Dead Ringer

The regular staff in the hospital where I once worked used to get us part-timers to help lay out the dead. We were an odd mix of students, artists and bums, so well-qualified for the task.

My first client, an old woman, stared at me lifelessly throughout the proceedings, her head propped upright by a pillow. As I stood by the bus stop on my way home, I felt that the darkness had followed me out and would be, from now on, a persistent companion.

To counter my fears, I tried my best, treating each new case with respect: washing them carefully and tenderly, adjusting the linen precisely as a finishing touch. Each one a masterpiece. The work had hope and meaning in an improbable way: like a conversation with oneself. I spoke to my patients at times - they were patients till wheeled away - impressed by their silent dignity.

Standing back one day to admire the work, I noticed a stain spreading across the new-laid sheet. 'Life' doesn't cease in every physical sense just because a brain is dead. I won't say more. "Can you believe?" screeched my colleague, a trainee from Lagos. Excitable at the best of times, her voice soared angrily. "He not meant to do that!"

"He's dead!" I replied.

"It not right!"

"Not right?" I could hear myself shouting back. "He's free! He can do what he bloody likes. There are no rules for the dead!" She gave me a steely look. "You crazy," she said, and reached for fresh sheets.

"That makes two of us!"

Life's Goal

Feeling stiff as a plank this morning, as I sleepwalk upstairs to feed our cat, Gepetto, before he wakes us. Playing football again after a four-week layoff is no joke.

My hamstring is playing up, so I spent most of the time in goal - a living target for any misguided shot. Quite a few got past uninvited while I struggled to focus, think smart, log on to that inaccessible software that every keeper craves:  intuition or, in more technical terminology, getting it right.

Sometimes, you don't know how you saved a shot that would appear unstoppable to sober eyes. You don't really need to know why; just do it. The best saves are inspirational, illogical, far-fetched. Twisting out a leg or fist, diving mindlessly to right or left with no sense or motive; landing in shock to find the goal still yawning empty and safe.  The best saves are untranslatable, unsurpassable, momentous.

How come they can't explain those equally desperate misses?

Camden Barnet

At my Camden barber's, where a non-designer dry cut costs £8.00 and coffee means hospitality, not the hope of reward. It's more like a bric-a-brac shop, with ornaments betraying their dusty heritage. Hair-wigs hang like scalps from the ceiling; and snaps of Nicosia and Blackpool rub shoulders with photos of now-famous actors, presenters and pop stars, taken when fame was a lowly wish. On the wall above, an interesting collection of cut-throat razors, which I hope will not be needed.

The owner, Mustafa, is off today, as is the usual chat about Northern Cyprus, politics and British perfidy, interspersed with gardening tips. I sit in silence, listening to Turkish TV, as my Barnet falls victim to the scissors' snip.

For those unused to Cockney rhyming slang, 'Barnet Fair' means 'hair'. Barnet Horse Fair has been going since 1588 apparently, which makes me wonder how long my greying crop will last.

A haircut is a kind of little death, I feel, which makes me miss Mustafa's tales of atrocities even more. It's a reminder we're losing hair in the places we need it, and gaining some in the parts we don't. I miss Mustafa, for all his rants and reaction. I don't need a haircut really - and at the rate Mustafa's stand-in is snipping, might never do so again.

Like many refugees from reality, I only came in for a chat.



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Luxurious Limbo

Maroonned in the First Class lounge at Gatwick with hours to wait for the next flight to Malaga. Listening to endless 'power conversations' from VIPs in disguise - "What I need done is as follows..."; "I have no idea at all why he wants a meeting..."; "I told them plainly: London isn't Istanbul..."  Conversations whose import is clear, but whose purpose one will never know.

My true-love is trying not to guess why our 6 a.m. flight was cancelled, and whether the technical faults the nice BA woman mentioned could be catching. Is technology out of control? Is disaster contagious? Could this be the end? We sit, counting planes rather than sheep, anaesthetized by champagne.  Resistance is useless, I think, knocking back another glass. Life is a metaphor after all. The final destination is oblivion. Being together is what counts, I add.

She snuggles up on the sofa. "Do you think we'll make it?"

An Apple a Day

Am in the Apple shop at Covent Garden, waiting to get my iPhone 4 fixed. Its coverage ranges from the dumb to the ridiculous, and email is hit or miss. As it's a miracle of technocracy, or meant to be, I'm assuming it's all my fault. I'm also looking for an iPad2 16GB, but they seem to be out of stock.

So far so good.

Sex at any Cost

Longevity doesn't seem to deplete romance or hunger. Sex can seem magical after a lifetime away. Abstinence makes the heart grow fonder, but also beat faster.Perhaps it's the thought of that Senior Rail Card at the end of the tunnel. Obviously, there are disadvantages to decrepitude. Investing in Viagra - if only to make all those Canadian pharmacists richer - can reap dividends (I'm told). It can also curb passion by placing a limit on lust. Too much happiness can spell disaster. Best to get the old ticker checked first. Cardiology should precede carnality, for those who are keen but cautious. Otherwise the next orgasm could be your last...

Not a bad way to go, considering the alternatives.

Difference between Daughter(s) and Girlfriend

Daughters can seem remote at times, though you've probably known them since birth. Assuming you've known your 'partner' all her life could be a mistake. A partner can walk out of your life any time, married or not; daughters never. They're stuck with you, genetically at least. "For better or worse" is true in their case, even if they ignore you. The same applies "for richer or poorer" hopefully.

For your kids, you are the key to what went wrong or right in the past: a piece of evidence that predates them. In the case of romance and relationships, one usually turns up long after a partner's first passions or loves. Accepting you is a retrospective fit: something you try to live up to. Like reality, you are constantly challenged and tested. Survival dosen't disprove the fact that you weren't there from the start; it merely compounds it.

There's an ambiguity about love, define it how you will, especially when it dwells on the future. Partners may believe you'll change one day; daughters know you never will.

In general, loving a girlfriend/wife/partner plus a daughter or two covers all angles - without making life any simpler or (let's face it) comprehensible.

We're all Foodies now

It's getting harder to find a non-PC pub, where regulars still smoke, spit, swear and generally insult the human race. I was in a South Devon quayside den last night, listening to the traditional cursing and coarseness from the bar, well into a pint of Dartmoor Best and Messi's magic on the box. What were they arguing about? How best to grill sea bass! A crew of trawlermen debating the merits of mackerel oil and which balsamic vinegar is best to pickle fresh-caught scallops. I staggered off to a real old dive where old salts are as quick to knock back their tankards as to cast doubt on your mother's virtue. The way was was blocked by a Newfoundland sea-dog slurping a pail of Guinness. As I edged past, what did I hear? Two grizzled old pirates debating the merits of braising pork with walnuts!

The kitchen has become the new bedroom, by all accounts.