Letter from 20 years ago

Sea monsters

It's not like you have forgotten the people or the things that have happened in your life. It's more a case that you need to be reminded of them. Then you can start fitting it all back together. In the mornings, as soon as your husband walks in the room, your brain begins to reassemble everything. Okay, you think, that is my husband. And you begin to remember things about your husband. The act of seeing him triggers a cluster of memories that might otherwise be out of reach. Every day is like this. Struggling to regain your past.

The anxiety comes knowing you are constantly forgetting. Imagine involuntarily forgetting one of your children exists. The maddening things is that you are constantly asking yourself, "Okay, what am I missing? What do I need reminding of?" Because when you look in the mirror, you see a woman who has part of the story but never the whole thing.

One of your biggest fears is, what if there were no reminders? Is it possible you could become this blank person? This person who remembers nothing? This is something that worries you even though it's completely irrational. Irrational in the sense that you family are all there, supporting you on a daily basis.

There are a lot of photographs set up around the house to help. More than a normal household. This means you are not constantly asking who am I? Rather, you are taking inventory, rediscovering the details and the connections. There are photographs of your kids, your husband, your parents, your in-laws. There are photographs of the holidays you have been on. You as a teenager in a school uniform. There are photographs of the house you currently live in, this house situated in a North Shore fern and sandstone gully, and the city itself, complete with skyline and harbour. Sydney. The place where you grew up as proven by the hard photographic evidence decorating the walls of this house. All these things need to be remembered. You need reminding if not on a daily basis, then every couple of days. You are always fighting the erosion of your damaged memory. A person with a normally functioning brain understands where they come from. They have their story at hand. Left to your own devices, you would probably lose access to your own history.

It's like completing a jigsaw. And when you turn around, someone has come along and started pulling the jigsaw apart so you have to start again. Piece by piece. This is an ongoing process. Erosion and repair. As you well know, it is a very frustrating state of existence.

You have a limited ability to retrieve these memories. And as a result, you are constantly worried that the past is getting smaller. That something might be permanently forgotten. You take medication. It is supposed to help. They scan your head in that noisy and frightening MRI tunnel. Try to relax, they say, but it is very distressing. The claustrophobia. You have a regular appointment with a neurologist once a month. This man has a plastic model of a human brain, the separate sections of which are all the colour of ice cream flavours. He cheerfully pulls apart the plastic brain on his desk and discusses your head injury. He refers to the damage resulting from the impact you took to the medial temporal lobe. And when he explained what is happening to you, he used a biro to point to an inner section called the hippocampus. As a fun bit of trivia, he explains this part of the brain resemblances a seahorse in shape and was named accordingly. From the Greek, 'hippos' meaning 'horse' and 'Kampos' meaning 'sea monster'. Your sea monster isn't working as it should, he jokes.

To help reboot your failing memory, you are encouraged to write a users guide to.....you. In effect, instructions on how to be....you! This includes a short account of what has happened in your life to date. Nothing too extensive, advises the doctor. Keep things simple. Just a letter to yourself containing biographical information and some information about your condition for the sake of context. This, along with all the photographs, will help alleviate some anxiety you are experiencing, he says. Some the anxiety brought on by your processing distortion.

So that's what you do. You write a letter to yourself. You explain how your life works and what has happened. Your husband and your kids help out. They sit at the laptop with you and help you put these things into words. And when there is doubt, you reach for the letter and start reading. And there it is. Your life in black and white. The only problem is, you start getting this persistent feeling that something important is still missing. That the narrative is incomplete.

When asked, your husband Jim doesn't want to talk about it. "That's exactly what happened", he insists. "That is it. End of story. You're worrying about something that isn't there". There is something hostile in the way he replies. As far as you are concerned, it feels like suppressed frustration. Sometimes all you have to go on is instinct. A feeling. And this doesn't feel right. Reading this letter is like watching a movie with a missing scene. It feels like your husband is holding back. And your wonder, what is being hidden from me?

Sometime later you are holding an old photo in your hand. A photo of what looks like a rural property and suddenly you think Bingo! We used to live here, on this property. We were not always city people. A door in your brain unlocks and another chunk of the past slides into view. And suddenly you remember being in that landscape. Being part of it. This opens up more questions, most notably, why the people in your family don't talk about this part of their lives? Your grown kids drop by and there is never talk about the farm. How could they skirt over such a large piece of the puzzle? How could they have allowed this to happen?

And Jim, your husband says, "Okay, okay, just relax, will you? You can't be expected to remember everything. We lived in the country. There was nothing more to it. Five years. Not even five years, more like four. It doesn't matter." But you need to know more because the not knowing is making you crazy. No stone unturned right? If only that damn little sea monster in your head would just wake up and start working.....

You find another photo. This one is of you leaning against the fender of a dusty car you don't remember owning. You are smiling at the lens, squinting against the sun. The car has obviously been beaten by unpaved country roads and rural tasks. Now you remember that you used to drive this car around the property, the windows open and music playing on the stereo. And then you remember Mick. Mick's face. His eyes and his smile. That moment when he said, let's take a photo of you. And then you remember that you used to meet Mick in different places. There was a hotel room. And a clearing out in the bush at the end of an axle hobbling dirt track. You and this Mick guy in the back of that dusty car. Once or twice in your own house when Jim and the kids were away somewhere.

And there was one evening when you were both heading somewhere at night. By that point, the relationship had turned into more than sex. You were in love with this man. Had these feeling been mutually articulated? Anyway, you knew for certain that you loved him. And you unzipped his jeans while he drove. Just driving around so you didn't have to go home. And you began playing with him until he was hard. And you undid your safety belt and he did the same. And he leant over and kissed you first on the mouth and then on the neck, and when you broke apart the car had drifted off the road. And even though Mick tried to twist the wheel it was too late. Weeds began whipping and cracking under the front bumper as you bounced down a surprisingly steep incline. The rest of what followed was in fragments. There was a moment of silent weightlessness. The tree was waiting for you both at the bottom of the ditch. A think, pale truck targeted by the vehicles' headlights. A hypnotic zoom in on sudden unconsciousness.

The facts were Mick broke his neck at the point of impact. Your head left an egg cup shaped dent in the spider-webbed windshield.

But before all this, you remember that you had a relationship with Mick for what must have been a year. It was purely sex at first but then you figured out that maybe there was more to it. Yes, there was. You talked about leaving your husband and Mick talked about leaving his wife. About moving back to Sydney. And although this was all just pillow talk at first, the plan started to seem feasible. Why not? People do it every day. They leave and they reinvent themselves.

The truth was you were never happy with your husband. It took meeting Mick to figure this out. Your husband wasn't a bad person. He was practical and dutiful and at times stifling because of these qualities. You were just another part of his life that needed to be seen to. You hadn't grown up in the country. The longer you were with him, the more you felt like something that needed to be contained and sectioned off in a paddock. A required asset like the equipment in the shed. An item to be checked off the list.

To his credit, even though you were going to leave him, Jim stuck by you and picked up all the pieces. When you woke up in hospital your family was at your bedside. Your kids had closed ranks around their dad. They still love you but now, almost grudgingly so. How could a woman give up her children and her husband for another man? After he has provided for her? You had been on the verge of crushing their father. The whole thing dredges up mixed feelings. Sadness, anger, guilt.

To what extent was Mick really the answer? The love of your life? You can't be sure now. The details keep on slipping away. His eyes and his hands. Mick driving lazy, one hand draped over the wheel. The hotel room. After more secretive research using the computer, you are saddened to learn this happened nearly a decade ago. And sure you managed to find these photographs. And you will attempt to hide them from Jim again. But for how long? One day Jim will find them and that will be the end of Mick. And all you will be left with is that unaccountable feeling that something is missing.

Wingman

Hey dude,

We have been working down south, picking apples. It's not the best money but we are living cheaply. Someone gave us a giant tent and if you cook using the campground kitchen, you can get by.

What else? In terms of entertainment, Donald was messing around with this local guy's wife. He met her at the pub in town one night. They started chatting and one thing led to another.

Donald...'Don'....I can't call him 'Donald'. Who would give their kid such a ridiculous name? 'Donald'. Anyway, Don is a handsome guy. You know this. He has those chiselled movie star features. Whereas you and I might be attractive to...oh I don't know....50 or 55 percent of the female population? Don is attractive to all of them. 100 percent of the females on this planet. Even the lesbians. And even some of the men whether they are comfortable with that side of their sexuality or not. It's sickening. He walks into a room and bang! They all turn around and look. They can't help themselves. Which makes me, his mate, the perpetual wingman. This means that most nights I have the privilege of sitting back and witnessing Don's sordid love life unfold. He doesn't even have to try. He will look around, totally bored, and go, yeah, I think I'm going to have that one. And when I do benefit from getting the leftovers, these women are either jealous of their mate or trying to strategically manoeuvre themselves into Don's bed by putting up with my gropings.

Anyway one afternoon we were at the apple farm and this vehicle drives up. We were sitting at the head of one of the rows, eating lunch. I'd just flicked a bull ant off my boot and I looked up and watched this figure get out of his car and begin walking towards us, getting larger as the distance closed. As he drew closer, Don suddenly stood up and ran off into the apple trees. I had no idea who this guy was or what he wanted.

It didn't have anything to do with me. Next thing the husband of Don's latest conquest is standing over me, saying, where is the cunt? And I'm like, I don't know mate. Nothing to do with me. The husband is a big guy. Solid. He is missing two fingers on his right hand just above the first knuckles. There is probably a story behind that. Like I say, he's big. Meaty. Not that it matters: when someone starts messing around with your wife, well, it's on right? Some might say its all down to the wife. She is one who is cheating after all. Others say, if the sneaking around persists over a long period of time, well, the male is equally guilty. In this situation, the offending Casanova had given the slighted husband a licence to go berserk. Either way, you take your chances, you pay the price.

Anyway, the husband started walking along the rows, looking for Don but he didn't find him. After about 20 minutes of searching, the husband comes back to me. You tell him I'm coming for him, the husband growls. I nodded and said, okay mate. Whatever you say. Best to stay neutral in these matters. Slighted husbands don't need much encouragement to turn on the wingman. Anyway, after that, he took off.

The husband showed up at the caravan park a couple of nights later. Don was hiding in the neighbour's tent which was only a few metres from ours. He was peering out the ventilation flap. People started appearing, wondering what all the shouting was about. The husband was pointing a finger directly at me, saying you tell him....he's a fucking dead man. I nodded and said, yep. No problems.

Later on, we saw the husband coming out of the bank in town. He was licking his thumb, absorbed in counting a thick wad of cash. And when I look over, Don is hunched down on the floor of the ute, staying out of view. How long is this gonna to go on for mate? I mutter. Don was like, what? What are you talking about? This, I said.

And later still, we were in the supermarket and there he was, the husband, pushing his cart down the aisle with his kids in tow, loading up the cart with food. He was talking to his kids about something, I couldn't hear. He didn't even recognise me that time. I'll see you outside, said Don. He ducked down a parallel aisle and exited to safety.

In the end, nothing came of it. From being mates with Don I have learnt that sometimes these things explode in your face and sometimes they simply dissipate. People have unfathomable private lives in these country towns. I kept expecting the husband to appear out of nowhere and clout Don but it never happened.

Don is my mate but sometimes...I don't know. Sometimes you just intrinsically understand that it would be a good thing if your mate were to get knocked down a few pegs. It would help them grow as a person.

What did Don learn from this experience? Nothing. A few weeks later, another married woman entered the picture. Don met her in the car park of the bowling club. We helped her break into her own car with a coat hanger. And off he goes again. Screwing around.

One night she showed up and they went into the tent. I was outside, trying to ignore the yelping and grunting, trying to read my kindle. Then the jealous husband shows up. He finds her car but he doesn't know where she is. So the husband is walking around, from tent to tent, in a rage. He's yelling his wife's name over and over again: Laura! Laura!

I wandered off to the communal area and continued reading. I'd reached a crucial part in the story and I didn't want to be interrupted. All I could hear was Laura! Laura! Then the police arrived.

I guess what I don't like about this wingman situation is being made an accomplice to Don's shitty love life. He looks like a fucking adonis yet all he ends up doing is making a mess of things. Picking the most complicated, murky situations to get involved in. Why? He could just get himself a pretty little blond girl thing without any attachments. Sometimes I honestly wonder if its time to step away from this friendship? I don't know.

What do you think about all this? I mean you know Don as well as I do. Any advice? 

Greetings from Machu Picchu (3rd draft)

I lost my job at the museum. This happened a while ago. On that day, the day of the incident, I was stationed in the permanent collection, my water bottle and walkie-talkie at hand. I was about halfway through my shift, just about to go on a break, to have a coffee and a snack. I'd just come out of the deep meditative state which makes my job possible. That is to say, you are aware of what is going on but, at the same time, you are juggling different thoughts and ideas for the sake of your own amusement. You think about the past. Movies. Books. It goes without saying that you do not look at the clock. It has been raining earlier on and it was the second week of the school holidays so the museum was a little busier than usual but other than that, it was just another ordinary day, people walking around, looking at the paintings. And me watching them. It's not an easy job. Imagine standing there all day, in those low lit, sound dampened spaces.

I had just gotten off my stool and I walked over to stand in the doorway connecting the two rooms that I monitor so I could get some circulation going in my legs. It's important that you move around. Alternate position. Every twenty minutes is what they recommend. I also had to adjust myself which can prove difficult with the patrons in the vicinity. I have always been a jocky shorts man which can lead to tangling up at inopportune moments.

Now I didn't take much notice of this guy. He came in and started moving along the wall, hands behind his back, moving from painting to painting, stopping, looking, reading some of the plaques, moving on. Like they all do. Nothing unusual about that. Generally speaking, in terms of security alerts, we're looking for people with bags or people who are behaving in an erratic way. This guy was just cursing along, minding his own business. Or so it seemed.

I used to wonder about the public's viewing habits sometimes. Specifically, these people who spend extra long periods of time staring at the paintings, making a show of absorbing all that history and culture. Do they think they get extra brownie points for having at staring competition with a painting? Maybe. I've seen people standing there for up to 10 minutes, locked onto one canvas, mesmerized. I always wonder what is going through their heads. Does the painting remind them of something? Something completely unrelated? Are they absorbed by the technique? Hypnotized by the brushstrokes. Me? I look at some of these paintings for a minute or more and it's like I stop seeing them. My mind goes elsewhere, slides sideways into some other holding mental zone. It stands to reason. I'd been surrounded by some of these so-called masterpieces for seven years up until that point, day in and day out, forty-two hours a week, so as far as I was concerned, some of them, not all, were more like decoration you might see on the walls of a bank. Some abstract detonation of the artist's psyche. Some clever little prick who managed to convince the art world that his spatterings are worth serious money and consideration.

Anyway, this guy I'm talking about walks up to the little Picasso. And I may have looked him over once or twice but I can't be sure. At that precise moment, I had a lot going on. I was tingling with pins and needles and that other situation I mentioned-my wedding tackle being knotted up in a disconcerting way-needed to be dealt with. Keep in mind hundreds of people had passed through those two rooms that morning and as it was the school holidays, I was more likely to have been on the lookout for someone's child acting up. Kids don't seem to understand that these paintings aren't a tactile experience specially set for their grubby little hand to explore. Look but don't touch. I chalk this kind of behaviour up to the parents. They don't set boundaries these days. No one does. They too busy negotiating with these children. You see it every day in the supermarket. Adults negotiating with their kids. I have a daughter. When she was young I would just say 'No. End of discussion'. It didn't hurt her in the least.

After the incident occurred, we learnt that this guy was a university student. Or he had been before he flipped out. He was studying economics up at the University on the Broadway, the one they renovated in 2009 with all those new glass buildings and walkways and reclaimed industrial landscaping. Funny how public spaces these days need to have this cold, over-designed look. Glass and concrete boxes. Clever containment of nature. The whole world is turning into an airport. Anyway, the student's name was Milo Haynes. And Milo had some quite severe mental issues which, they say, accounts for what happened. I learnt all this from the police and then from the newspaper and television coverage. We all did. It became quite a big local story. But I'm getting a little ahead of myself here.
On the day in question, I was standing there, taking a moment to untangle my balloon animal scrotum sack and next thing I know, I hear someone screaming their lungs out and when I turn around, Milo has slashed the little Picasso diagonally, from corner to corner, with a blade of some description. A huge gash right through the middle of the canvas. A gash through which you could see the wall behind.

This accomplished, he started shouting some rubbish about art and commerce, ranting away, all this nonsense echoing through the room as the other patrons recoiled and began to freak out. What was this? they were likely asking themselves. Art performance or terrorist attack? Milo had some kind of manifesto with him. Dirty little-photocopied pages containing scrawled notes and hand-drawn diagrams that dropped out of his coat and fell to the floor to be stepped on and crushed in the ensuing scuffle. I couldn't make sense of what he was saying but if these scrawlings were an indication of what was happening inside his head...the man was obviously disturbed. He was also attempting to film himself with his phone which was proving quite difficult. That was the thing that instantly struck me as inconsistent, even before I knew about the mental issues. Young Milo seemed to be a raving lunatic yet here he was, mentally organised enough to record his activities. Like every one of his generation, his hunger for an audience on youtube remained intake despite the chemical imbalance in this brain. For me, instinct took over at that moment. I saw the immediate aftermath of the vandalism and the next thing I knew, I had him pinned to the ground. It wasn't that hard. Beneath his jacket, Milo proved to be a weedy little toe-rag.

I brought him to the ground hard. Basically, a rugby tackle from the side that knocked him off his feet. And when I was on top of him, using my full weight to hold him down, I lost track of where the blade was. In his sleeve? In his hand? On the floor? Of course not knowing the whereabouts of a sharp instrument was cause for alarm. We're talking personal safety here. Miles was squirming around, still shouting and spitting at me, so naturally, I reacted. I hit him once, probably twice, no, at least twice, maybe three times, in the head with my closed fist. You see I was an armature boxing champion back in the day, back when I was in the army so I definitely know how to hit people. These are my brush strokes, the techniques that are evident in the composition of my character. You stare at me long enough you'll see the ingrained history in my face and in my eyes. Anyway, I got in at least two clean, hard shots. So yes, I hurt him pretty good. I don't care what your opinion of modern art is, you can't go around damaging private property. It's just not on. And I was responsible for these fucking paintings and this nut job had just swanned in, right under my nose and basically destroyed one of them with one flick of the wrist. So yeah, I was angry, of course, I fucking was. Maybe, in that confusing, blurred moment, I was not acting in my most professional mode. Can you blame me? What he did is infuriating on a number of levels. You think about it: the journey some of these artworks have made to reach this place. Take the one Milo destroyed with his little Stanley knife. Created from the paintbrush of a little Spaniard on the Riviera. It looks like a quick, playful doodle with patches of vibrant colour applied. A child's drawing. Beloved the world over. It ends up, a hundred odd years later on the wall of this gallery in Sydney. Just think about all the shite it had to survive. War. Theft. Egotistical millionaires. Let alone all the little people who handled it, transport it, appraised it, cleaned it, guarded it....whatever. All this human energy invested so that the public can pay their money and stand here appreciate it. Ooohing and Ahhing. Marvelling over colour, composition and perspective. Not to mention the intellectual, cultural baggage this little object drags along in its wake. A few bits of wood, a piece of canvas and oil paint configured in such a way as to be worth millions of dollars. Make no mistake, I see their faces every day. I know the effect it has on them. Cubism might not be to your cup of tea but you can't deny it has an effect on people. It makes them think. Reality fractured, broken down into pieces and rearranged in a way not seen before. Flattened out so you can see everything at once. The subject, a woman, seen from several angles at the same time. The little Spaniard, with his bald head, his striped t-shirts and his endless supply of skirt, broke the viewer's perception down, flattened it, so as to more honestly represent the world through his art. Well, that was until this Milo cunt decided to walk in and slice it in half. So yeah, absolutely there was a bit of extra force behind those punches. Special delivery from me to Milo.
After the dust settled, after the police had taken him away, the Curator, who I have had problems with in the past, started treating me in a way I thought was unfair. I'd never really had any problems with her in the past but things changed. In terms of respect, after the incident, our ability to communicate in a professional manor declined. I thought I would get some credit for what I did. Instead, I got reprimanded. I got quite a severe rap on the knuckles. It was very humiliating, a man my age, with my service record. I thought I had been doing my job but apparently, there were a few do-gooder bystanders who said I might have come down a bit too heavy on our boy Milo. Poor Milo. I wish someone had told me he was both perpetrator and the victim in all this. I would have asked him polity to stop fucking up all the priceless works of art. I would have negotiated with him.

The Curator is quite a bit younger than me and she has all the qualifications required to do the job but I don't think she really knows how to talk to people. I won't resume the entire generational difference diatribe. Really, I have no special allegiance to people my age. In some ways, I quite like younger people's fearlessness. Putting that aside, the Curator might be my boss but that doesn't mean she has the right to talk down to me. There is a difference between being forthright and direct, and being rude. It was her bluntness that raised my hackles. In her mind, not only had I'd neglected my duties, I had also assaulted a patron. Lunatic he might be but he was still a patron. I was quite shocked by this turn of events.

The painting had been badly damaged. It was going to cost a lot of money to repair it and it would never be the same. Miles had left his indelible, permanent impression on the art world. As I say, the canvas was cut in half from corner to corner. The authorities tried to make Milo pay the restoration costs but, after a thorough phycological assessment, it was determined that he was not responsible for his own actions. He was controlled by the voices in his head one of whom was long dead Russian political dissent. It also turned out that Milo's parents had a bit of money. They were able to put him in a private psychiatric hospital for three months. So he earned himself a holiday in a comfy facility with daily medication and television to wile away the hours. Milo needed to relax and reflect on his actions. Milo needed a timeout.

This is the reason they keep the Mona Lisa behind bullet-proof glass these days. Because people kept throwing acid onto it. Or they kept throwing rocks at it. Some mad geezer walked into the National Gallery in London with a sawn-off shotgun and shot the Virgin and Child with St. Anne and St. John the Baptist. This is one of humanities priceless works of art. Bang! A load of buckshot right in the kisser. I read up on this stuff. I did quite a bit of research actually. In terms of art vandals, there are two distinct categories: you have your nut jobs who destroy priceless works of art with some misplaced political agenda in mind and, even worse, you have these bloody parasites, these so-called 'artists' who have done it as a 'statement'. The only artistic tool or outlet at their disposal is the wanton destruction of someone else's work.

After that, things got a lot harder for me at work. In terms of the Curator, there was friction. I've never been good at being entirely subservient. I just can't do it. And I have a temper which has lingered beneath the surface of my life over the years and has probably limited my opportunities. That's why initially I liked this work. It was the kind of work an older man, lacking qualifications, as I was, could do and still maintain some level of integrity. I might have been a glorified security guard but I wore a suit to work. Not a paper hat or a little apron. I wasn't required to bow at anyone's feet. There was a level of autonomy. Respect. In terms of this Curator, what she didn't understand was, it's not what you ask me to do.....it's how you ask me to do it. Tone. Just ask politely and we'll have no problems. This Curator, this little know-it-all, who was barely out of university, had zero people skills so it was just a bad combination; her and me. She kept on pushing my buttons and the situation quickly deteriorated. Shortly after the incident, I got a warning for my attitude. And then another one. I could see what was happening. I was being fast-tracked out of a job: a H.R. hatchet job. In the end, they said I was too aggressive with the patrons and with the other members of staff. Performance management turned into a suspension. Then another one. I am not the kind of man who can easily play these games. I felt like some old dog that was getting senile and snapping at everyone. I was certainly not going to be muzzled by some child who, in my opinion, had lucked into this managerial position.

Milo was completely oblivious to all this. He received his psychological treatment. Briefly derailed, now his life was back on track. He was cured. Don't get me wrong: if this man was truly suffering from a mental illness, I except that his actions during this time might be excusable. He saw things floating up in the sky. Secret codes in the fine brush strokes of the artworks. And it was great that he got better. But me? I didn't do so well out of the deal. Despite what I said before about the work being acceptable, do you think being a museum guard was my life's grand plan? It wasn't. Admittedly, I had squandered quite a few opportunities. Youth does that to you. Constant reinvention and the illusion that there is an endless supply of days. I wasted quite a bit of time. Sticking with the museum patron metaphor, I never stepped back and took in the bigger picture. That is the truth of it. Like many people, I got lost inside my own life. It's easy to do. The museum wasn't part of the plan but it was steady work. I learnt to live with it. I learned to take pride in what I did there. Dignity, even if it is maintained in silent and behind the scenes is not a bad thing.

How did I know all these personal things about Milo? About him getting his life back on track? From Facebook of course. I joined the modern world and signed up, got myself an account. Everyone is visible these days. We voluntarily throw away our privacy like it's nothing. From my snooping, I learned that Miles had really turned his life around. It was very impressive. Ultimately the destitution of that painting, whether he knew it or not, ended up greatly benefiting him. Sometimes it takes a dramatic turn of events, right? And of course, it changed things for me as well. After a lot of warnings and meetings, they officially got rid of me, the bad stink that I was. Think about my situation: what would it be like to be searching for work at fifty-six years of age with no marketable skills? Not exactly fun. Things have changed dramatically since I last went into an employment agency. They want your entire life story in writing just to get a look-in. Then they expect you to go through an endless series of interviews just so someone younger, more suited for the role, ends up getting the job anyway. It's a joke. As a favour to me, to tie me over, Robert Carrington got me some work on the door of a club in the city. Me, at my age, standing out in the cold, dealing with drunk kids. Needless to say, I didn't last long. I didn't have the patience for it.

And while this was going on Milo was healing, integrating himself back into society, shedding all his paranoid delusions about nanobots in his hair and on his cornflakes. His crazy manifesto had been thrown out and he was moving on. Onwards and upwards, to more sensible pursuits. Milo went back to university and he graduated with full honours. He got a job. A good one. He reconnected with his girlfriend and all his friends. I suppose this was all possible because of a renewed commitment to maintaining his medication regiment. I understand this all happened because he had this Jekyll and Hyde inbalance. He wrote some very revealing stuff on social media while he'd been in his Mr Hyde state of mind. And while I do sympathise that aspects of his condition are beyond his control, to a certain extent, it is still part of him. And I know that on several occasions he purposefully lapsed because, as he freely admitted, he enjoyed being Mr Hyde. It felt like he was really himself. But now, like a recovering alcoholic, he has seen the light and has vowed to control Hyde through the diligent taking of his medication. He also apologised to everyone online. All his family members and friends, for the terrible anguish he has put them through. Hyde has permanently banished to the distant recesses of his subconscious mind. Chemically shackled. Praise be modern psychotherapy. In more recent photographs Milo has lost that gaunt, psychotic look. In fact, he looks like a completely different person. All things considered, the future looked pretty rosy for our young Milo. He even went on holiday to Machu Picchu. You may have heard of the place. The Inca ruins up in the mountains. In Peru. One of the seven wonders of the world. A place which, considering my financial prospects, I will never get to see. Not in this lifetime. The way things are going I'd be lucky to afford bus fare down to the beach on a daily basis when I hit retirement.

And with all this in mind, one morning, I found myself sitting in Milo's apartment, in Paddington, on his sofa, looking around at all his nice things. It didn't take much to get inside. I just climbed a wall leading on to the back alleyway and came in through the panelled glass door on the balcony. I bought a hammer and some other tools with me. Milo didn't have any roommates. He could afford to live alone. Anyway, I was just sitting there, taking it all in, thinking about this man's life. How grand it all was.

Part of me though, don't do this....it is beneath you. You are better than this. But then I had a look at my new fancy phone, at Facebook, and I saw Milo and his girlfriend on the side of that green, beautiful mountain in the latest uploaded photographs. Photos which were only posted an hour before I broke into his place. As young people do, Milo was captured in a number of selfies with one arm slung over his girl's shoulder and the other arm extended out to the edge of the frame, where he held the camera. The captions read 'Greetings from Machu Picchu'. Both of them were dressed in designer mountaineering gear and they had lovely wide smiles on their faces, smiles that contained beautiful, uniform, white teeth. They both looked exceptionally happy. They looked like they were models in a travel brochure aimed at an exciting, well-heeled segment of the youth market. Behind them, you could see the stone ruins set into the side of the mountain like giant steps and dramatic clouds formations wrapping and unfurling around the summit.

My idea was to break everything up into small pieces. Slowly, methodically, taking my time about it, all afternoon if need be. I was conscious that I needed to keep the noise to a minimum so as not to get the neighbours involved. I was wearing heavy demolition gloves. My idea was to break everything up so Milo would arrive back from distant shores and see his life in a new and transformative way. Much like cubism makes you see the world. I would transform his entire life into a mosaic that covered every square metre of the apartment. I would carefully arrange the broken glass, splintered wood, shattered plastic, cut cables, bathroom products, food items, dismantled electrical appliances, clothes, computer equipment, feathers...you name it. I had several tubes of building grade adhesive if I felt the need to extend my artwork up the side of walls or onto the ceiling. It depended on how inspired I became, how absorbed in the work. I also had a thick moving blanket to dampen the noise of the hammer. I had pliers and metal cutters. This was my vision for young Milo. A life taken apart and then put back together in a new, exciting, if not haphazard, way.

I waited for a bit. I wanted to savour these peaceful, still, moments before the disassembly began. I felt this tremendous energy locked up inside me and my ears were ringing with all that silence stored up inside the building. It was a kind of thick, oppressive, middle-of-the-day silence, not even a dog barking in the distance. Nothing. The complete absence of noise.

The shizzle

Larry,

Okay, I tried every possible way I can think to get in contact with you. Nothing seems to work. So I'll try this. A nice little letter. One word in front of the next, marching down the page like good army ants.

I will get right to the point. I want to come back and work for you. I want us to work together like in the old days, as a team. The truth is I miss you Bro. I want you to know that currently, I am clean. I've stopped using completely. In light of this, I would ask you to give my proposal some serious consideration.

At the moment I am working for a delivery company here in the Bay Area. They made me a sort of manager which means I'm running a small crew. The job basically comes down to long hours of manual labour. A healthy option for me. Besides this physical activity, which to my way of thinking is like being paid to go to the gym, I'm eating well and generally in the best mental and physical health of my life. I get most of my food from one of these organic co-op supermarkets. I eat handfuls of green beans all day. Why? You may ask. I read somewhere that green beans are chock full of manganese, vitamin C, dietary fibre and vitamin B2. This is what I am all about these days: exercise and only putting premium fuel into the machine.

I have a rented room in the mission. I am concentrating on a routine. I am sticking to a healthy pattern. A routine which involves plenty of sleep. I am dealing with my insomnia in a healthy way. And although I not associating people from the past, I am taking responsibility for my past actions. I am accepting the fact that although I can't change the past, I can make good decisions in the present to affect the future.

Environmental temptations don't concern me these days. I'm finished with all that. And rest assured, although there is plenty of temptation around here, I can walk right past it with my held up high.

I have a girl. She is another positive influence on my life. She lives in the same building as I do. She works as a counsellor in a shelter. I have learnt there is nothing like a good woman to keep you on the straight and narrow.

And so that's basically it. That is my life as it stands: early to bed and early to rise. Considering the amount of time that has passed since we last talked, I really wanted to talk to you on the phone. That way, I feel I could have reassured you how serious I am about taking my life in a positive direction.

I could have explained you were totally right when you fired me. Totally justified. I was completely out of control back then. These days I'm all about honesty and transparency. I have stopped lying. Stopped hurting myself and those around me.

In the last couple of weeks, while I was working with you, you were absolutely correct Larry, I had become a sneaky little addict. I was believing my own lies. I was telling myself that I was a recreational user but in reality, I was an addict. But like I say, I'm over all that now. And I am putting my energies into more positive pursuits. Every day is a new chance. It is simply a matter of making the right decisions.

And in the spirit of honesty, yes, I did show up at your apartment in LA. That was me. I was down there working, dropping off a truckload furniture at different locations around the city. And I thought, since I was in LA, I might as well drop in and try to speak to you.

There was no answer when I knocked. Neither did you pick up your phone. I have to wonder if you were there that day? I completely understand if you feel like you weren't ready to talk to me. Again, I completely understand that you need to look out for the welfare of the company because yes, I did steal from the company, I will be the first to admit that. And that was unacceptable.

As I am the first to admit, this kind of erratic behaviour was synonymous with my destructive addict behaviour in the past. And honest communication of this is crucial for me to come to terms with my past mistakes and feel like a complete human being again.

If I were to come back to work for you, this time, it would be with the appropriate maturity and coping skills required to deal with the temptations we are exposed to on the road. Coping mechanisms that would allow me to make the right decisions and not reach for the old glass pipe.

I am sitting in my room now, listening to an old Public Image Ltd album, Flowers of Romance, remember how we used to listen to that LP? I have just come back from, well, I just came back from 16th and Mission, in front of the big pharmacy, where groups of people were churning in and out of the BART station and a wailing car alarm wouldn't shut up, where I tried to call you from the public payphone, the one that stinks of pee, the one which, believe me, is much better than the payphone on 24th and Mission which reeks of human poop and yes, that was me trying to call you several times earlier on, getting the same old voice message, the stinky receiver pressed to the side of my head. And okay, admittedly you’re right, (always right) this wasn't that perfect day I was talking about earlier, the one where I make all the RIGHT decisions because I found myself at a fork in the road, and I did end up scoring a bag, a miniature zip-lock that now sits in the centre of my palm, waiting. Not that this has anything to do with my overall resolve, I mean, I can say with confidence that smoking a little bit once in a while can actually be beneficial because it allows me, for one thing, to work longer hours and, as you know, my alcohol consumption goes right down. Look, it is like everything in this life, isn't it? The golden rule is moderation, using the correct amount. And knowing when to cool off. Because too much of anything and you are liable to end up overwhelmed, your brain flooded with dopamine and before you know it you’ve turned into a jittery skeleton version of yourself. But here is the thing, using the correct amount, administered with discipline, it can actually help you and enhance your life.

The afternoon is a memory now. It's night time again. Time is the problem. Keeping hold of it, problematic in the sense that you can’t be expected to account for all the seconds and minutes as the hours glide by silent as black icebergs. Entire chunks of frozen time lost. Anyway the last time I looked at clock it was 11 pm but now it is closer to 2 am, which is a shock, and I'm sure the next time I raise my head to look, it will probably be 4 AM and I will need to be getting ready for work, thinking about taking a shower, cleaning my teeth, getting dressed, get organised, buying a pack of smokes from the Mexican bodega on the corner after my typically sparkling 'Buenos Dias señorita!' is ignored by the plump lady behind bulletproof plexiglass, her attitude street-hardened by the endless dawns spent dealing with bass heads, night crawlers and freaks. Admittedly a negative start to the day which I will not let flatten my spirits. After this, I will pick up a company vehicle, parked nearby in a local lot, before picking up the crew that I have been assigned to work with today.

Okay, again, I know, I'm not doing myself any favours here, in terms of my appeal to you because I have slipped a little bit. And yes, you can look back at all the forks in the road. And you can plot all wrong decisions back to birth but that kind of thinking will drive you nuts. A few hours ago I should have just chilled out a little bit but no, once again the hardwired pattern of self-destruction, so deeply etched my brain, took over and I find myself holding the little blow torch lighter under the already blackened bulb. And I flame the powder, which resembles a bed of microscopic diamonds before they start bubbling, turning black, crackling in a kind of agony, as these crystals convert from a solid into a gas, a chemical ghost with lazy white tendrils coiling and expanding as it rises up to fill the bulb of the pipe before being sucked down into my lungs, entering my blood stream through the lining of my lungs as I lock the smoke deep inside my chest, holding, holding, holding before releasing and realising I am in outer space, a floating cosmonaut, a man seeing himself at the end of a telescope thousands and thousands of light years away, frozen in the remote reaches this little room. And everything around me is flat and detached and suspended. In this darkness, I have a series of chilling X-ray visions which render the walls transparent so that I can see all the buildings' residents sleeping in their square cocoons. All of them, the entire building, breathing in unison, resemble the crew of a giant submarine moving under the surface of the ocean. But then, after some unknown period of time, after I feel more grounded, more myself, everything including the cheap furniture, the sink and all the objects in my room begin to take on depth and substance, have in fact, acquired a kind of hyper-focus. Fascinating though this may be, I am distracted because my thoughts are fracturing off in many directions at once. Breaking apart. And I become aware that the album, on cassette, the PIL album, has been playing on repeat for quite some time now because John Lydon is still singing, "I sent you flowers but you wanted chocolate instead". And as a result of this newly acquired super focus, my senses slowly explode out in all directions, pulling me into action by which I mean I am busy, busy, busy, busy, moving about my little room, cleaning things up, organising things, making preparations for the coming morning (Excuse this tangent Larry but you remember, of course that I am a great organiser, a natural-born neat freak when it comes to not only my personal life, but also whatever work situation I'm in. And before you get too judgemental about the direction this letter has taken, remember amphetamines affect me differently than most people, right? I mean for people with my kind of brain chemistry, getting spun actually throws those obsessive tendencies into reverse. That's what I'm saying here Larry, okay? These chemicals, bad for most people, work to level me out, to get me back in the middle again and away from the brittle edges).

Anyway, remember...ah Jesus, how did that happen? Is it really 4 am already? I really should have gotten some sleep but it's too late now because....actually, it's not at 4 am...it's 5 am, and the sun is just beginning to define the shapes of the surrounding rooftops, throwing a pale cast over everything and my little room is slowly beginning to acquire a new depth as weak colour bleeds into the murky black and white interior world, and I turned off the music and open the window, overlooking the airshaft, to get some fresh air into this room. And the cold air is like a slap in the face and I realise that I can see the old dude in the room directly across from mine, already sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at the linoleum flooring, as the city slowly pivots into another day. A regular Rip Van Winkle this dude, mute, fossilised in his room (which is identical to mine only mirrored because it is on the other side of the building). A museum specimen. Anyway I need to get moving, grab that shower before the rest of the zombies start shuffling around, because if you leave it too late, the showers start to feel a bit grimy, with nasty question mark hairs in the drain and old guys coughing in the toilet stalls, but before that happens, before the piping hot shower, I should go downstairs to the first floor and see Enrico about getting another bag because there is nothing worse than coming down while you're driving along the freeway, dealing with the working day. This cannot happen. And after knocking very quietly on Enrico's door, he appears, his face creased with sleep, and says, 'Sure bro. I got something to get you through the day’. And I'm having some spatial issues because the hallway seems disproportionally long and I keep looking over my shoulder because the sound of my voice suddenly scares me as I hand over the money. And then I am moving through the streets of the outer Mission, the buildings and sidewalks painted with bright sunlight as I pick up the company vehicle so that I can transport the Irish lads out to the company yard, pick up paperwork and a company truck. I'm being shuttled from moment to moment without warning. NOW I’m walking down the street. NOW I’m behind the wheel of a car. NOW I have picked up the crew who today consists of Shamus and Ronan, both of these lads hunched over in their tracksuits with killer hangovers, the alcohol fumes coming out of their pores. Nevertheless, I'm in a chatty mood, the radio playing an old Clash song, while we vibrate over the disused railroad tracks near the vegetable market and go under the freeway overpass, heading out to the company lot which is situated out at the radioactive Naval Yards. And then we are balls-deep in our working day, delivery consignments of furniture around the Bay Area, the freeways feeding traffic in and out of the city, the sun pulsing down, and by 11 am I’m starting to get that sinking feeling again and I'm thinking, oh shit, I am approaching my edge here, and this being the case, do I have everything I need? But then I remember yes, yes, yes, I have the shizzle and the pipe and the mini blow-torch in my backpack, wrapped up snug in a nice thick tube stock so I'm pretty much set up for the day (crisis averted. Jesus, are those heart palpitations)?

Smash cut to me in a gas station stall hitting it again, the boys waiting out in the truck, before we continue our delivery run, driving around the city, slotting in and out of parking spaces, avoiding parking cops and real cops, views of the city rotating past our windows, sunlight flooding into the cab of the truck, the Irish lads talking about last night, talking about their girlfriends, talking about staying in America on their J-1 visas, worried about overstaying their visas. All of us talking about the people we work with, talking about the customers we work for, talking about music, talking about clubbing, talking about girls, talking about traffic flow and the best way through the city, talking about lunch, talking shit, talking about what's happening tonight, talking about some movie, talking about a boxing match, a trip to Vegas, not talking about the future. The future that I am constantly waking up because time seems to have become hollow again, something we are hurtling through at an accelerated rate like a bullet train cutting across the Japanese countryside. Or (stay with me here) a man falling down an endless elevator shaft, tumbling at terminal velocity. Talking shit, talking, talking, talking about going to Japan, talking about doing something else with our lives other than this shit, talking about some band on the radio. Suddenly I realise that the shadows have dragged out from beneath everything, have become longer, and that the city is draining as the commuter population move in reverse, heading back out to the suburbs. And Shamus is looking at me funny, saying, "What's up man?" And I'm like, "What? What do you mean?" And in the truck’s side mirror, I'm all strained neck muscles and gnashing teeth and blurred flesh, like I am trying to leap out of myself, like a hideous Francis Bacon painting. And I'm wondering when was the last time I actually ate some food? Or slept? And I realise that I'm starting to come down again so when the lads are off in the deli section of a supermarket, getting coffee, I'm checking the mirrors again, hunkered down in the cab of our truck, which has come to resemble a large white beetle skull reflected back in the glass facade of the building across the street, before hitting it a few more times, smaller tokes, maintenance doses really, being discreet, just enough to get me through the afternoon which seems like a reasonable enough strategy because everything is starting to wear on me. Specifically, I am starting to have this terrible feeling like spiderwebs are forming between my thoughts. And I think, how many more times can I get back up? You see the deficit is growing. It is depressing because I know I will have to pay it off with interest at some point. And I keep looking in the side mirror, expecting a cop to come up behind us, his lights flashing, but nothing like that happens. Just empty concrete streets and afternoon sunlight spiking off vehicle windshields. When the lads come back, Shamus, god love him, is looking at me again with a mixture of concern and disgust, saying, "You don't look so good, dude". I tell him about you, my big brother, how we used to work together for many years in LA, actually all up and down the West Coast, setting up lighting for different shows and how together we formed a company, bought cutting edge technology, got busier, more profitable. And I am just a surprised as anyone how readily this information comes spilling out of my mouth.

It is night now. Yes, somehow this happened again. The truck is empty and parked back at the company lot and we are in a bar. And I'm calling my girl who is back at the hotel, seeing what she's up to. As I mentioned, after smoking, I don't drink alcohol beyond maybe just one or two good whiskies on ice, because it's better to drink small amounts and really appreciate it, than to pound down the pints, one after the next like these Irish lads. And we're playing pool and I'm thinking back on the day, which is echoing out behind me, each event or stage I have described neatly folded inside the one that proceeds it. This is what I was saying earlier about time Larry. The how all those neat little increments get away from you and before you know it, you have been violently transported into this or that future. Silent icebergs, right? And hand in pocket, I realise that somehow I have nearly finished the bag Enrico sold me earlier on so I'm back at that crucial fork in the road where I have to be someone with self-discipline. Someone who had the fortitude to step off the ride. Or not.

Thank Christ Angie has something back at the hotel to help me sleep if I choose that option. But then I think, no, all that can wait, because right now I'm gonna play one more game of pool- actually three more games because I keep winning, making impossible shots, slamming balls in the pockets, seeing the trajectory of each shot before it happens, just before I release the cue and watch the balls ricochet across the table, but then, when I look around, I realise the Irish lads have already left (There is a vague memory of Shamus saying something like, "Man I need some sleep and you should get some yourself. And you should definitely leave that shit alone...."). And I think who the fuck are you to judge me? But this anger passes. And now I’m playing against some people I just met. Night creatures. Vampires. And the bar has taken on a kind of jittery energy I can easily identify as these people nervously organise the consumption of their own powders, in toilet stalls, on dirty porcelain surfaces, on the end of their car keys, on the webbing between forefinger and thumb, all the while talking endlessly about nothing, before they hit the repeat button again, each step of the cycle getting tighter and tighter as the hours tick on. But it's okay because now I'm back at the hotel, trying to get my head straight and okay, I'll admit it, you got me, there are definitely downsides to recreational use of this stuff, (lesson learned) as I realise I’m experiencing a kind of dripping paranoia combined with a manic, bone aching horny-ness which is basically an itch you will never ever be able to scratch. And of course, I won't be sending you this fucking letter because I know how you would judge me, shake your head in disbelief, say, he hasn't changed all, same old Arran, screwing up his life. So yeah, of course, I will delete everything after the first few sentences as if this day never happened. And I’ll start the whole damn thing over again. At the beginning.

And when Brenda turns up, she takes off her jacket, lays on the bed. And I say to her, do you think Enrico is around? She shrugs, lights a cigarette and looks out the window, and then she says, "He never goes anywhere so yeah, I'd say he is in his room." And I feel completely empty, drained, so this is where I leave you-god-damn moral policeman that you are Larry. Right now I'm standing at another fork in this road. Either take the sleeping pill that my lovely, compliant girlfriend has in her jacket pocket or go down the corridor and knock on Enrico's door again. Up or down? That is the dilemma. I know that you will be nestling your head on a fat feather pillow somewhere down there in Southern California. That your brain will be slowing down, operating smoothly at the recommended, factory settings of the righteous. That you will close your eyes and that the world will slowly, slowly fall away.

Fire, honey

Hey Honey,

How are you? Everything down here is pretty much the same as the last time I wrote. I have been concentrating on my jigsaws and my knitting. I have made good progress on that scarf I told you about, the one with the fishbone stitch. I have reached the point where you have to ask yourself, how long is long enough? Haha! Anyway, my new scarf will come in handy what with winter around the corner!

Wait! What am I saying! There certainly have been a few new developments since we last talked. Your grandfather is up to his old tricks again! My goodness! That man! He never ceases to amaze me. He bought this old fire truck off the internet. An old 1980's Rosenbauer with an aerial apparatus (a big old turntable ladder contraption). He spent most of the summer fixing up his new toy. I didn't mind because it kept him out of the house. He got Andrew from down the street to help out with some of the trickier mechanical work. The hydraulics and such. Granddad learned the other stuff along the way or by watching the YouTube. The deluge gun (also known as the 'master stream') on the top of the truck needed to be repaired and the telescopic ladder was also in need of some TLC. A few weeks back, applying the finishing touches, the boys mounted a new brass bell on the cab and then your Grandfather got a Dalmatian named Balthazar from the city pound. Balthazar is a little on the heavy side so we are putting him on a diet. No more table scraps.

Anyway, now your Grandfather has everything running as sweet as a whistle. He washed the truck the other morning and you should have seen it gleaming in the driveway. What a sight! As you know, your Grandfather is a man of few words but I could tell it gave him a huge amount of satisfaction.
After that, Granddad, Andrew and Mr Anderson got suited up in their gear and headed off on the maiden run! It was very exciting! The neighbours came out on their lawns to watch us rolling out. We picked up a fire report on the emergency services scanner. We sped across town at high speed, the lights flashing, the sirens wailing, to find this darn fire. Mainly I was there to support the boys. I'll tell you what honey, I got some fantastic action photographs with my new digital camera. I'll send you some just as soon as I find time to organise a few prints down at the mall.

The boys did a great job. As soon as we got to the fire your Grandfather went up the telescopic ladder like a man thirty year his junior to rescue a scantily dressed woman who was hanging out the fourth-floor window, flames singeing her bare derrière. He brought her down to safety on his shoulder and then Andrew went in the front door with the self-contained breathing apparatus to rescue a puppy and three children from the ground floor apartment. And while all this excitement was going on Mr Anderson was dousing the entire building with the master stream. 2000 gallons of water right out of the trucks reserve tank. Those flames didn't stand a chance.

When the actual city fire department showed up the fire had already been put out! Of course, they were quite angry with us: angry and more than a little bit confused.

Sorry boys! hooted your Granddad, I guess we beat you to it. Better luck next time.
Are you crazy? screamed the Fire Chief. This is not something a private citizen can do. We have been specifically trained to do this work. The poor man was so confused that he nearly tripped over one of our hoses.

Your Grandfather just laughed again. You know that laugh of his? That deep down, infectious belly laugh....

Sir, correct me if I'm wrong, said Granddad, while I appreciate it is illegal to start a fire which might damage to property or endanger life....I don't think there is a law against someone putting out a fire. 
The Fire Chief looked stunned. Then he became even angrier and continued shouting at your Granddad, calling us all kinds of nasty names in the process. Names that I won't repeat in this letter. (Back in my day, firemen were role models in the community. Like policemen. Judging from this man's behaviour, obviously, that isn't the case anymore).

The fact was, we had shown up and dealt with the situation first. I suspect the Fire Chief and his crew were feeling a little bit embarrassed that we had beaten them to it. I don't think they particularity liked the idea that there was a new kid on the block, you know, a new operator in the firefighting business. When I voiced this opinion, the Chief turned to me and shouted, putting out fires is not 'a business' or a 'game'. What the hell is wrong with you people?

Such a rude man.

The long and the short of it was: we had them worried. Calm down young man, said Granddad, there are plenty of fires to go around. Once again the Chef's jaw practically hit the ground with exasperation. What the fu...."....plenty of....".....he muttered, rubbing his face. We climbed aboard our fire truck and drove off in triumph, Balthazar the company mascot howling out the window.
When we got back home, I made some sandwiches and uploaded the photos to the computer. I'm thinking about a blog. Eventually. I'll send you the link when we get around to launching the site. You know how it goes with blogs. You want to make sure you have a bit of content before you start high-stepping it on the internet. Like I said before, I'll probably end up sending you some old fashion prints from Kmart.

Since our inaugural run, the sky had been the limit. We have done residential fires, structural collapses, extractions from auto accidents, removal of hazardous waste....you name it. Having said all this, your Grandfather prefers standard building fires because he likes to use the ladder (and, I suspect, he is not adverse to the young ladies in frilly nighties, squealing on his shoulder as he carries them down. I am always ready with a blanket to keep things modest and above board. I'll tell you....that man is incorrigible).

The Fire Chief has tried to stop us but you know what your Granddad is like. He will not be told. (And I should know: I have lived with the man for most of my adult life). The Fire Chief tried to bring an injunction, a municipal court order, against your Grandfather but that didn't work. Being a retired lawyer, Mr Anderson went over the paperwork with a fine comb and came to the conclusion that we had nothing to worry about. This is basically job protection, said Anderson. They haven't got a leg to stand on. You keep fighting fires. Leave me to worry about fighting these bastards in court!
And then things got a little bit unpleasant. Basically, the city fire department has been willfully sabotaging us. Petty things like letting out the air in our tyres at night and putting out fake, decoy calls on the emergency scanner. They even did a few drunken drive-bys, throwing eggs at our engine. I heard they set a few fires themselves....just so they could be the first on the scene. Talk about cutting off your nose to spite your face! (Or is it robbing Peter to pay Paul?). Anyway, they torched three apartment buildings and the orphanage. Just so they could be first responders and get all the press. Downright nasty tactics, if you ask me.

What these people don't seem to understand is that extinguishing fire had always been your Grandad's passion. It's gotten so he doesn't even need the emergency scanner anymore. We'll be watching TV on a night and his nostrils will start twitching. And I just know he's picked up on the distant scent of smoke. He's like a shark smelling blood in the water. Anyway, as soon as he gets a whiff, he gets this look in his eye and I think, here we go again. And off he goes, pulling on his gear, tearing out the door, heading directly into the heart of the emergency.

Love, Nanna.

 

Role play

We have been stranded here, on this godforsaken island since 9:30 this morning. As established in the rules, our resources are severely limited to one rope, a fishing harpoon, a small axe and a box of matches. And that was it. To make matters worse, a tsunami of epic magnitude was about to lash our shores. In other words, an excellent start to our stay here in paradise.

Roleplay

We have been stranded here, on this godforsaken island since 9:30 this morning. As established in the rules, our resources are severely limited to one rope, a fishing harpoon, a small axe and a box of matches. And that is it. To make matters worse, a tsunami of epic magnitude is about to lash our shores. In other words, an excellent start to our stay here in paradise.

When we first arrived, not forty minutes ago, we were required to get organised, to brainstormed on the whiteboard. And we came up all these fabulous ideas like fishing out on the reef, exploring the island top to bottom, looking for fresh water, building a shelter and starting a fire. All fine and dandy but now there was this tsunami to contend with and I, for one, was more than a bit worried. I did not express my doubts aloud because I don't want to lower the group moral. Had we not suffered enough adversity already? I am referring to our desperate journey from the sinking wreckage of the aeroplane, across five kilometres of shark-infested ocean, to drag ourselves over the razor sharp reef, arriving bedraggled and exhausted on this god-forsaken rock?

The irony is we'd all been heading to a tropical island anyway. A different one. An island with a four-star resort and air-conditioned shuttles waiting to pick us up at the airport. We had been high above the clouds, on our way to this holiday destination, well into second in-flight drink service, getting everyone well and truly lubricated and into the holiday mood when suddenly there was a loud bang! Followed by an equally sudden loss of altitude. Down we went, to ditch into the sea. Have you ever waterskied in a 747 travelling at 400 miles an hour across the ocean? It's quite a nail-biting experience. Then it was down the slides and onto the floatation devices. And suddenly the whole enterprise, our cheap package tourist lark, had turned into a harrowing survival scenario.

I'm definitely concerned about that cranberry bran muffin and the double latte I had earlier this morning down near the bus station. Not the best start to the day. I had hoped the large hit of sugar and caffeine would pole volt me into the afternoon, clearing the midweek hangover I'd dragged into work like a guilty shadow. I suspect that coffee is now beginning to churn up my bowels. Let's just say there is a mounting pressure down below, accompanied by a loud digestive squelching and rumbling. Which leads me to consider the very real and humiliating possibility of having to excuse myself in order to use the facilities. Something that will not go unnoticed. A quick slash and dash would be alight but a lengthy, sweaty download session in one of the stalls would be hard to miss in terms of the time spent away from the group and the possibility of a new rank odour adding to the booze vapours already seeping out of my pores.

The engineer, the teacher, the botanist, the movie star, the marine biologist, the priest and the Royal Marine.....to name but a few. These unhappy souls have all acquired quite a nasty case of dysentery from eating too many coconuts and bits of raw crab. I warned them against overindulgence, I said, seriously folks, go easy on those coconuts. I'm not sure how I know coconuts are a natural laxative but I do. Maybe I read it somewhere? Or did I learn it from that movie Castaway with Tom Hanks?

Christ, I am sweating. Bloated and sweating like a pig. When I asked to have the air conditioner turned up a few notches Carlos, the workshop leader called for everyone's attention and asked, "does anyone object to the AC being turned up?" And Janet from downstairs started rubbing her bare shoulders and complaining that she was already a bit chilled. Jesus Christ almighty, what is wrong with that woman? It about forty degrees in here. It's like a sauna. As I say, I can smell the fumes coming off me. Last night's beer is coming out one way or the other. My poor, abused carcass desperately needs refrigeration. Unless I'm mistaken, I just felt a plump bead of sweat roll lazily down the insides of my calf. Immediately followed by another one, rolling down between my shoulder blades. This is absolute torture.

Correct me if I'm wrong but Carlo, the workshop leader, also seems quite scattered this morning. What I'm saying is, I detect a fellow midweek reveller. It takes one to know one....isn't that what they say? Oh yes. Absolutely. I can tell by his loose demeanour and the fatigue underscoring his eyes that he went out last night and had more than a few beverages. The sly bastard. He informs us that usually, for these workshops, he brings along an audio recording of the Pacific Tradewinds gently rustling palm trees and the surf crashing on the shore to "get participants in the mood". Sometimes he even gets participants to wear blindfolds with this ambient audio playing softly in the background. As it is, all he has today is a shell which we are expected to pass around and hold up to our ears, listening intently for the distant ocean.

We have managed to build a hut out of thatched palm fronds and felled trees. It takes forever. We also constructed a kitchen area kitted out with a charcoal pit and a sink. We built the commode out back. The shelter itself resembled a Fijian longhouse and was built on the side of a cliff to provide protection against the elements. To date, we have sighted wild boars in the brush so eventually, once we have properly organised the hunting committee, we should have boar meat. And don't forget the mangoes and breadfruit. And when the boar meat becomes too audacious for our stomachs, we should have a bounty of edible sea life from the reef. "Hands up those who wish to volunteer as a Fishman?" On hearing this, I edge to the back of the group. I'm a bit paranoid about the hammerhead sharks that occasionally find their way into the lagoon. I'm all for the greater good but I don't fancy running into one these monsters and losing a foot or a hand in the process.

One of the problems is the so-called 'doctor' is really a 22-year-old newly graduated medical student from Southern California who has limited practical experience. A frat boy with a stethoscope. Even if I could wrestle my hand out of the gaping maw of an attacking shark, neurosurgery would out of the question. Aside from his lack of experience, the doctor would be performing surgery using our incredibly limited first aid kit. In all likelihood, my reconnected hand would be little more use than a numb flipper hanging off the end of my wrist. I'd become the island gimp. This keeps me out of the water.

At night the mosquitoes, along with some other choice creepie-crawlies, come out in force. It turns out we built the longhouse a little too close to the mangrove swamp. The Royal Marine came up with the plan to keep the fire going all night, using green saplings to create dense smoke which is supposed to drive the mosquitoes away. And it does seem to work but it also means choking on acrid smoke in our sleep. I'm of the option we should just move the shelter to another side of the island. Problem solved, right? This leads to yet another exhaustive discussion about southern exposure and extreme weather patterns. Sometimes I do worry about the Royal Marine. He is far too tightly wound for my liking. You know the type: veins popping in his neck, rottweiler focus. A dog with a bone. Everything has to have this elevated intensity. It's so tiring. He seems to thrive on barking orders at everyone, on conflict. No doubt he has value in our current predicament but you have to muzzle that kind of personality otherwise things start to get too militaristic.

They call an island meeting (another one). Now there is a general discussion about whether we should focus our energies on building a giant bonfire, in order to be seen and rescued by passing ships or if we should face up to the reality that we will be here indefinitely and begin clearing a plot of land for agricultural purposes. Maybe we can do both? I don't say anything but...agricultural purposes? Seriously? What, pray tell, are we supposed to plant? More mangos and coconuts? They grow in abundance as it is. Along with the plantains. And seeing as how no one has any other type of seeds, it seems like an exercise in futility, if you ask me. These meetings, in which we are required to accommodate every single insipid mouse fart point of view are becoming very tiring. What's more, certain individuals on this island have begun to increase the number of daily meetings for the sake of hearing themselves talk. We have to sit there for hours on end at the large bamboo conference table listening to all this shite. Putting aside the basic requirements of survival, the social part of the game has become all together, a different kind of animal. A couple of weeks after our arrival and I've had it with the scientist who, although quite valuable because of his field of expertise, is a right pain in the ass. And the fucking ballerina is not much better. Clicks have formed. Lines have been drawn. Just like high school. I have been attempting to shag the movie star but the engineer beat me to it. Quite a disappointment, let me tell you. All that time I put in, strumming away on the camps handmade ukulele, serenading her under the moonlight, to no avail. The one consolation being, eventually, the movie star and the engineer would break up and come to hate each other. They would separate and not speak for years. The engineer had not factored in the movie star's predilection for having multiple marriages over the course of her life. Monogamy was not in her makeup. I had an affair with her. Sure. We used to meet over by the tidal pools. It was quite romantic. The poor woman was not cut out for island life. She dearly missed her fame. She would spend years lamenting the demise of her iPhone and the adoration of her fans.

Outside the window, five floors below, Sydney traffic surges towards the airport. A plane is taking off, the nose lifting up, the wheels leaving the smudged tarmac. This produces a delayed, muted rumble beyond the building's glass skin. The skies of Sydney are always full of planes. Back inside, the island, our island, has been poorly represented as a rough cartoon drawing on the whiteboard. A bump of land surrounded by little, serrated ocean waves with a single, drooping palm tree in the middle. Of course, this is only a representation, meant to help spur our imaginations. Obviously, on our island, there would be more than one palm tree. As described in the instructions, you can walk the perimeter of our island in about an hour. There is a waterfall. The mango swam I mentioned. Several beaches. A volcano. When logic comes into play, around coffee times, when the shoddy little fiction starts to break down....someone asks "why we haven't been rescued, after all, the crash site was a mere five kilometres to the south", Carlos introduces some bullshit about the island being shrouded in a mysterious fog and therefore, it has never been charted. Oooo....so mysterious. "What about satellite images?" chimes in some instigator sitting to my left. "Now you're just being counterproductive to our adventure", scolds Carlos. "The point is you are all stranded on this island and you have been assigned a role. And there are problems you need to solve as a team. So let's just go with it". Sure. 'Just go with it'. I shift in my chair and look at the clock. I have work to do. Where did they get this guy from? HR actually paid this man to come in and conduct this cut-rate team building exercise instead of taking us somewhere decent like, oh, I don't know, maybe out to a climbing wall facility and paying for lunch? Handgliding? Even just hiking would have been preferable. The point is, someone is ticking off boxes and getting a big old high five for keeping training costs down at the same time. The prink who runs this department is happy as Larry. The troops have been inspired (at least on paper) and he has come in under budget. Meanwhile, that pile of work back on my desk isn't getting any smaller. Normally what amounts to a five-day effort will now need to be compressed down into four frantic days. Brilliant. And yep, there is definitely something dynamic going on in my stomach. That double latte is going right through me like Liquid Plumber. I'm going to have to make a move soon. Or...now here is an idea: if I started laying out the groundwork now, fidgeting in my chair and making my discomfort clear to the others, could I not parle this bulging mid-morning turd into vague stomach troubles and leave early? Escape. No, no....you go on...I could imagine myself saying to the group, I'll take myself home and see you tomorrow. My thoughts are with you.

Carlo the workshop coordinator reaches into his little box of challenge cards like an angry primitive god who isn't going to be happy unless he is constantly disrupting our equilibrium and we continue on with the role-play activity. Whenever we have overcome one problem and it feels like our situation on the island may have stabilised, Carlo would pull out another one of these bloody cards. He smiles as he reads the next challenge, forcing us to branch off on some new implausible narrative tangent. I say implausible because really....could this many things really go wrong on one little island?

So far the members of our group have succumbed to dysentery, typhoid, sexually transmitted diseases, two cannibal attacks from the neighbouring island, the tsunami I mentioned, the volcano, pirates, venomous snakes and general bouts of insanity. Eliminated members of the group must move to another table in the corner, a kind of afterlife station, where they wait for us to conclude the current round. Gentlemen and lady ghosts dressed in office wear, checking their phones, tapping their fingers. The newly departed sitting in black ergonomic roller chairs. I'm not quite sure how this elaborate game is meant to inspire us. Fair play to Carlos for coming up with the idea in the first place however fucking shoddy it is. Basically, it's a hybrid of the popular television show Survivor with a touch of Lost played out using a Dungeons and Dragons dice rolling, storytelling format. And the thing that gets me is this guy Carlos must make a fair bit of money occupying us for the entire day with all this silliness. Then again maybe he comes cheap? Anyway, professional development is now a thriving industry. This is Carlos's full-time job (I asked him this morning....before we started). I should really get off my ass and come up with something like this. I should be taking advantage.

I am still alive on this terrible little island but for how much longer? Each time a new challenge card is introduced into play, there is another fatality and we must decide who is the most expendable member of the group. cruel Darwinism in action. As I said, I don't really understand how this helps us as a team in the workplace but there you go. After the third hurricane hit, the Royal Marine and the engineer began work on an underground shelter but that got flooded. The priest has abandoned the Christian faith and has become a self-styled shaman living in the mangrove swamp. The flight attendant, who's sub-skill set on the profile cards included 'expert fisherman' murdered someone in an ownership dispute over a goat so we had to build a jail out of bamboo and decide if we should implement the death penalty. More meetings. While all this is going on, I have been angling to have sexual relationships and eventually children with the school teacher. She is game and certainly had a solid childbearing physique. I have been attempting to broker a deal with her, saying look darling, I may not be the man of your dreams (and to be perfectly honest, I am not, as they say, 'hot for teacher') but I think we should look into this union. I think we could work something out. Reproduction is, after all, a central concern of human life, correct? Maybe we will start a new colony. If we can get the crazy movie star to pump out a few kiddies with someone, we might be in with a chance. What I am saying is, if we provide enough genetic variety, maybe, fifty years from now when a Japanese corporation shows up to develop this place into a golf course, they won't find our decedents to be a tribe of drooling inbred halfwits running around in grass skirts.

Dear god, I think I have officially gone past a point of no return with this potboiler that has been brewing away all morning. I should have acted sooner. I am going to have to hit the workplace facilities soon. Oh man, there is no way I could make it home even if I left now. I'd be laying pipe on the bus, somewhere along the Paramatta road, the way things are going.

The new challenge card dictates that we decide to build an escape raft out of some smashed up palm trees. The volcano has been acting up, spewing black smoke, rumbling and generally threatening to blow. The geologist has been up to the rim and suspects we are due for a cataclysmic explosion of lava and fiery death. Marvellous. Fantastic! I stand on the beach, hand in hand with the school teacher (we are old now and have three children. The movie star decided long ago not to come to the party and kept her ovaries to herself, despite the Botanist best efforts to woo her). I tell my common-law wife, the teacher, that I will not leave the island. I will not risk life and limb on the reef and exposure to the element on the high seas. No way. Besides, the geologist has been drunk on palm wine since we arrived so you can't really trust his judgement. True to form, the Marine is striding around behind us, shouting orders at everyone, overseeing the construction of the new escape raft and the provision gathering team. We can make it, says the teacher, her rich brown eyes locked into mine.

"Don't you understand?" I say, the ocean water sluicing around our ankles, pulling the sand out from beneath our toes, "don't you get it? Our God is a malevolent one. There is nothing out there but death", I say, pointing towards the horizon. From up on the mountain the Shaman blows his conch shell horn producing a long, baleful note that resonates out across the island. "There is no 'I' in team", shouts my wife, as they all shove off, the raft moving out to encounter the first massive breaker. At that moment I feel the ground begin to rumble once again as something, a horrible internal pressure continues to build down in the bowls of the earth. In the corner the room, the bored ghosts of our departed colleagues moan as we get ready to break for lunch.

Rubber stamp

The messenger

Mr. Dugmore,

It has come to a point where the people of this town get nervous and hostile when they see me coming down their street. They need someone to blame and, being the only postman servicing this area, I understand why I have become the target of these negative emotions. I don't like it but I understand. 

This letter situation has been happening for at least a month now. Handwritten letters and sometimes typed letters, all of which I have to personally shove into their mail boxes as I move along my route. All of these letters are anonymous, or so I'm told.

Everything being digital now, when it first started happening, Cathy and I made jokes about how snail mail was making a comeback! Now that everything is online, things had really slowed down at the post shop. Well, until recently that is.

I don't know what kind of information these letters contain, nor do I want to know. It's none of my business. I just deliver them. I'll tell you one thing for sure, they have everyone on edge.

I have asked people I have known for...well, since I was a little kid....people who have received these letters and who would usually confide in me....I have asked these people what is going on? They choose not to talk about it. They stay silent or they change the subject. Then they close their doors. Some of these people have received only one whereas others have received up to ten letters. Apart from the kids, or at least everyone under 18 years of age, I have delivered at least one letter to almost everyone in town by now.

Sitting in the RSL two nights ago, having a few beers with the boys, the atmosphere was not good. You don't have to be a genius to see people are upset and unsettled. That night there were two fights that erupted out of nowhere. I won't tell you who was involved because there is enough gossip going around at the moment.

The tension has become palatable. People don't want to receive these letters yet at the same time, it's obvious to me they don't want to feed them back into the system as 'undeliverable'. As 'return to sender'. The residents on my route meet me at the gate now and snatch these bloody letters out of my hands. As I say, they need someone to blame.

If a letter has the correct postage and a legitimate address, then I am responsible for the delivery of that letter. No two ways about it. I am not responsible for the contents. That is what the people of this town don't seem to understand.

Anyway, I thought I should tell someone in case there are any problems down the line. So there it is. For the record. 

Kind regards, 

Genuinely missing

Hey,

Talked to dad the other day about the camping trip. You know the infamous one? When me and Dad (Dad and I?) went up and down the coast for five or maybe it was six weeks? You wouldn't remember this. Mainly I have these vague memories of winding along the foggy coastline, the sun breaking through occasionally. We saw this tree stump. It had inner rings that dated this particular tree back hundreds of years ago. Pontius Pilot, Thomas Edison, JFK....this tree had outlived them all. Well, until some guy with an axe came along.

I had a little tape recorder, do you remember it? That little Sanyo model that I used to think was the shit? I recorded dad and myself, sitting around, talking about this or that. You can hear bird life in the background sometimes. Or in the car, driving along, dad explaining where we were or talking about something we were seeing. The running joke was that we spoke like we were reporters, saying things like "This is Richard and Todd reporting live from the scene".

Camping for a week or two is fun. Any longer than that, it starts to wear on you. After awhile those campgrounds began to blur together. It was always the same thing: we would pay at the reception and then driving in to find our spot. Then we would have to set everything up from scratch, including the tent. We had our whole life in the back of that station wagon.

You started to recognise the same faces at each new campground. The same people travelling up and down the coast, moving in the same direction. There was one hippie chick in a denim bikini. She was driving a VW camper van. She collected and polished jade stones to make into jewellery and belt buckles. Sold them at festivals.  I say 'hippie' not because she looked like one but because she had one of those hippie names, sunflower or some such bullshit. Anyway, you couldn't very well ignore her because she was always sunbathing topless. I think most of the men in the campground were a little distracted by her presence.

The next campground we showed up at, there she was again. And the next one after that. The same topless hippie sunbather. Now I understand that we were following her around from place to place. She was really friendly to me and dad was always helping her out and offering her food. He grew a beard and started playing Bob Dylan a little bit louder on our car stereo. I hated Dylan back then. That voice, Christ, it sounded like a depressing counter-culture fart. (I do like him now that I'm older). It was the hypocrisy that got to me. Being around people like my parents, listening to this cynical, overthrow-the-government type music, as the sound track to our fairly typical middle-class existence. I just didn't get it. Why were they listening to these angry songs and not doing anything about it?

This camping trip extended past the school starting date. I was only really aware of this when adults started coming up to me and saying, why aren't you at school, son? I'd shrug and reply, I don't know. Dad would say, tell them that you are taking a little extra time off to hang out with your old dad. Nothing wrong with that. Do you think that will answer everyone's fucking questions? I'd never heard him swear before.  Not the 'f' word. And he seemed sort of tense about the whole thing so I avoided the subject. At night he would go off for a walk but I knew he was going. I saw him early one morning coming out of the hippie girl's camper van. We didn't talk about that either.

So yeah, at first it was great. Every day was another adventure in the great outdoors. But then the camping started to get a bit boring. It became a routine. Dad was a bit of perfectionist when it came to storing everything neatly back in the car. And always being outdoors, in the elements, it starts to tire you out. You have no privacy. You start to crave normality. Going into the third week I was starting to miss mum and my life back at home. I'm ashamed to say it but most of all I missed television. Anyway, I was definitely getting sick of canned food and sleeping on a thin foam mattress.

When I said this to dad he laughed in that kind of pissed off, nasty way he does sometimes. Or maybe it was the disappointment? I'm not sure. I need you to stop complaining all the time, he said. Can you stop doing that? Can you stop whining and pissing and just try to enjoy this? That shocked me and made me hate him a little bit more. I wasn't the one who kept on extending the camping trip. I didn't talk to him for awhile. His way of apologising was to drive us into town, grab some pizza and see the latest James Bond movie. So I was pretty happy after that.

The thing with the hippy girl concluded when her real boyfriend and his friends turned up one afternoon. They were shaggy, borderline homeless dudes. They were fun at first because they had a kind of wild energy. They had beer as well. And some dope. I remember the smell. Later on, I remember sitting around the campfire and there was a lot of tension between dad and the boyfriend. They were provoking each other. You know what dad can be like when he's challenged. Anyway, this tension built until they were both about to fight. I'd never seen dad that worked up. Luckily,  it dissipated but still, I could see the boyfriend was enjoying antagonising him. I was worried about dad. When it came down to it, these people were younger and seemed to have less to lose that we did. I didn't want to see day beat in a fight. I consider us luckily nothing happened that night.

The next day we got up and the VW van was gone. The old man was moody for a long time after that. Really moody. It's funny as a kid because you are taking everything in, absorbing information, and really all you've got to go on is instinct. You don't have prior experiences to inform your judgements. And so, when the adult world does something totally unexpected, when the rug gets pulled out from under your feet, this is the moment when you learn about self-assurance. These lessons tell you what you're going to be like in the future as an adult. Will you believe in yourself? or will you spend the next 30 years harbouring doubt?

Dad was kind of dismissive about the whole thing. When I asked him about the hippie girl, he'd always give me some bullshit answer. I guess during that time, maybe going into the fourth week, I started to feel a lot of anxiety at everything that was going on. A growing lack of stability. And after the hippy girl had taken off, dad seemed to lose interest in the entire venture. Thinking back on it, he was behaving like a heartbroken teenager. It was pathetic. By the end of the fourth week, everything became encrusted in dirt. There was a rip in the tent and we had to patch it up with a piece of tape. It started to feel like everything was coming apart at the seams.

The thing about extending our camping trip into the school year was that there were no kids around. Everyone was back at school. Apart from older couples and tourists, most of the places we stopped were half empty. Only two weeks before there every space had been taken up with RV's and tents. You'd see people throwing frisbees and cooking on the communal barbeques.  Now it seemed like you only ran into the nomadic, year-rounders. And it was getting colder.

I got up early one morning and walked along this path which followed a freshwater estuary out to the beach. The headland was barely visible in the fog and the waves were pounding on the shore. I was freezing. I noticed something down by the water. A grey object on the sand. It was a juvenile great white shark that had washed ashore. Its mouth was open and I could see all those rows of triangular teeth going down into its throat. It had black eyes about the size of golf balls. You couldn't tell if it was dead or alive. I mean it was dead but a part of me was still thinking, are you sure? Part of me, that impulsive little voice which I suppose is there help make rational decisions, said, go ahead...put your hand in its mouth. See what happens. Don't be a pussy. Do it. Anyway, it's skin felt like cold sandpaper. I kicked it in the head, more than once. Nothing happened. After waiting awhile, I put my hand into it's mouth. Not too deep at first. My heart was beating in my chest. I had to do it. I kept imagining one last twitch of the nervous system. A bite of food that wouldn't even make it down to the shark's stomach. One last defiant little reminder of who was at the top of the food chain. Nothing happened but I was glad to get my hand clear. I was thinking about bashing a few of its teeth out with a rock. I wanted a trophy. I didn't do it in the end. Not because this thing was some noble creature that deserved to be left alone. It was ugly and terrible. The flies were already at it. I just couldn't find a rock.

In my mind, that was the same morning the police found us but it could have been the following day. Or the day after that. Anyway five hours after the police cruiser rolled into the campground, I was back with you and mum. Back in our house. And then, the following Monday, I was back at school, sitting in my classroom like nothing had happened. I could tell the teacher, Mrs Bryant, was going easy on me compared to the other kids. If you have any problems or questions, she said, just come and see me after class.

After all the legal stuff with dad had concluded, after dad went through counselling, things got back on track. Or put more accurately, they got on two different tracks, when mum and dad finally stopped messing around and got properly divorced. And you know the rest.

Speaking to dad last week threw some light on what had happened between him and mum. How he'd taken off without telling anyone. How he'd 'snapped'. How frantic mum had been. I was a genuine missing person and I didn't even know it. Anyway, as far as dad goes, it's funny how with age comes honesty. Honesty and transparency. After all those years of concealing things. Of keeping up appearances, finally they are able to just say "fuck it. You what the truth? Okay fine, I'll give you the truth".

You really should go visit him. He still has that tape. And an old cassette player in the garage. We listened to the tape when I came around. It's a trip hearing me and dad reporting back from 1981. Anyway...

Speak to you later,