Maggie O’ Farrell: The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox

I’m really enjoying reading this at the moment. In fact I’m enjoying it so much that I want to string it out for as long as possible so that I don’t finish it. I love the idea of authors writing about people who have ended up in psychiatric hospitals in a way that restores their humanity.

Part of my psychological journey has been a critical look at the way that psychology and psychiatry blame the individual for having a “mental illness”. In fact there are a whole lot of factors at work in being ‘crazy’, from the intra-psychic to the inter-personal and the social. This is not to romanticise mental illness and say that psychiatric hospitals are evil places. It’s just an awareness of how psychology and psychiatry are caught up in the operations of power and powerlessness that often manifest in people’s lives spinning out of control.

One of my interests, which fits in with both literature and psychology, is that of the construction of subjectivity. When people have nervous breakdowns their subjectivity basically falls apart, and the process of recovery involves regaining a sense of agency or control over what has become uncontrollable. Currie talks about the process of “undoing the subject” as occurring in moments of self-doubt and anxiety.

Which brings us in a roundabout way to Esme Lennox, the spirited, unconventional and troubled young woman who is locked up in a mental asylum as a young girl and only released 60 years later.

I enjoyed this review.

And I really love O’ Farrell’s writing. She writes so simply but the effect is powerful, as in this short extract:

’I already told you,’ she said, holding his gaze. ‘Never’.
She felt him catch her wrist and she was surprised by the insistence, the power of his grip. ‘Let go,’ she said, stepping away from him. But he held on, fast. She struggled. ‘Let go!’ she said. ‘Do you want me to hit you again?’
He released her. ‘Wouldn’t mind,’ he drawled. As she walked away, she heard him call after her: ‘I’m going to invite you to tea.’
‘I won’t come,’ she threw back over her shoulder.
‘You damn well will. I’m going to get my mother to invite your mother. Then you’ll have to come.’
‘I wont!’
‘We’ve got a piano you could play …’

Taking the idea of stories from mental hospitals a bit further, I started looking around on the internet for some more. One site I found was called the ”experience project” and has some limited (but interesting) accounts about what it’s like to be on the inside. I think one of the fascinations about a book like Esme Lennox is that most of us are intrigued to know what it would be like to go a bit ‘crazy’ and land up in a mental hospital.

They tried to stick me in a room with a lil old lady who was wailing super loud, but I started bawling too, so they put me in with a goth girl instead. It just was a bad experience. Not a good enviroment. ….My mom found out i was in there and called me, but I told her I was fine, cuz I did not feel like talking to her, cuz she can’t understand. … The cops stuck me in the mental ward for hurting myself, cuz i cut my arms up.

Definitely a topic to come back to in a later blog.

Friday ‘fessing

It’s not been such a good week writing-wise. I now have roughly 10 articles to do in just over three weeks, which translates into an article every two and a half days. This in addition to my day job. Something’s gotta give – and I think it will have to be the day job. I will have to take leave since the deadlines for these articles are not negotiable. Having said that, I am enjoying writing the first one. Blocking off writing time is the difficult part – since there is always the temptation to do other things. I haven’t formulated proper writing goals for the week but the general idea is to set regular targets and be disciplined about them

There’s also the anxiety aspect. It’s quite hard to remain calm in the face of very difficult deadlines but I’m not panicking just yet. The next three weeks will be tough – so not much blogging for me (unless I hit a great patch where I’m writing, blogging and reading all at the same time.) It’s possible (but a bit unlikely).

Proudly South African (and English)

I have a friend whose granny taught her to play the “Glad Game”. Whenever she felt like complaining she should think of 10 things to be grateful for. Now this has always struck me as a form of denialism, but I also like the positivity that it generates.

So in the spirit of my friend’s granny I want to think of 10 reasons to be proudly South African: 1. Nelson Mandela; 2. Desmond Tutu; 3. the Springboks; 4. Mamphele Ramphele; 5. Johnny Clegg; 6. Natalie du Toit; 7. the Drakensberg; 8. the winelands; 9. Table Mountain National Park; and 10. the Parlotones.

As a Capetonian, I just had to slip in a reference to The Mountain. As a psychologist, I like to see things in balance. I’ve never been completely comfortable about the “Proudly South African” campaign, perhaps because it seems a bit one-sided. Some people might say that I’m too attached to the opposite emotion, that of shame but I think you can’t do justice to South Africa without acknowledging that shame. I wanted to put the TRC (Truth and Reconciliation campaign) in my list but it didn’t seem right.

No-one in their right mind would start a campaign called “Shamefully South African” but there is a lot of negativity attached to life here. Ask me to rattle off 10 reasons to be ashamed of being a South African and I will immediately give you: 1. Xenophobia; 2. Aids (and Aids denialism); 3. Thabo Mbeki; 4. Zimbabwe (and Mbeki’s failures in that regard); 5. Crime; 6. Jacob Zuma; 7. corruption; 8. the ANC youth league; 9. Apartheid and 10. poverty and unemployment. Not to mention alcoholism and a general propensity towards violence.

Now some of these things are not uniquely South African but they are cause for a lot of heartache. Mbeki’s biographer Mark Gevisser says that as South Africans we have a tendency towards a form of national manic-depression — we alternate between euphoria and despair. The euphoria of our First Democratic Elections in 1994 and the inauguration of Nelson Mandela as our first democratically-elected president was closely followed by winning the 1995 Rugby World Cup. Then we lurched into the despair of Aids, Zimbabwe, the Arms deal and corruption. And underlying a lot of the negativity was the collapse of the Rand and our comparative economic decline. Watching the petrol price go up every week – and realising that our chances of economic prosperity are getting dimmer – is depressing.

Now the book that prompted this national soul-searching on my part, strangely enough, has been The English by Jeremy Paxman. It’s probably a bit dated now since it was written in 1999 but it got me thinking about the links between the individual and the social, the personal and the political. I like the way it starts:

Once upon a time the English knew who they were. There was such a ready list of adjectives to hand. They were polite, unexcitable, reserved and had hot-water bottles instead of a sex life: how they reproduced was one of the mysteries of the western world.

Now I found Paxman to be funny, informative and thoughtful but, to be honest, also smug, irritating and a bit stand-offish. Anna Tomczak writes about the book:

It’s a work of many different hues and shades – sarcastic and critical at times, humorous and witty but also passionate, full of empathy and dedication. And yet, it’s a portrait with a flaw. Out of eleven chapters only one is about English women, the last one, and it’s mainly about prostitution in England. Some females are briefly mentioned. Florence Nightingale and Mrs Thatcher appear in passing. Betty Boothroyd features in one of the anecdotes. What about others? Emily Pankhurst, Vivian Westwood, Mary Quant, Mary Whitehouse, the women of Greenham Common – didn’t they make any impact?

That’s a good point. Perhaps partly because I’m busy with a lot of other work, I found it difficult to just relax and read the book. He moves too quickly from the personal to the national for a start. For example, he mentions going to a funeral of a friend in South Africa and being impressed with the “sweet passion” with which the choir of cleaning ladies sang “Nkosi Sikelele iAfrika”. When it was time for the English to sing their hymn, Jerusalem, he felt embarrassed. “We couldn’t manage it with any conviction,” he says, before commenting that the English don’t have a proper national song. Now, it seems pretty obvious to me that the discomfort with singing “Jerusalem” with great gusto has a lot more to do with being at a funeral than anything else.

But I like the idea of thinking about national identities and teasing out some of the links between the individual and the social. I would certainly like to read such a book about South Africa, but perhaps the scope is just too large. Personal stories tend to be more interesting.

Five habits meme

Emily tagged me for this so another excuse to talk about myself (as if I needed one). I’m calling it the “Five Habits Meme”, although it actually started out as three habits. Makes me think of “7 habits for highly effective people”, which fits neatly with my interest in the self-help genre. I did my Master’s (mini)thesis on magazine advice columns and would still like to do a deconstruction of Dr Phil!

What was I doing 10 years ago?
I was a guidance counsellor at a high school in Cape Town. It was a really interesting job and I learned a lot in my two and a half years there. It was a bit overwhelming being thrown in the deep-end and having to try and coordinate between teachers, parents, students as well as teaching, presenting and doing sports coaching. One presentation that stands out in my mind was having to do a talk on the “Pros and Cons of pre-marital sex” to the entire Grade 12 year (about 120 students) and their class teachers! I hope the syllabus has moved on since then.

Five snacks I enjoy in a perfect, non weight-gaining world:
For me the non-weight gaining world is a reality – although hardly perfect. I’d like to pick up a few kilos. I generally eat healthily but I do have a fondness for apple cake, date slices, banana bread, mini-Bar Ones and pringle-type chips.

Five snacks I enjoy in the real world:
See above (also nuts, fruit, yoghurt, dried fruit)

Five things I would do if I were a billionaire:
1. Buy property (Emily’s idea of an apartment in Manhattan overlooking the Hudson river sounds perfect – maybe we can be neighbours; and then a house in Cape Town as well.)
2. Travel
3. Sponsor psychology projects in Cape Town
4. Sponsor deserving writers and other artists
5. Spoil my family and friends

Five jobs that I have had: (only five?)
1. Pizza delivery guy
2. Guidance counsellor at a high school
3. Bookshop employee
4. Journalist
5. Researcher for an NGO

Five habits:
1. Running twice a week
2. Drinking many cups of tea a day
3. Radio station hopping when I’m driving (since SA radio DJs can be quite annoying)
4. Watching rugby (and the occasional ballet / theatre)
5. Keeping a journal (for book thoughts, dreams, ideas)

Five places I have lived:
1. Pinelands, Cape Town
2. Stellenbosch
3. Somerset West (still Cape Town)
4. Jane Furse, Limpopo province
5. Westdene, Johannesburg

Five people I want to get to know better:
I’m not sure who’s been tagged here and who hasn’t. I’d be interested to read answers from TJ, Litlove, Dorothy, Charlotte, Qugrainne and Dolce.

Incidentally, the 7 habits (of highly effective people) are: be proactive; begin with the end in mind; put first things first; think win/win; seek to understand then to be understood; synergise; and sharpen the saw.

Ballet vs rugby

I had a choice between going to the pub to watch SA play Wales in a rugby test match while drinking copious amounts of beer and joining my friend to watch the Cape Junior Ballet. Since roughly 99% of South African men I know would have opted for the rugby I chose to buck the trend and see the ballet. What a great choice. As I sat down in my seat, I looked around and noticed the general lack of men in the audience. There were a few younger guys with their girlfriends but the middle-aged South African man was not going to miss watching the Bokke for a bunch of dancers in tights. You can probably guess what happened. I was expecting to be a bit bored and to vow never to make such a silly choice ever again. Instead I was riveted. The dancers knocked my socks off, and if the other patrons had stood up to give them a standing ovation at the end I would have joined in. “Bravo!” I wanted to say.

“They’re brilliant!” I gushed to the woman next to me. “World class – and the tickets were only R50.” There were about 26 dancers from 10 to 16 years (although some looked a little older) and they were energetic, graceful, beautiful, athletic and very comfortable in their bodies. They made me want to be 16 again and to prance around like, well, a dancer. Or at least to hang out with the pretty dancing girls.

“How do they manage to stand on point like that?” I asked the middle-aged woman next to me, who has been coming to these things for 20 years. “My toes are sore just from looking at them.”
“They soak them in methylated spirits” was the suprising answer.

Speaking of cool ballet, this is the Royal Ballet of Flanders in their acclaimed production of “Impressing the Czar”. And you should definitely check out the
rugby ballet video on YouTube. It’s brilliant.

What to do when you have a “worry coming on”

I’m feeling a bit anxious today, for a variety of reasons — not least of which is that my parents are in a tizz about my mother’s bookclub and not being able to serve her guests tea since the kettle is broken. My father is dispatched to the local store to buy a new kettle and to prove my mother wrong when she says that he is “totally useless”. I hate being put in a position to have to defend my dad. “No, he’s not useless,” I say. “He’s just a bit slow sometimes.” That makes him sound like he has a learning disability or that he’s an old dog who doesn’t learn new tricks (such as springing into action the moment my mother clicks her fingers).

So I decide to turn to the Internet to soothe my anxiety. My usual strategy is to drink some tea, glance through the papers, catch up on some emails and then get down to work. But this morning, making tea would mean running the gauntlet of bookclub introductions. I can sense the trill of nervous laughter from this distance – and the joys of caffeine are not worth it.

So I turn to the Internet instead. Calling up Google, I type in the phrase, “how to soothe yourself”. I’m delighted to find that the very first site is called “soothingyourself.com” but my joy dissipates a little when I find that the trick to self-soothing is to buy various products: “Soothing Chamomile Cleanser, Soothing Apricot Toner, After Sun Soothing Milk, Skin Rescue Oil, Organic Face Cream, Acne Skin Care Remedies” and so on. Maybe there’s a gripping book on the subject. I find “The Worrywart’s Companion: Twenty-One Ways to Soothe Yourself and Worry Smart” by Dr Beverly Potter. The blurb is upbeat:

Brimming with practical ideas you can try today, The Worrywart’s Companion includes twenty-one simple things you can do when you feel a worry coming on. Instead of worrying yourself sick, The Worrywart’s Companion shows how to soothe yourself so that you can think more clearly, deal with the worry at hand, and then let it go. Positive, easy to understand, and fun to read, this revolutionary little book explores the roots of worry and explains that worry is a behaviour that is learned. The good news is that it can also be unlearned.

Of course. Good old CBT (cognitive behaviour therapy). Thanks to Amazon I can read inside the book and discover what these worry-tackling strategies might be. Here they are:

1. Evaluate the cost of the worry. 2. Take a deep breath. 3. Relax your muscles. 4. Distract yourself. 5. Take a walk. 6. Smile and laugh. 7. Say a little prayer. 8. Find the Joy. 9. Avoid drinking coffee. 10. Change should to preferences. 11. Count worry beads. 12. Eat a sweet. 13. Take a warm bath. 14. Imagine a happy ending. 15. Do a good deed. 16. Joke about the worry. 17. Rock yourself. 18. Count your blessings. 19. Make a list. 20. Practice under-reacting. 21. Watch a funny movie.

Now I don’t know about you but I feel like saying a little prayer for the joys of the Internet while counting my blessings (and my worry beads), avoiding drinking coffee and doing some smiling and laughing – not to mention some self-rocking. Actually there’s a whole string of active verbs here which are quite helpful: evaluating, breathing, relaxing, distracting, walking, smiling, laughing, praying, finding joy, drinking (and not drinking), changing thoughts, counting, eating, bathing, imagining, doing good deeds, joking, rocking, counting again, list-making, practising, under-reacting and watching.

Now I think these strategies will definitely make a difference, and they certainly made me laugh, but I find them limiting. It’s as if the answer is to try and avoid thinking too much about what caused the worry in the first place because thinking is associated with anxiety, which is pretty uncomfortable. A few weeks ago I blogged about Robet Gurzon’s take on anxiety. He distinguishes between three types of anxiety: natural anxiety, toxic anxiety and sacred anxiety. It helps to know that anxiety is a normal (and important) part of life but that the fear of anxiety itself (so-called toxic anxiety) is the problem here. Gurzon talks about unravelling the knot of anxiety, so that we can use anxiety as a tool for personal growth.

So I hope that Dr Potter won’t mind too much that one of my good deeds for the day was to share her tips (and a critique thereof) with a small corner of the blogosphere. The happy ending I’m imaging is that the bookclubbers leave enough cake for me to enjoy with my now introduction-free tea. I’ll spare you the self-analysis of the causes of anxiety. But I think the Friday fessing (or lack thereof) is reminding me that I’m a bit behind on my writing quotient for this week. Enjoy the weekend.

Children’s books

Today is Youth Day in South Africa (commemorating the role of the youth in the struggle against apartheid and the start of the Soweto uprising) so it’s a perfect excuse to talk about some of my favourite children’s books. (If this sounds flippant, then it’s not meant to diminish the struggle led by the youth. It’s just a celebration of kids’ books today. It’s common knowledge that books and stories can be as powerful, and more constructive, than violent protest.)

First of all, Dr Seuss.

“The more that you read, the more things you will know. The more that you learn, the more places you’ll go.”

“I have heard there are troubles of more than one kind. Some come from ahead and some come from behind. But I’ve bought a big bat. I’m all ready you see. Now my troubles are going to have troubles with me!

“Think left and think right and think low and think high. Oh, the things you can think up if only you try …. And will you succeed? Yes indeed, yes indeed! Ninety-eight and three-quarters percent guaranteed!”

There’s a kind of manic energy in Dr Seuss which is infectious. His books are basically doggerel with fun pictures. They’re perfect for little kids but doggerel nonetheless. I learned the alphabet with the help of ‘Dr Seuss’s ABC’. Here is the entry for V: “Big V, little v, Vera Violet Vinn is very very very awful on her violin”. The picture shows a little girl with a shock of blondish hair happily scraping away at her violin with sound waves emanating chaotically in all directions while two woolly figures block their ears. My brother and sister both played the violin so that was particularly funny for me, who grew up listening to them. They were actually pretty good and one of my favourite pieces of classical music as a result is Bach’s Concerto for Two Violins.

Then of course there’s Richard Scarry (I liked the gorilla with the bunches of bananas), A.A. Milne, Lewis Carrol, Roald Dahl. One of the things about temporarily moving back with my parents is that I have access to some old, battered books I had as a child more than 30 years ago. Perhaps I’m regressing back to being a child (I hope not) but in the picture you have “The Cat in the Hat” and “The Cat in the Hat Comes Back”, “The Digging-est Dog” and “The King, the Mice and the Cheese”. I was going to say that those are brilliant but I’ll rather say that they are fun to read. I could go on and on. C. S. Lewis’s Narnia series, Beatrix Potter, Rudyard Kipling ….

When I was small my dad used to read me a bedtime story every night. I can picture that big room with the small bed, and then my brother on the other side of a glass partition. My favourite author when I was about 7 years old must have been Roald Dahl: Charlie and the Chocolate Factory; Danny the Champion of the World; James and the Giant Peach etc. Then we moved on to Arthur Ransome and the “Swallows and Amazons” series. The only book we ever gave up on was Ransome’s “We didn’t mean to go to sea”. There are only so many pages you can take of people being stuck in a boat. (Talking about boys being stuck on boats, it took me quite a while to get into The Life of Pi, which I subsequently enjoyed, as an adult).

I used to work part-time at the bookshop as a student, and when it was quiet and there were very few customers I would plonk myself down in the kid’s section. Some titles that spring to mind: Where the Wild Things Are; The Berenstein Bears; Where’s Wally?; the Paper Bag Princess; the Brothers Grimm; Aesop’s Fables. There were also South African books about wild animals and traditional stories but I can’t think of titles offhand.

As far as writing a children’s story is concerned, I started developing a story I read in the newspaper about some baby crocodiles on a farm in KwaZulu-Natal who were swept out to sea after a storm. I was imagining their adventures as the lost little crocs try to find their way home again. Unfortunately I ran out of steam before they’d got very far.

So what are some of your favourite children’s books? And if you wrote a children’s story, what would it be about?

Friday ‘Fess Up: The Writing Journal

This is my first Friday ‘Fess Up. Two (marketing) stories written and dispatched this week so not a bad week. And my editor said one of the stories I sent him was “superb” so I felt good about that for about 10 minutes before I remembered the hours that the story took to write and rewrite.

I started a writing journal in February this year to help me finish my master’s thesis and then work on the freelance marketing stories I’m doing on Belgian companies. The journal’s called “Notes on a story” and currently runs to about 7,000 words. Often my entries are just rants, only tangentially connected to the work I’m doing, but they still work as a way of unblocking the writing process. I usually start with the question, “How do I feel about this story?” and then take it from there. Here are some entries:

How do I feel about this story? Well I’m a bit intrigued by it. But mostly anxious. I’m anxious that I won’t have enough to say. That I’ll break my back and get to 500 words and then be totally written out. … There’s just so much you can write about a paper and pulp company before your eyes start to glaze over and you look for the tiniest excuse to go and do something else. …. But no. Stay here I will. I’m cold but I’m going to write for 30 mins about W. And try and balance the big picture with the details. Big and small. That’s the way to inch this baby forwards. Left brain and right brain. Plan and details.

How do I feel about this P story? Honestly not that good. I’m anxious about it – there’s a lot to balance. … It feels as if it’s all just so much effort today. I’m worried that I can’t do it anymore. The last story was a fluke. It practically wrote itself. This one is so much harder. And I’m less fired up. Given myself 60 minutes to try and put some stuff together but the urgency’s just not there. … For some reason I’m thinking about that hymn from Atonement, “Dear Lord and Father of mankind”.

I always feel nervous before every story – it’s what keeps me on the edge. Without it I’d just be rehashing old stories – plugging them in to the formula. …I want to write. I do write – and rewrite and rewrite and rewrite. That’s part of the joy of writing – all the rewriting and wrestling with the text.

How do I feel about this B story? Yesterday I was depressed about it. Ugly pesticide company polluting the environment. Evil empire. Bad dressed up as good. Look how successful we are etc. But today I’m more accepting of the fact that a company can be not all bad and that it might have a lot to say for itself. And if I can do this story then it says something about my ability as a writer / journalist.

The writing journal is a bit like the morning pages in “The Artist’s Way”. Writing just has to flow without too much censorship, but the censor is always there, tut-tutting and saying, “you can’t say that”. The wrestling is as much with the censor as with the words themselves. But it helps to look at the big picture and the small picture and to keep plugging away.

I love Calvin’s take on writing

Some Rumi for a cold day

I was recently introduced to the Persian Sufi poet Rumi by a poet who is also a life coach. So, to get my mind off getting lost yesterday and to set the tone for a productive and imaginative day, here are some Rumi poems. Did you know that Rumi is apparently the most widely-read poet in the world (including the United States)? Not bad for a Muslim who would have turned 800 years old last year.

Guest House

This being human is a guest house
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they are a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still treat each guest honourably.
He may be clearing you out for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

The Worm’s Waking

This is how a human can change:
there’s a worm addicted to eating
grape leaves.
Suddenly, he wakes up,
call it grace, whatever, something
wakes him, and he’s no longer
a worm.

He’s the entire vineyard,
and the orchard too, the fruit, the trunks,
a growing wisdom and joy
that doesn’t need
to devour.

I’m not entirely convinced by that one. For me, there’s a bit of denial there. It’s as if it’s not cool to be a needy, devouring worm so, in a leap of mental dexterity, the poet imagines that he’s the entire vineyard. But I also like the idea of looking beyond yourself and seeing the whole, so that life is not just about your needs and desires.

Desire and the importance of failing

A window opens.
A curtain pulls back.
The lamps of lovers connect, not at their ceramic bases,
but in their lightedness.
No lover wants union with the Beloved
without the Beloved also wanting the lover.
Love makes the lover weak, while the Beloved gets strong.
Lightning from here strikes there.
When you begin to love God, God is loving you.
A clapping sound does not come from one hand.
The thirsty man calls out,
“Delicious water, where are you?” while the water moans,
“Where is the water-drinker?”
The thirst in our souls
is the attraction put out by the Water itself.
We belong to It, and It to us.

[...]

Disease comes, and the organs fall out of harmony.
We’re like the four different birds,
that each had one leg tied in with the other birds.
A flopping bouquet of birds!
Death releases the binding, and they fly off,
but before that, their pulling is our pain.
Consider how the soul must be, in the midst of these tensions,
feeling its own exalted pull.
[...]

Lost and Confused

Two paths diverged in a wood, says Robert Frost, and he took the one less travelled. Well, I have taken both paths and have still gotten lost more times than I can remember. Stevie Smith says that she was too far out all her life “and not waving but drowning”. Ah yes, I know that feeling. The overwhelmed by life feeling. The sense that things are slowly but steadily spinning out of control and that despite your best efforts you’re not quite managing to get it together. The lost and confused feeling.

Today started off pretty well. I slept in late, confident that since we’re due to take our military driving test at 9am, I have time for a nice cup of tea and some reading (of Lost in America) before I leave. We’re meeting at military base A, I think, remembering that military base A is just down the road. When I get to military base A, however, I discover, with the customary sinking feeling, that I have totally misheard the instructions. I’m supposed to be, at that very minute, at military base B, which as it happens, is all the way across town. Merde. No way to get there in 15 minutes in time for the test. But I also can’t back out now so I’ll have to drive there anyway.

As luck would have it, it’s pissing with rain and I take the wrong highway. Now I’m in the tail-end of rush-hour traffic going towards town instead of away from town. Double merde. No problem – I’ll take an alternative route. I pull over to the side, put on my hazard lights, and find military base B again on the map. About 10 minutes later, just by chance, I happen to notice that military base B is actually split into two parts and I’m about to head off for the wrong one. Close shave, I think gratefully, as I turn off to the right one. When I get there, simultaneously driving and reading the map in poor visibility, I know that there’s very little chance of being allowed to do the test. What I haven’t reckoned on as well is that military base B is a maze of obscure roads and has two completely different health centres. By sheer persistence I stumble into the right health centre.

“I’m doing the military driving licence test,” I tell the sister. ‘Where do I go?”
The sister gives me one of those “are you mad?” looks. As I look around the health centre I see that this is a sick bay and that the patients sitting here are definitely not here to do a driving test. One of the patients gets up to shut the door behind me, grumbling as she does so (about people who don’t close doors behind them).

“I’m with the psychologists from Y,” I add.
“Down the passage,” she says, gesturing round the corner.

For the first time this morning it feels as if I’m finally in the right place. The name on the door is a relief. It’s my Officer Commanding (OC), Major M. I knock tentatively and enter. Major M is seated at her computer in a surprisingly bare office. She looks up from her work and flashes me one of her particularly dark looks. She is not pleased to see me.

“Morning Major,” I mumble. “Morning H” to her colleague. As it turns out, my roundabout trip across the peninsula in driving rain has been for nothing. I can’t do the test and will need to come back next week. As I drive away I remember the cognitive-behaviour therapy (CBT) technique which I use sometimes with anxious patients. “What’s the worst that can happen?” I ask. They can’t fire me. They could possibly give me a stern talking to and give me unpleasant tasks to do but they can’t actually fire me. Slightly comforted by that, I stop off for a Wimpy coffee at the Engen OneStop on the way to my next destination, a satellite sick back about 40 minutes away. I’ll have two appointments there (if it’s a busy day) but at least I can drink more tea and read the paper.

Drinking my tea, I remember some of the countless times I have been lost and confused in my life. Perhaps I should write a book called, “Lost and Confused”. At school I managed to lose most of possessions at least once (including my tracksuit, my blazer, my wallet and my bicycle). My teachers said that if my head wasn’t screwed onto my shoulders I would probably have lost it as well.