Insight into November

I had a serious burns accident in November and that is why this piece of writing gets aired every year. I wrote it specially to say 'be careful'

The Prose 

November is perhaps the most moving month of the year, steeped in tradition and teeming with expectancy. Why yearn for sunnier climes or a terracotta tan when November's seasonal pulchritude comes free of charge. Broad avenues awash with colour and piled high with copper jewels: red-gold gems, cascading from majestic trees, making way for fresh creations of embryonic buds.

Natural beauty contrasts sharply with more morbid attractions. Searing bonfires concoct a vivid tableau. Orange flames triumphantly lick the feet of man-made guys, egged on by a jubilant audience gobbling sausages and baked potatoes. Historical, traditional, and macabre, as are the fireworks: pretty explosives noisily winging, gloriously beguiling.

Scarlet poppies adorning our attire signify remembrance for the soldiers who fought for liberation … the war dead, who gave us optimism. Yields of mistletoe and holly and sometimes early snow prompt thoughts of Christmas celebrations, of nativity, and gatherings of families and friends. 

Thus, November is a month of diverse elements: breathtaking, poignant, and sad. But it is never dull and those who claim that it is should examine its true potential, and wrest a soupçon of comfort from the depths of the sombre monotony that exists solely within their hearts. This is November. Enjoy.

The Poem 

Broad avenues awash with colour,

Red gold gems tumbling to the ground;

Evolution preparing fresh creation,

Embryonic buds already sound.

Beyond the mists stem glowing vistas.

Nature sighs in resignation,

No challenger for graphic scenes

Of morbid fascination.

Poppies, red and unembellished,

Symbols of commemoration

To men in bloody trenches; soldiers

Sacrificing lives to give us liberation.

Carousals of darting, searing fire,

Triumphant flames of orange hue,

Incited by beholders’ hearty cheers

To kiss the feet of guys, and maybe you.

Motley fireworks, spectacular and loud,

Spiralling in the darkening night,

Gripping young ones, riveting them to pain.

Inevitably their shocking plight.

Advance through crumbly autumn leaves

Amidst displays of deciduous attraction,

But heed the groans as flames descend

And human euphoria condones the action.

MOM.... AND ME!

I always clear up, in fact I am fastidious when it comes to tidiness. The following is probably why I am how I am.

As a child I would be beaten by mother if I hadn’t done my bit towards keeping the house tidy. My mother was someone to fear - permanently. Even my Dad was careful to avoid upsetting her, although it didn’t always work.

I remember one particular occasion when I was attacked for no reason. It wasn’t funny, like an earlier attack which over the years had people laughing fit to burst. Okay, let’s start with that one, although I believe I’ve told this before. Yes, I’m sure I have, nevertheless I’ll launch it again because there is a humorous side to the tale.

At home we had an outside toilet. An internal one came many years later which led to… no, I musn’t relate that one on this post. So, we had an outside toilet which meant that on the many occasions when I came home from school bursting to do a wee I could go straight to the toilet without needing to go into the house.

There I sat, navy knickers round the ankles, enjoying the privilege of urinating, when the door opened (we didn’t lock them in those days) and my mother slapped me HARD across the face, closed the door and went back to the house. Speechless isn’t an adequate enough word and I wasn’t old enough to know any expletives.

I never found out what I had done because Mom went into one of her ‘not-speaking’ moods. 

On another occasion, when I was old enough to work in an office I would go home at lunchtime to break the day up a bit. Sadly, Mom did the same. The two of us sat at the kitchen table doing our own thing, one opposite the other. Suddenly my mother reached across the table, slapped me

hard on the face and accused me of taking something (never found out what!) from her purse. I had done no such thing but trying to tell her that was useless. She was in such a rage that, fortunately for me, instead of a full-blown attack she walked out of the kitchen and out of the house. Yet another occasion I got smacked for no reason.

I now know I was the butt of her frustrations, of which she had many. I suppose if my father hadn’t worked away so much he would have been the butt instead of me. Or perhaps that was the problem… I’ll never know!

The Annual Check-up

'Have you ever had an operation, dearie?' croaked the old woman, her wizened fingers meddling with a black chiffon scarf.

Annabel looked at her in astonishment, more for her boldness in speaking to a stranger than the question itself.

The woman inched along the green bench until Annabel felt her bony elbows touching hers. She could smell her age, that fusty smell of old bones and looming death. The colourless, egg-shaped face, framed by silver-white hair, was strangely familiar. 'I’d like to hear about your operation,' the woman said.

Had she to have one herself? wondered Annabel. Was she het up because of it? Idly, she surveyed her surroundings. Two bowler-hatted men strode towards the reception desk. A nurse with a clipboard escorted a man on crutches. On the benches, injured toddlers whimpered into the comforting breasts of anxious mothers, and not much braver adults sat in stony silence, waiting.

The woman’s question was probably fairly normal, considering where they were. It would be something to do while she waited and it might be amusing to humour her and list her medical experiences. Like the one where that brute of a doctor dug out an ingrowing toenail. Or the harrowing extraction of her third wisdom tooth which had wrapped its roots around its neighbouring molar, necessitating a drilling process guaranteed to put her off dentists for life. Then there was that glorious out-of-body experience when she gave birth to Kim, whose foot was wedged in her ribcage and caused such excruciating pain that she fled her physical form entirely unaided for half an hour.

Annabel studied the old woman sitting beside her. A harridan of minute proportions, craggy chin, heavily lined brow, and intensely blue eyes which seemed capable of scanning a body like an x-ray machine. Perhaps she was an x-ray machine! Perhaps she had grown a heart overnight and been cast out of the department as useless. Given the sack, so to speak. Whatever she was, she was uncannily familiar.

A man in a white coat pushed an empty gurney through the rubber flaps that served as doors. A stethoscope hung from his top pocket. Annabel’s nose wrinkled as the smell of ether wafted in her direction. Quite like old times, she thought, evoking the event which had the most impact on her life.

Now that she had decided to relate her story, Annabel was tempted to ask the woman’s name but in the end she felt perhaps it was better not to know. Examining her fingernails, she speculated about where to begin. Her tale could be classed as an accidental incident rather than one of a medical nature, although a surgical procedure might well have been carried out had there been enough time.

The action took place this very day, long ago. It was enough to say it occurred on her fortieth birthday. The year was irrelevant. Andrew had taken her to a bell-ringing contest to celebrate. Celebrate! There was nothing to celebrate in that dismal hall with those disgracefully ragged drapes covering the windows and teams of bell-ringers incessantly brandishing brassy bells by their wooden handles, coloured streamers fluttering in their wake. Up and down, up and tediously down.

Annabel shuddered as she remembered the rancour which flooded through her and the accusation she was tempted to fling at him: If you thought this was my idea of fun, you were sadly mistaken. Fortunately, Andrew sensed her disquiet and suggested they leave. Thank God, she mutely cried, not really wanting to upset he who had not yet produced her birthday present and who must, for the time being, be kept sweet.

Kim was waiting outside, leaning against the wooden panels from which the cheerless hut was constructed. Annabel had been surprised to see her daughter dressed in her best blue trouser-suit, wearing the lovely perfume Andrew bought at Christmas. Gardenia, she thought. These days Annabel had difficulty remembering precise details like which scent it was though she did recall that Kim’s blonde hair was swept into a French pleat with not a single securing pin in sight. Kim was very clever at disguising things. Even her love was hard to find. Annabel sniffed and swallowed hard, knowing she would never find it now.

Kim was idly swinging a set of keys which glinted in the light of the hut’s swaying lantern. Annabel briefly wondered why her daughter was dangling them in front of her when they were not her keys.

'Your car, Madam,' Andrew proudly announced.

Annabel remembered those words as if they had been uttered only yesterday and she recollected the joy she felt when she saw the bright orange second-hand Beetle parked at the kerb. Beetles were her favourite cars in all the world, prompting thoughts of Howard, that wonderful man who took her virginity on the leather-covered back seat.

It’s yours,’ Andrew said, tossing back a wayward lock of mousy-brown hair. Taking the keys from Kim, he placed them in Annabel’s hand and curled her fingers over them. ‘Happy birthday, darling.’

She vowed the driving seat had been moulded especially for her, though the pedals were a distance away even when the seat was adjusted. She strained her slender ankles to reach them, smiling at Andrew who sat in the passenger seat. Kim had by that time gone home.

Pausing briefly to brush her dark fringe from her brow, Annabel imperceptibly shook her head at the crystal-clear image of that night. She moistened her dry lips so that she could continue.

She had driven Andrew to the restaurant where they were to have dinner and where they imbibed much champagne. It was, after all, a celebration of her fortieth birthday. Afterwards she drove home in the rain, the pair of them singing country and western songs as loudly as they could. Annabel got so carried away she let go the wheel and waved her arms above her head.

The car skidded on the greasy road and careered into a telegraph pole. Momentarily, she saw a woman’s face through the window, timeworn and ashen with fear, her mouth widening into a scream. Her black scarf fluttered as the screen abruptly shattered into a fog of tiny fractures. The image had tormented her ever since.

It took two hours to release her broken body from the tangled wreck. Andrew was lucky to have been thrown clear. Long after he and the elderly victim had been carted off to hospital, firemen worked steadily and untiringly to free her from what remained of the birthday gift, operating their cutting equipment proficiently and with no time to lose. Even in her distressing incapacitation she could not help being impressed by their strength. She felt comforted by the efficient way they worked and watched trance-like as they carefully removed the metal covering and exposed her body to the rain.'

'A disasterous end to your birthday,' observed the old woman.

'It certainly was,' replied Annabel, looking round on the off-chance she might see Andrew or Kim.

'I imagine you were glad when it was all over.'

Annabel laughed. 'You could say that.'

The woman nodded knowingly. She adjusted the bag on her lap and hooked a hand through the strap. Then her brow puckered and she inclined her head to one side. 'But wasn’t there an operation?' she asked.

Annabel’s reply was gruff. 'It wasn’t necessary.'

'As with me.' Easing herself to the edge of the bench, the woman struggled to her feet. tottering slightly with the exertion. Annabel shot up in order to steady her, cautioning her to be careful not to fall. An appreciative expression was etched on the pallid, elliptical face. Flattening her copious grey skirts to her side, the woman gave Annabel a toothy grin. 'I’m glad you told me ,' she said, and went on to ask if Annabel was waiting for someone.

'Not really,' Annabel remarked. 'I come once a year to make sure nothing was overlooked. An annual; check-up, you might say.'

Livid weals appeared on the woman’s face as she scratched the diaphanous skin with grimy nails, giving the appearance of having been slashed by something sharp, like a knife or a piece of glass. 'Strange I haven’t seen you before,' she said. She began to fidget, her arms restless at her side, fingers meddling with her skirt. An agonised frown etched her forehead, yet when she spoke again her voice was calm. 'My mission has long been the search for truth.' Laying a gnarled hand on Annabel’s shoulder, she added, 'Now that I have it I am grateful, though gratitude is perhaps an ill-suited sentiment in view of what you did.'

So it was her, thought Annabel, the unknown casualty. All these years being haunted by that anaemic countenance, yet she failed to recognise it when they met. What on earth could she say? Was an apology enough? Indeed, would an apology be accepted? She was about to attempt some kind of justification for what happened that night when the old woman spoke again.

'Don’t fret about the accident. You did me a great service, as it transpired, since the cancer would have been a sight more painful.' Fiddling with the ragged scarf, she peered at the clock on the magnolia painted wall. Bustling clerks and nurses tidied the place ready for the next day’s batch of emergency patients. Gripping her capacious black bag, the old lady stepped away from the hospital bench.

Annabel queried if she was leaving.

'As soon as my hearse arrives. It’s late, as usual.'

'You can share mine,' offered Annabel. 'Mine’s invariably early.'

TWITCHY FINGERS

Twitchy Fingers or keeping calm.What do you do if or when you are nervous? Do you have a twitch or continually tap your foot, do you have a nervous tic, or simply twiddle your fingers? I asked this question of a friend and she came up with no end of strange habits which included neck stretching and a twitchy eye, neither of which I had noticed.

My family members twitched, mainly the men and always in the neck area. One uncle looked as if he was trying to remove his head from his neck, so elaborate was his neck movements. As a young girl I mocked the action and my mother repeatedly told me me I would have a permanent twitch if I didn't stop. 

I also remember as a child doing things like not stepping on cracks in the pavement and, if I did, feeling compelled to do a twirl twice before moving on. Who the heck teaches kids things like that? Was it other kids, devising things as punishment or forfeits? Little did they know that things stick in minds enough to pursue them into adulthood. Yes, I still avoid a paving slab if it has a crack in it and look at the age of me! Why didn’t I forget about such things as I grew older?

I have seen the embarrassment in others when they realised people had noticed their funny ways. I wanted to tell them not to worry but that would have drawn attention to the fact that she or he was being watched … and would definitely make things worse. 

I look forward to your comments on this matter and I promise not to laugh at any strange habits.

Medical update: I am much better but still cannot sit for long in one position. Since the last scan, which revealed nothing, doctor has decided I should have a camera down the throat job to check stomach area. I don't fancy it - the very idea is enough to cure me - I'd rather keep burping!

Eleanor Nobody

Eleanor Nobody

The draper's doorway was shaped like a fifty-pence coin cut in half, with the shop door situated in the shortest stretch. That's probably why I didn't notice the poor soul huddled in the dark recess. The March wind was as cutting as a sculptor's chisel the morning I cut into the doorway to wait for the city bus. Five years ago in March. I know the date exactly. It was Jimmy Brain's fiftieth birthday. He was the office manager where I worked and he'd detailed me to get cakes for the staff. Fresh cream cakes, he'd asked for, but I'd cheated and bought them the night before; kept them in the fridge in an airtight box. Jimmy was too busy lamenting his age to worry about the freshness of cream cakes.

But it's not the birthday I'm telling you about, it's the encounter with the bag-lady. To this day I remember her peculiar stench, a stink like fetid drains wafting from her meagre person whenever she moved. The skin on her cheeks was so stretched I almost expected it to split, and I reckoned it had been some time since she'd had a proper meal. I gave her two chocolate eclairs. They were both mine, so it didn't matter. I should've only had one, but Jimmy wasn't one for keeping tabs on his purse strings. The woman's eyes shone when she saw the cakes. You'd think I'd dished up a three-course meal.

By the April, she got round to trusting me. Every day, after she'd sorted the contents of her plastic bag into prioritised order, she devoured my offerings of corned beef sandwiches and a beaker of soup. Even at weekends I took her something. I couldn't bear the concept of her starving while I gorged on bacon and egg.

Her name was Eleanor. Eleanor Nobody, she grumbled on one of her bad days. Arthritis plagued her when it was damp and that April was wetter than most. I couldn't conceive how someone with such a genteel name ended up sleeping rough. And why she chose the one by the bus stop was an utter mystery. I suppose it was interesting in a freakish sort of way. Something to look at. Same could be said for the commuters: it gave them something to blether over. Eleanor's outfit would be the talk of the town.

I always imagined vagrants as a grey race: grey underclothes, grey outer clothes, grey skin. Not so with Eleanor: she wore a coat the colour of winter berries, a midnight-blue skirt, off-white tee-shirt, green cardie, thick black stockings, and brown zip boots. All stained and tattered, in keeping with her current status. She had a yellow silk rose that had seen better days. Wore it like a medal on her chest. If she accidentally knocked it off, she'd scrub around until she located it and pin it back on. I took her one of those pins with a safety catch when I got to know her better and that put an end to her disquiet when the rose slipped off. I knew she was grateful by the cheerful grunt. Mostly, if I touched on a topic she didn't like, the grunts were harsh and unfriendly. Not that I took any notice. I'd got used to the fluctuating moods. I figured if I was in her boots I'd have entered the raving loony stage within a week.

Some days she was really informative. She had a son somewhere. Hadn't seen him since he was a teenager. Bastard, she called him. Born one and behaved like one. Ostensibly, she was ostracised by relations for begetting an illegitimate son. That was in Worcestershire. She couldn't remember precisely where; or else she didn't want to. It was May when she told me that. We were eating the ham rolls I'd saved from the night before. I considered it a great coincidence, her mentioning her son the day after my Jason's birthday. Jason was thirteen and I'd done a Sunday spread for a few of his cronies. Pizzas and quiche, that sort of thing. I should have known by their indelicate speech they wouldn't appreciate such fine savories. Right lot of agitators, they were, complaining about the lack of chips. Perishing cheek, when they were eating for free. Not wanting to upset Jason on his birthday, I pacified them with portions of french fries. My old man, Gerry, remarked that Eleanor would have been glad of a few slices of quiche. He's got a kind heart. Certainly, Eleanor didn't find fault with cold pizza next morning.

We left the area in the September. Gerry changed his job, see. He was still with the same hook and rivet company, but he was transferring to another branch near Cannock. It meant moving house. Gerry was more than happy to leave but our Jason was a bit down-in-the-mouth about ditching his ruffian mates.

I told Eleanor at the end of August. She looked quite presentable that day, dressed in my old lilac coat and plaid skirt. She'd discarded the red coat as soon as I took it from the carrier. You should have seen her elation. It was an absolute joy. Anyway, to get back to the tale. Not for one minute expecting her to take it badly, I broached the subject of the move. Straight up, it was a good couple of weeks before she could converse properly but at length she softened and began taking an interest in our plans. I'd left work by that time so I could lengthen my visits to the doorway. Without considering the consequences, I plotted a going-away do. A big breakfast, with tablecloth and camping stools, regardless of the inquisitive eyes of the strap hangers-on the bus. Gerry thought it was a bit foolhardy but I carried on. Trouble was, I inadvertently leaked the idea when I asked if Eleanor liked black pudding fried. She had a look of disbelief about her, treating me to wary glances when I surveyed the inlet for the best spot to lay a cloth, then checked the shop's opening times. I needn't have bothered. Three days before the event Eleanor Nobody disappeared.

The new house was terrific but I couldn't settle. I made it nice for Gerry and our Jason, but not having a job gave me too much time to brood. You'll think it daft but I was worried to death about Eleanor. What if she hadn't found a shelter as convenient as the last? Eventually, contemplating the possibility that she might have returned to Newtown, I resolved to investigate. With Gerry's blessing, on Christmas Eve, I went to check it out. Gerry was as guilt-ridden as me over deserting Eleanor, though I pointed out that in the end it was she who deserted us, in a manner of speaking. Gerry said, if I found her I should bring her home for Christmas. Naturally, Jason shouted his mouth off. He said he didn't intend sharing the house with a smelly down-and-out. Not that he was the most sweet-smelling individual himself,but I guess he was entitled to a view.

The weather was as cold as that other day in March, especially at six o'clock in the morning. Calculating the journey would take three-parts of an hour I worked out that if I left at six I'd be there well before the draper opened up. If Eleanor had resumed occupancy she was certain to be there when I arrived.

I found, not Eleanor, but her treasured, ragged, yellow rose. It was on the floor, partially covered by newspaper, in the dark recess where Eleanor would have slept. I picked up the paper, a week-old edition of the Evening Mail folded so that the middle page was uppermost. Funny that, I never knew if she could read. As I leaned despondently against the shop window, it occurred to me that in nine months I'd learned very little.

The city bus drew up, on time as usual, its occupants on a final spree before the Christmas shut-down. I studied the faces as if I would find Eleanor there. Automatically, I rearranged the news-sheets in numerical order. Where on earth could Eleanor be? It was Christmas for goodness sake. She shouldn't be roaming the streets at Christmas. Pathos swelled inside me and, yes, the mournfulness that accompanies a graveside vigil. Folding the paper neatly, I bent to lay it beside the rose. Laying it to rest, I thought, shuddering at the implication. It was then I spotted an article ringed in red. Festive cheer for the Homeless. I read on. I was curious to know how people who had been abandoned by society could find festive cheer anywhere.

According to the feature St John's Crypt was the place for the homeless to be that Christmas. Several volunteers would forego their own festive repast to serve turkey dinners and plum pudding to the less fortunate ... Santa Claus would bestow appropriate gifts. Why is it that patronage often comes across as charitable condescension? At that time, the phrase foregoing their own festive repast smacked of pure pretension. I know better now.

Gerry took me to the Crypt the next day. And Jason. Gerry'd won him over with the promise of a computer. Second hand, admittedly, but Jason deemed it better than nothing. Clutching Eleanor's rose, I searched the queue outside the church. Eleanor wasn't there. Neither was she in the Crypt. The helpers didn't recall having seen a woman of her description.

I never saw her again but the lessons she unwittingly taught me, the importance of independence and the value of respect, have lingered on. Every Christmas since Gerry and I have helped at the Crypt. And Jason, bless him, on the strength of the episode with Eleanor is currently training to do social work.

SPIRITS OF THE PAST

Hello, my friends. I apologise for being unable to visit your blogs but it would take longer than the five minutes I allow myself to be on line. Re-posting a tale is all I can do at the moment - it is an ongoing tussle to overcome pain. Doctor is sending me for a scan.... which I dread because I've never had one before. He suspects there is a problem with the gall bladder.... but I await specialist's opinion. In the meantime here is a story I wrote many years ago... I hope my writing has improved since then. Take care of yourselves x

SPIRITS OF THE PAST

It was the weirdest dream I'd ever had. I was flying, literally, soaring like an eagle right into summer, leaving the New Year frosts behind. A silver cape streamed behind me. A black mask, slightly askew, had captured an aimless spiral of blonde hair. Apart from isolated cotton-candy clouds, there was nothing to see. I thought the world had disappeared until I found myself gliding over a floating mass of what appeared to be dark brown rocks. I hovered briefly in order to survey the great bulk of... well, I'll call it rubble for want of a more descriptive word. I could distinguish some mountainous areas in the middle, with colourless water snaking in and out, but the majority of the terrain was flat and sombre, littered with boulders and various markers. I shoved the delinquent hair behind my ear, adjusted the mask, and then zoomed down for a closer look. The nearer I got to that spherical island the more chilled I felt…yet it wasn't cold. In fact, the higher my cape flew the more of my shoulders the sun found to roast.

The markers were a diverse array of signposts each pointing in a different direction. Mostly the posts were constructed from wood, ramshackle and splintering, but one or two were elaborately created. Those were placed abreast of wooden stiles, though there was no path upon which to travel when one had clambered over. I plunged towards the first post and latched onto it by wrapping my arm around its imposing pointed prong. The letters inscribed there were huge and I had to tilt my head to read it.

Welcome to the Forties, it said.

Thank you, I said.

Slackening my grip, I drifted in the direction of less elaborate signs. They were branded with dates, deeply chiselled for permanency, years ranging from 1940 to 1944. Again I felt that sweeping chill. Vibes of bloody battles made me shudder. A curious burning smell made me want to puke. Lamentations filled the air and my cheeks were showered with watery drops. I glanced upwards expecting to see rain clouds, but the sun was shining as fiercely as before. Hastily, I averted my eyes, not liking the perception of such acute sadness. Anxious to find more agreeable surroundings, I pulled my cape closer and wafted away.

Flitting over a cheerless lake, I advanced towards a solidly constructed signpost, made of steel with wrought iron digits standing proud, each digit entwined with withered roses and sprigs of laurel. 1945. Waves of acclamation caressed me, yet the impression that someone had died was very strong. There were no mortals to whom I could attribute the echoing sounds yet I definitely heard laughter and muffled exchanges. And enunciated names: Hitler and Ribbentrop. My own impression was one of relief though I couldn’t explain why. It might have been the warmth, or the unexpected peace.

Ahead of me, descending slowly earthward, was an additional signpost. Enthralled by the method of descent I watched it alight on the brow of the hill, its arrow-like arm indicating the direction of the fifties. What lay on the other side? Would there be chaos, more gunfire and smoke, more flashing lights and despairing cries? I decided not to proceed. I had seen enough. All I wanted was to go home. If only I knew the way.

Swiftly, I arched away from the ghosts that occupied that extraordinarily desolate chunk of land, gathering about me the cape which seemed suddenly leaden. I panicked that the exit point might elude me, completely forgetting I could fly. I whirled round in my agitation and collided with a hitherto unseen monumental placard, suspended in mid-air, the size of the tract itself. I paced back, tortuously slanting my neck to behold the colossal red lettering. Red as blood, the only vivid colour in that dingy brown expanse.

YOU ARE NOW LEAVING OUR DECADE
WE TRUST YOUR VISIT WAS INSPIRING

Somewhere a clock chimed. Out of the remoteness came Ma's piping voice shouting me to wake. My eyes fluttered open. The silver cape was on the five-drawer chest where I had left it after the fancy dress ball. The mask was hanging by its elastic on one of the knobs. I breathed a sigh of relief. I was back home, in our matchbox-sized house, a bright and cosy property just big enough for Ma and me. We were unassailable. We were unaffected by past decades. Or were we?

HOLIDAY ROMANCES DON'T WORK!

Thank you all for your kind thoughts and good wishes. I am not yet cured but the pains have lessened and I have learned to sit down whenever they come. That doesn't mean sitting in front of a computer screen and typing. I have been sitting here for a few minutes and already need to go. Here's an old story of mine to satisfy my curiosity about typing and sitting - which at the moment is a definite No no no no no.....  even copying and pasting was painful. Enjoy the tale and I'll be back as soon as I can. Love to all.

I couldn't explain why I was glad to be home because I didn't understand it myself but as I lugged the case from the taxi, too impatient to avail myself of the bearded, tic-eyed driver's help, I got this tremendous feeling of relief. Safe at last, that's what struck me as I fumbled in the flight bag for the front door key. You'd think, after such a brilliant holiday, I'd be sorry to leave. All that heavenly sun and there was I turning my face to the rain and drinking in cool air as if I'd been starved of it. And enjoying it. Me, sun-worshipper Class One.

That was a week ago and I am only now able to think about Giovanni subjectively. Guiltily, as if I'd deceived him. Holiday romances, I told myself, and had been telling myself since the day we met, were to be avoided at all costs. His proposal, sincerely and solemnly delivered, given his inebriated condition that last night, came as a complete shock. Not for one second did I imagine he thought anything of me other than someone to have a good time with. And we'd certainly done that. Had a good time, I mean.

From the word go we'd done everything together. Well, almost. I drew the line at sex, even though we both desired it. The idea of getting pregnant hadn't appealed, you see, and how was I to know if Giovanni's suave, romantic approach was genuine. He might have been the sleeping-around type; he might have been stricken with AIDS.

But, that last night, Wow! We'd been sunbathing by the pool all day, apart from a couple ofhours when we'd lunched in the hotel: salmon roulade and fancy salad Positano style. On the night, Giovanni suggested we go down to Marine Grande for a drink at Geranno's. I was captivated by his scent, warmed wine and spices. We sat at a table not far from the water's edge. You could hear the water lapping gently around moored fishing boats.

We kissed, him stretching his lean, long body across the table, jolting the carafe of wine in his haste to meet my lips; me keeping a beady eye on the azure-blue vessel as it tottered unsteadily on its base. Rather that than ruin the skirt he'd bought me. Organza. Soft orange and cream. It looked terrific with the lace top and I didn't want even a dribble of wine on it, let alone a deluge. It was okay, though, the carafe steadied itself. Breathe again, Deborah. Naturally, Giovanni didn't notice. He was too busy licking lipstick off my upper lip. I swore he was calculating the hairs that I try so desperately to disguise.

There was a bit of cloud round the top of Vesuvius that night, a sure indication that the next day would be fine. There was a bit of cloud round my brain, too, but I didn't realise that until later. I told Giovanni I couldn't wait for it to get dark so we could look at the stars and maybe see the lucciola, or fire-fly as it's known in England, and he said, in that gorgeous velvety accent that caressed my heart and sent it leaping to the skies, "Molto bello."

I wasn't sure if he meant it was the idea of watching stars he found beautiful, or me, but, given that he was holding my hand and riveting his inky eyes to mine, I took the credit for the remark. It was then he proposed. I thought I'd misheard and was trying to work out what he'd said, when he repeated it. "Marry me." His voice was clotted with desire. He urged me not to catch the plane the next morning, saying I could leave the hotel and stay with him in his apartment. I don't know what he expected me to live on, unless it was love, and we all know love doesn't go far in the shopping stakes.

You're probably thinking I'm a mercenary bitch, turning romance into realism before the poor guy could draw breath. And I guess you're right, looking back.

The yellow currency-converter is still in my pocket, a constant reminder of foreign shores.

Falling in love was a gamble she was not prepared to take .... she knew from friends what the outcome would be........

I did warm to him that night. Not a temperature change ... real desire. I'd been keen on him from the start, flattered that a man with such magnetic Latin looks and magnificently proportioned, sun-bronzed body, had selected me to dance attendance on. But the feeling that was churning my insides that final night was dangerous and I pushed his hand away. Just in time by the look on his face.

He was eaten up with passion. Eaten? Smouldering, more like. His libido had really got going. He shuffled uncomfortably on the slatted chair. It reminded me of the day we went to Amalfi, both of us wearing navy shorts and white cotton T-shirts, and him getting stung on the part of the leg that joins the buttock. He had trouble sitting for a whole day after that; couldn't even drive his black Fiat in comfort.

I forced myself to look him squarely in the eyes. I was disappointed to note that the amorous look was fading, as if he knew he was getting the brush-off. I told myself it was for the best. Holiday romances do not work. Christine and Mark's didn't; Lucy and Ken's didn't. Both couples married, both got divorced within the year. I couldn't risk that happening to me.

"Giovanni," I went, as steadily as I could, given that my voice was quivering something deplorable. "Giovanni," I went again, adopting the same pretentious tone my mother used when she was laying down the law. "I can't marry you. It would be impossible. We'd have no life together, both of us out of work."

I mean, it would be idiotic giving up a well-paid secretarial post with the Council to become unemployed in Sorrento. I didn't say that to him, though. I didn't even think I should have mentioned work at all since it wasn't the real reason for turning him down. It was an excuse, that's all. You know, a desperate search for a way of alleviating pressure as well as lessening the blow.

Giovanni whispered "Capiri." He didn't put non in front of it so I gathered he was saying he understood. That was a relief. His expression came close to being comical, his pouting mouth more like that of a disappointed schoolkid than a thwarted almost-lover. It eased things for me, I can tell you. Made me think he wasn't quite as genuine as I'd taken him for. I felt as if I'd been released from shackles, which wasn't really fair considering he'd cossetted me for three whole weeks.

Did I mention that? Did I say he took me to Capri on the Cuma Ferry on the second day and a tour of Vesuvius on the third? I could've done without that. I found it extremely alarming and a big, big worry. What if it erupted while we were up there. It didn't, of course, but he did.

He grabbed me round the waist and whirled me to him so he could munch my mouth. Thoroughly. A trifle vigorous, I thought, for a first kiss but at least it knocked the worry away. All I was aware of was responsive breasts and galloping groins.

We walked a lot in the countryside and lazed by the hotel pool (where someone suggested he must be a gigolo because he wasn't staying there and he was ever so slightly younger than me). The list of things we did was endless. We dined out, sailed to Positano with the Marine Club, swam in the Bay, clambered the rocks below the hotel, sunbathed, and kissed beneath the stars.

I'm finding it very difficult to discuss this. My gut is reeling with the pain of it. Suffice to say I rejected Giovanni Rossi's overture and flew home the next day.

Deranged fool! I've regretted it for a week, especially now, ambling through Gracechurch Centre which for some reason has hired a brass band to harry the hurrying customers. Maybe if he'd said it earlier I would have given the proposal some thought. I am that frustrated, I could kick myself.

Evenings lately are interminable. From the moment I leave the office they stretch into eternity. Silent and lonely and cold. I miss his arms, his lips, the happy laugh pirouetting from his luscious mouth. Nights are the worst. Sleepless, as though sleep has been abolished. Tired as a dormouse, I lie in bed studying wallpaper. If I've counted the petals on the roses once, I've counted them a million times. Twelve. Well, there's more, but the centres are tightly closed so I have to discount those. I wait impatiently for the sandman. He bypasses me every time.

The reflection in Beatties window is ghastly. I don't reckon on looking good at the best of times, but that's awful. Straight up and straight back down figure, bowed shoulders bearing the weight of guilt and self-reproach. The band breaks into a Gracie Fields number: The Biggest Aspidistra in the World. Fluke, or what? I wonder if she had similar qualms when Boris paid suit. Or the other two, before she married them. Married three times according to one of the tour guides on Capri. Me, I turned down the first decent chap I'd ever landed.

I yawn; the reflection yawns back. Beyond, there is a display of suntan products, with a picture of a tree-lined boulevard leading to a beach. Quaint, but nothing like Sorrento. In fact, walking round the Centre is not nearly so interesting as promenading the Corsa Italia, stopping at every window to admire the shoes and suits. Baldan, Ferragamo, Armani. God, I do miss it.

Pulling a face at the image in the window doesn't help the mood. In fact, it makes it worse. Depression is closing in like the door of a tomb. Would death be as painful? I move on, giving a last minute tweak to the collar of my mac. Sighing. Wishing I'd had the sense to bring an umbrella. The Sorrento umbrella, blue and yellow, bought that day it rained, when we swooped into the doorway of the Coin store, blind to everything except the need to shelter, colliding with a basketful of gamps. The sales staff pounced like ravenous locusts, intimidating in their determination to make a sale. We gave in. We bought an umbrella. Wise choice, considering the pelting rain.

See how easy it is to remember, how hard it is to forget? Everything I see, or hear, or do, reminds me so forcefully of that place. And him.

I see Maples' window-display has changed. That pine table is similar to the one Giovanni has. Did I mention his apartment? It was above the shops in Piazza Tasso. Enormous rooms with high ceilings. And so cool. The windows were huge with small balconies. You could lean right out and not be feared of falling. The horses were stationed below, harnessed to carriages, waiting to take sightseers on guided tours. I couldn't bear the sight of those animals hanging around in all that heat. I wanted to yell to their owners to let them loose. It wouldn't have done any good; they wouldn't have understood me.

I purchased a souvenir or two to bring home and I bought Giovanni half-a-dozen of the plates he'd admired. Bright green with bright blue squiggles round the rim. Sounds awfully garish but they were actually quite nice. Very Italian. It seemed a bit like reimbursing him for all he'd spent on me and I rued it like crazy the minute I handed them over. But I needn't have worried; he was overjoyed. Mom always said I was a mitherer of the first order. She was right.

His mother liked the plates. She reckoned he should chuck his old ones forthwith. She was a nice lady, obviously affluent and as beautiful an Italian Signora as I ever saw. It was manifestly clear, then, why Giovanni had spent money like it grew on hedges. He was well-to-do. He was no more a gigolo than the King of Spain. It didn't change my mind though. I still believed holiday romances didn't work.

I notice the bus is in. Breaking into a gallop, I jump the steps and belt across the road. The currency-converter slaps against my thigh with every step. I aim for the end of the rapidly reducing queue, tagging on behind a frail woman who can only shuffle to the bus. The breathing space is welcome; the panting stentorian.

The woman turns to stare. "You're too young to be wheezing like a bronchitic crone," she goes. I nod my agreement, wondering how on earth I trekked up Vesuvius, breathing steady. The woman thanks me for helping her up the two deep steps and I wonder how she would have managed on her own.

"It's okay," I go. When I'm her age, I hope I'll have a partner in tow.

An ache grew inside her but she pushed it aside,

reminding herself that holiday romances don't work

Home again, sipping lukewarm coffee, finishing the books I brought from work: columns of figures that needed totaling, which the boss wanted urgently and which I didn't get round to on Friday. I wonder: should I write? A letter of thanks? I've deliberately not done it before, needing space to air my emotions, to purge my mind of tangled emotive webs. I remind myself that holiday romances don't work, and feel better for the prod.

The coffee's well past its best so I chuck it down the sink and make some fresh. The rain has stopped. There's a peep of sunshine somewhere in the sky, it's glistening on the empty milk bottle on the sill. The grass outside is as near to emerald as it'll ever be considering its weedy state. And extremely long. And long it'll have to stay now the mower's broke. There's something to be said for procuring a partner. Man for hire: good with figures. Must be able to mow, and cook, and wash-up. Making love a speciality. Hah!
Shades of Giovanni.

Tears? This is ridiculous. Why on earth am I crying? Hadn't I been a great lemon about making love. If I hadn't been such a wet lettuce I'd know how good he was. And pregnant, probably. Alone. I collapse at the table, coffee forgotten. Silent tears run their course, dripping unimpeded down my nose. The make-up will be ruined but what the hell. There's no-one to complain about the eyesore. Only me.

It's the first time I've ever felt lonely. I'm normally devil-may-care and a bit of a gad-about, yet I'm content with my own company; relishing a break after hectic nights out dancing. I'm charged with an image of Giovanni and me, dancing so close we could've been glued at the hip, with me very aware of the bulge in his pants. Man, does that make me go gaga. And even more weepy.

This is no good. Three in the morning and still I haven't slept. The phone's ringing in the hall, but I'm not going to answer it. It'll be a wrong number. Wongs Takeaway. That's the most frequent wrong number, though why anyone wants spicy food at this hour is beyond me. I couldn't understand Giovanni treating himself to chicken curry at half-past two, after dropping me at the hotel. He told me when I removed the tinfoil tray from the car. Sheepishly, and no wonder. We'd only finished a turbot supper an hour earlier and you know how filling turbot is.

The phone stops its ruthless racket. If I'd had enough gumption, I'd have switched on the answering machine. Let it tell everyone they've got the wrong number. That's a laugh. Wouldn't the opening announcement disturb me as much as the unrelenting peals? Of course, I could use ear plugs.

Four hours, I've been tossing. Four hours of frustration interspersed with melancholy. I shove my feet to the cool side of the bed and straighten the rumpled sheet, hoping the action will bring on sleep. I don't know who I'm trying to kid. There's no chance I'll drop off just because the toes have cooled. No way. Maybe earplugs is the answer? Discontented mind, that's my problem. And not because I can't find the cotton wool. It's the business with Giovanni I can't sort.

It's now approaching four o'clock and I'm reclining in a sudsy bath. Imperial Leather Mild. I concluded that I might as well have a soak as lie in bed sweating. The phone starts again. I remember too late about the answering machine. Fortunately, the noise promptly stops and I relax back in the water.

I'm soaping the bits beyond the suntan when I'm suddenly hit by a major realization. I am in love. There's a warm glow coursing through me. Giovanni's face appears like magic, framed in the porthole that serves as a window, as if he's been spirited there by a mischievous genie to hear the revelation.

Enlightenment kills the misconceived logic about holiday affairs.Excitedly, I toss the soap on its dish. I am suddenly unafraid. Debs, I say, you're a real nitwit. So what if Lucy and Chris made a mess of their lives. They obviously chose the wrong men. It doesn't mean Giovanni's wrong for me.

Moving like a whirlwind, I shoot out of the bath. I'm so lively, you wouldn't believe I'd had no sleep. There's foam on the floor and on the toweling robe. Leave it, Debs, I say. Get on that blower and ring your man.

The phone rings just as I reach it. I'm not one to blaspheme but right this minute I could curse the caller to infernal regions. Angrily, I snatch up the receiver. "Now look here, I go," all set to recommend what the caller should do with his Chinese chow-mein.

"Come sta, Deborah?" goes Giovanni.

How am I? How am I? I am floating to the top of this wonderful world and it's quite likely that by the time I come down I'll have great difficulty speaking. My heart sings. Joyfully. Three words. No, four. "I love you, Giovanni."