricity. After a few moments of sifting through her brain to recall how much she pays, Bunty presents a monthly figure in excess of a hundred pounds. Agatha laughs, declaring that the sum total of her energy bills to be forty pounds a month. Bunty squints.
Agatha explains her method. When moving in to her new house she never arranged a direct debit, paying her energy bills over the counter at the post office. Some quarters she paid the full amount, other times not paying at all. Once a fairly substantial bill had been run up, the energy company took Agatha to court. Declaring to the court that she had no bank account and only a small annual income, Agatha explained that she was able to pay off her debt to the tune of twenty pounds a month and no more. As the offer had been made in court, the energy company were legally bound to accept it. Thus, Agatha pays them twenty pounds a month in arrears and twenty pounds on
her current bill.
Agatha sits back in her chair winking with her finger to her lips as Tony comes over with the sherry, asking if everything is OK with their food. Both women reply that all is well and nothing more is required. After they were sure Tony was
out of ear shot Bunty says in hushed tones that she could never do anything like that. Being much too scared to go to court. ‘There’s nothing to it’, declares Agatha, ‘It’s a process. All above board. Perfectly legal. You mustn’t let them bully you Bunty’.
Agatha could see Bunty was glazing over, but it was too late, a diatribe of home spun philosophy was about to be unleashed. ‘The way I see it Bunty is, that should every member of the library’s ‘keep warm club’ hold back the price of a daily glass of sherry from their energy bills, and come here to stay warm rather than the library, not only would they feel more comfortable, they could also enjoy a sense of empowerment whilst doing their bit to help the landlord stay in business. Far more of an attractive proposition than throwing endless amounts of money in the bottomless pit of shareholder profits, don’t you think?’
Bunty wasn’t sure what to think. It was all just a bit confusing. If John was alive, he’d know what to do. The last time anyone explained anything to her about her finances, she’d ended up loosing a perfectly good civil service pension. Bunty explains to Agatha that She’d probably just carry on paying her direct debit, as she didn’t want the fuss. Going in to her reasons in lengthy detail, including a particularly detailed anecdote describing some of her sons rather unsavoury characteristics.
With Bunty waxing lyrical, Agatha’s mind wandered again. This time marvelling at the incredible success of societal hypnosis. Here was Bunty, an older woman, who had spent her lifetime absorbing mainstream rhetoric. ‘Do as your told, the government knows best, don’t step out of line or you will face unpleasant consequences’, terrified to act in order to improve her standing. All the while, the ones writing the rules disregard them as completely inapplicable to themselves, whilst considering those willing to obey unquestionably as fools. ‘It really is terribly unjust’, thinks Agatha.
When Bunty next draws breath, Agatha explains that she hadn’t been listening and that her mind had drifted off a bit. Anyway it was time to start thinking about getting home. Tapping the pile of books on the table next to her, she says, ‘More studying to do’
Bunty looks sad. Agatha asks Bunty if she knits. Bunty replies that she does. Opening her bag to reveal two balls of wool, a pair of needles and a tatty old pattern. ‘I’m making gloves for refugees’, she adds, lifting a limp, half knitted
mitten. ‘Good show’, says Agatha. ‘Maybe you’d be kind enough to come to my place and keep an eye on the fire for me, I’ve a terrible habit of letting it go out while I’m studying’.
Agatha sits quietly while Bunty vocalises the thought process that eventually leads her to agreeing to come for the afternoon and perhaps staying for tea. ‘It’s a marvel’, Agatha thinks to herself, smiling, ‘Bunty hasn’t changed a bit’.
This Truth Smells Like Cheese
British Banks daily earn
One hundred and ninety million pounds
In interest.
A mischievous look in your eye
Is worth more than that.
The Netflix production budget
for 2022
was twenty two and a half billion dollars.
The feel of your beating heart
Is worth more than that.
The assets of the British crown
Come to twenty eight billion pounds.
The laughter of the children
Is worth more than that.
The British government have set aside
Two hundred and seventy one billion pounds,
To spend on arms and warfare over the next ten years.
Your gentle, sleeping breath
Is worth more than that.
The net worth of Amazon
Is one point eight trillion dollars.
A single loving thought
Is worth more than that.
Global monies in the form
Of investments, derivatives
And crypto currencies,
Amount to one point three
Quadrillion dollars.
The sense of your touch
Is worth more than that.
Note to self
Neuroscience has come to an understanding that our perceived, subjective reality is formed through a neurological response to received sensory information. Have you absorbed anything nice lately?
b p r greenland
Walking Home 2022