I buggered my back two Mondays ago. Well, it’s an old, unrepaired spine injury, I blogged about it.
After osteopathic attention, it was sort-of mending this week.
Lying on the floor and walking a lot both help – not simultaneously.
But I also have a bad cough. And, yesterday afternoon, a coughing fit must have dislodged something and I was in agony again.
The bad cough thing involves mucus in the nose and throat which may explain what happened in my mind at around 5.00am this morning, in that strange semi-consciousness time between sleeping and waking and dreaming.
I couldn’t move much because it resulted in multiple phantom scimitars being sharply shoved into the base of my spine and I was lying there listening to myself breathe through light mucus muck in my throat. A hoarse, throaty, liquidy, breathy, inhaling-through-water sound like listening to my own death rattle.
In 2001, I sat in a dimly-lit room for 45 minutes – or it might have been 90 minutes, I can’t remember – listening to my father’s breathing as he died. Just the two of us. His death rattle went on for the whole time.
So listening to my watery/throaty breathing this morning, pretty much unable to move, was like lying there listening to my own death rattle.
Which is something I would like to do twice…
Well, the first time would be interesting… just a flash forward to what it would be like to die…
The second time, I would not really care whether I heard it or not.
It seems such a pity to miss experiencing your own death with all your senses which, I guess, many or most people do. I think the doctors pump you full of morphine to kill you off if they are certain you are going to die fairly soon… Better, they think, to have ‘a quiet death’ than all that throaty rattling sound.
Anyway, I did not die, of course, and my eternally un-named friend came up to Borehamwood this afternoon to see me, bringing stewed apples.
As dusk set in, she asked: “Are the bats still here?”
“Bats?” I asked.
“There used to be bats in that big hedge/tree thing…”
“Were there?” I asked. “I don’t remember.”
“You seldom do,” she told me.
This is true. I have always had a shit memory.
A few days ago, my friend Lynn (not to be confused with Lynn Ruth Miller) told me that she and I had gone to some sort of premiere screening of Terry Gilliam’s movie Brazil.
According to Wikipedia – always correct on factual detail – this must have been in 1985.
I have absolutely zero memory of this.
But, then, once I mentioned to Lynn that, although I had worked on the children’s TV programme Tiswas when Sylvester McCoy had been semi-regularly appearing on it, I had never seen him perform live on stage.
“Yes you have,” she said. “You’ve seen him perform in West End plays at least twice. You went with me.”
…or she might have said “three times”… I can’t remember…
Anyway, when she said it, I then did vaguely remember having seen him on stage in Dario Fo’s Accidental Death of an Anarchist. This seems to have been in 1981.
That was a long time ago.
Anyway, back to bats…
As my eternally-un-named friend and I stood in my kitchen tonight, with dusk setting in, she said to me: “Unlock the back door.”
The aforementioned bush/tree is close to my back door.
“Give me two 5p pieces,” said my eternally-un-named friend. “They have ribbed edges.”
“The bats?” I asked.
“The coins,” she said. “If you rub the edges of the coins against each other, the bats can hear it… It summons them.”
“Rubbing two 5p coins together?”
“Any coins with ribbed edges.”
She rubbed the two coins together.
A bat shot out of the bush/tree and swooped round in a circle.
“Does this mean bat shit on the grass tomorrow?” I asked.
“They usually go a lot faster…” said my eternally-un-named friend.
“That was pretty fast,” I said.
“…and they do a figure-of-eight,” she continued.
“Why do they do a figure-of-eight?” I asked.
“Well,” she conceded, “maybe they don’t do a figure-of-eight, but it looks like a figure of eight. They go really fast. That wasn’t. That was just a circle.”
“Surely,” I suggested, “if it looks like a figure-of-eight, then it IS a figure-of-eight.”
“You are just being difficult,” she said. “It’s going so fast that, if you try to take a photo, then it looks like a figure-of-eight in the photo. But I’m not really sure. Alright, I am now guessing… You are so annoying.”
When we shut the back door, we found there was a daddy-long-legs in the kitchen.
That is another story.
I won’t tell it.
But the daddy-long-legs survived.