Train Of Thought
Entry by: Jacula
17th July 2015
EXTRACTS FROM A DIARY OF DERAILMENT
SATURDAY 26th MARCH 2011
Something strange happened today when I was driving back from town – a journey so familiar to me and along such quiet roads that it needs little observation, and almost no thought. I was listening to the radio, tapping on the steering wheel and singing along to an old favourite,
‘…and this bird you’ll never chaaa-ay-ange!’
I closed my eyes momentarily as the guitar riff began, opening them again to see a Give Way sign about six yards in front of me.
I had the overwhelming feeling that I didn’t want to give way. I’m a free bird - always have been. I kept my foot on Dylan’s accelerator.
The double row of dotted lines painted at the end of the lane reminded me of perforation marks on the tear-off permission slips the children used to bring home from school. I imagined signing the road, putting the palm of my hand down on the grey surface and tearing it away from the black surface that intersected the road I was following. Looking neither right nor left, I floored the gas pedal of my VW Camper and landed safely on the other side.
Thinking back, it was such an odd thing to do! I’ve no idea why I did it. I can only think I’d got carried away by my train of thought on the music and relived the recklessness of youth. I’m telling you this, Dear Diary, but I won’t be telling husband George, daughter Gemma, or son Paul. They’ll think I’m going mad.
SATURDAY 23rd APRIL 2011
Here I am in Westward Ho! As you know, Diary, George and I have been coming to Devon for many years; first as youngsters - newly married and into art and surfing - then as a young family, then as grandparents.
We’d booked the cottage months ago, but George couldn’t get away this time – too much on at work - a big commission he couldn’t turn down. I wish he could have come. It made so much more to do before the holiday: preparing meals and freezing them, making sure everything he might need was to hand, or clearly labelled, and that his clothes were washed, dried and ironed. Sorting out financial stuff so everything would be safe took some thought, too. You have to be careful these days.
I drove Gemma and the children down here on Saturday. Gemma wanted to drive, but, as I told her, Dylan is my vehicle and I’m in charge of him, thank you very much. The number of times she yelled at me for tail-gating, once even grabbing the wheel and steering us very violently from one lane to another, I began to wish her car, The Starship Enterprise, wasn’t in the sickbay at her local garage.
George rang earlier when I was bedding down in the van for the night after leaving the others in the cottage.
‘Where’s our credit card?’ he asked. ‘It’s not in the usual place. I can’t find it anywhere.’
‘It’s in a safe place,’ I told him. ‘Somewhere no one can use it.’
‘What the bloody hell are you on about?’ he bellowed. ‘Where have you put it, Marie?’
I knew it sounded crazy as I as said it…
‘It’s in a plastic bag behind the bath panel.’
SATURDAY MAY 26th 2012
It’s Paul’s 40th birthday today. We’re at Gemma’s for the occasion. It’s been lovely to see her and John, and the little ones again.
George drove us here yesterday, but I don’t remember much about the journey, having slept most of the way. Paul and that woman, The Mother I think she’s called, or maybe it’s The Wife, will be arriving from Australia, or maybe America, later. They’ll be bringing three other people with them. Small people, I think... children.
I took great care over doing my make-up before going to collect them from the airport this morning. Gemma had made a point of telling me to make myself look decent. I’m not sure why. As I stood by the front door, ready to go, she took one look at me, made a lot of hoo-ha about the state of my face and dragged me off to the bathroom to wash it. She said I looked a complete mess,
‘All globs and smears, Mother!’
I don’t know what went wrong. I’m sure I did what I’ve always done. Perhaps I need new glasses?
MONDAY 4th JUNE 2012
It’s time to do my annual job of organising and co-ordinating the village scarecrow competition. It’s a really fun part of the Little Crickleberry Summer Fete. Almost everyone takes part and scarecrows appear on houses, in gardens, in shops… Oh, all sorts of places around the village. Once the fete committee has whittled the suggestion list down to six, we have a Village Vote Night with cake and ale to decide on the theme. This year it’s Historic Anniversaries… and what a lot of those there are! I’m hoping that people will go for things like the 50th anniversary of The Sound of Music, the 60 anniversary of Lord of the Rings or the 800th year since the signing of The Magna Carta because many of the other anniversaries are to do with war or siege, or, even worse, the 55th anniversary of the film ‘Psycho’. I’m not sure scenes of war, or of someone being stabbed in the shower, will make for a very family-friendly fete.
I’m finding my job a bit difficult this year. I seem to be getting people’s names and addresses wrong. Mrs. Crump got very huffy with me when I asked for her address.
‘I’ve lived at Lane-end House for 70 years, Marie! What’s wrong with you, woman?’
I don’t know why people and houses have been changing, but I wish they wouldn’t. I’m writing everything down in a special notebook now, so I remember who lives where. I’d hate people to think I was losing my marbles.
TUESDAY 5th NOVEMBER 2013
Gemma arrived early today to help me prepare the food for tonight’s bonfire party. She asked if I was okay as we worked side by side scrubbing potatoes, chopping up onions and unstringing sausages.
‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ I asked, as I removed a sausage from its skin.
‘No reason, Mum,’ she said, giving me a hug and moving the sausages to her side of the table. ‘I think we’ll leave the sausages IN their skins, shall we?’
I don’t know why I took the skin off. Perhaps I’m going a bit potty?
I was looking forward to seeing the little ones’ faces when George lit the bonfire he’d spent the past few weeks building. However, I was horrified when I realised there was a MAN on top of it who’d be burned to death if someone didn’t put the flames out.
I’m still not sure why everyone made such a fuss when I turned the hose on it.
WEDNESDAY 25th DECEMBER 2013
Here we are at Gemma’s for Christmas Day. It was my turn to do the family meal this year. I know this because I checked in my notebook. I keep all my important reminders in there. Anyway, for some reason, Gemma insisted we come to her this time.
‘Dad needs a good rest,’ she said.
I’m not sure why George would need a rest more than I would – all he does is buy the booze and put the decorations up.
I was having a lovely time until I got up from the padded dining chair to find the seat of my trousers was wet.
Gemma seemed really shaken and took me upstairs to wash and change while John ‘sorted the chair out’.
‘I’m perfectly capable of seeing to myself!’ I told her, pushing her meddling hands away. ‘It’s the children you should be worried about. One of them must have peed on there.’
‘No, Mum,’ she said. ‘They’re teens not toddlers.’
I don’t mind telling you I’m shocked, Dearest Diary. When did they suddenly become teenagers? And surely children that age should be able to control their bladders?
SUNDAY 19th JANUARY 2014
I’m not very happy at all, Dear Diary. Gemma and those children have been here a lot lately, and one of the kids definitely has a problem. I keep finding my armchair seat soaked through.
When I spoke to Gemma about it she just sighed and gave me a big pack of special knickers that she said would solve the problem. I don’t see me how changing my pants is going to stop those varmints from creeping in and piddling on my chair. She should take responsibility as a parent and do something about it.
I don’t like the new knickers. They remind me of J-cloths or those paper panties there was a craze for back in the 60s. However, it seems I don’t have a choice about wearing them because someone has been in and stolen all my old ones. I wonder if it was those kids?
SATURDAY 22nd MARCH 2014
Dear Diary, I want to go home. I’ve been banging on the doors to tell them so, but no one ever listens.
They’ve put me in some kind of nuthouse hotel, that old man who’s been squatting in my house and that woman who keeps turning up and interfering. The doctor told them to do it.
I don’t know who the old man is, but apparently he can’t cope any longer and that’s why I’ve been sent away. I don’t need a holiday. I’m fine, except for having to fight him off and that vicious woman. Why didn’t they send the old man instead of me? It sounds like he’s the one who needed to get away.
As for that doctor, I don’t know why they took any notice of him. He was so stupid I don’t know how he even managed to become a medic. He asked me all sorts of silly questions and didn’t even know what year it was!
I don’t like this boarding house at all. It’s bedlam, what with all the weeping and wailing, and that woman in the room next to mine singing all night. The smell here is dreadful - just like toilets and that cleaning stuff… disrailment, is it called? The food here is terrible and the chambermaids dress like nurses – everyone’s mad.
Yesterday, a man stood up while we were eating that gloop they call dinner, got his thing out and peed all over the table. It was awful. I wish George was here. He’d soon sort them out. He wouldn’t make me stay.
WEDNESDAY 22nd APRIL 2015
I realised something last night. That woman doing all the singing isn’t in the next room. That woman is me. I also realised something else – I’m in a home and I’ve gone doo-lally. No wonder so many strange things have been happening – my father’s affliction has reached out through time to get me, lain in ambush, like a brick on a railway line, just waiting its chance to derail me. My train is well and truly off the track now; broken, tangled, shattered. But I’ll be all right; Dad is with me. He says when the time is right he’ll take me to where we can be whole again and our thoughts will run straight and true.
FRIDAY 17th JULY 2015
My diary lies open beside me. I want to write in it, but the pen makes no mark. I see the pages are blank from way back and meaningless scribble on many of the pages before.
George and Paul are at my bedside. Crying.
Gemma lies on the bed beside me, holding me tight,
‘I wish she’d remembered us.’
Tears pour down her cheeks,
‘She’s still warm at the core.’
I watch, wish I could tell them I do remember. I’m okay; free as a bird now. Dad’s here… and the end wasn’t so bad. I’d like to tell them, but will they hear me?
END
SATURDAY 26th MARCH 2011
Something strange happened today when I was driving back from town – a journey so familiar to me and along such quiet roads that it needs little observation, and almost no thought. I was listening to the radio, tapping on the steering wheel and singing along to an old favourite,
‘…and this bird you’ll never chaaa-ay-ange!’
I closed my eyes momentarily as the guitar riff began, opening them again to see a Give Way sign about six yards in front of me.
I had the overwhelming feeling that I didn’t want to give way. I’m a free bird - always have been. I kept my foot on Dylan’s accelerator.
The double row of dotted lines painted at the end of the lane reminded me of perforation marks on the tear-off permission slips the children used to bring home from school. I imagined signing the road, putting the palm of my hand down on the grey surface and tearing it away from the black surface that intersected the road I was following. Looking neither right nor left, I floored the gas pedal of my VW Camper and landed safely on the other side.
Thinking back, it was such an odd thing to do! I’ve no idea why I did it. I can only think I’d got carried away by my train of thought on the music and relived the recklessness of youth. I’m telling you this, Dear Diary, but I won’t be telling husband George, daughter Gemma, or son Paul. They’ll think I’m going mad.
SATURDAY 23rd APRIL 2011
Here I am in Westward Ho! As you know, Diary, George and I have been coming to Devon for many years; first as youngsters - newly married and into art and surfing - then as a young family, then as grandparents.
We’d booked the cottage months ago, but George couldn’t get away this time – too much on at work - a big commission he couldn’t turn down. I wish he could have come. It made so much more to do before the holiday: preparing meals and freezing them, making sure everything he might need was to hand, or clearly labelled, and that his clothes were washed, dried and ironed. Sorting out financial stuff so everything would be safe took some thought, too. You have to be careful these days.
I drove Gemma and the children down here on Saturday. Gemma wanted to drive, but, as I told her, Dylan is my vehicle and I’m in charge of him, thank you very much. The number of times she yelled at me for tail-gating, once even grabbing the wheel and steering us very violently from one lane to another, I began to wish her car, The Starship Enterprise, wasn’t in the sickbay at her local garage.
George rang earlier when I was bedding down in the van for the night after leaving the others in the cottage.
‘Where’s our credit card?’ he asked. ‘It’s not in the usual place. I can’t find it anywhere.’
‘It’s in a safe place,’ I told him. ‘Somewhere no one can use it.’
‘What the bloody hell are you on about?’ he bellowed. ‘Where have you put it, Marie?’
I knew it sounded crazy as I as said it…
‘It’s in a plastic bag behind the bath panel.’
SATURDAY MAY 26th 2012
It’s Paul’s 40th birthday today. We’re at Gemma’s for the occasion. It’s been lovely to see her and John, and the little ones again.
George drove us here yesterday, but I don’t remember much about the journey, having slept most of the way. Paul and that woman, The Mother I think she’s called, or maybe it’s The Wife, will be arriving from Australia, or maybe America, later. They’ll be bringing three other people with them. Small people, I think... children.
I took great care over doing my make-up before going to collect them from the airport this morning. Gemma had made a point of telling me to make myself look decent. I’m not sure why. As I stood by the front door, ready to go, she took one look at me, made a lot of hoo-ha about the state of my face and dragged me off to the bathroom to wash it. She said I looked a complete mess,
‘All globs and smears, Mother!’
I don’t know what went wrong. I’m sure I did what I’ve always done. Perhaps I need new glasses?
MONDAY 4th JUNE 2012
It’s time to do my annual job of organising and co-ordinating the village scarecrow competition. It’s a really fun part of the Little Crickleberry Summer Fete. Almost everyone takes part and scarecrows appear on houses, in gardens, in shops… Oh, all sorts of places around the village. Once the fete committee has whittled the suggestion list down to six, we have a Village Vote Night with cake and ale to decide on the theme. This year it’s Historic Anniversaries… and what a lot of those there are! I’m hoping that people will go for things like the 50th anniversary of The Sound of Music, the 60 anniversary of Lord of the Rings or the 800th year since the signing of The Magna Carta because many of the other anniversaries are to do with war or siege, or, even worse, the 55th anniversary of the film ‘Psycho’. I’m not sure scenes of war, or of someone being stabbed in the shower, will make for a very family-friendly fete.
I’m finding my job a bit difficult this year. I seem to be getting people’s names and addresses wrong. Mrs. Crump got very huffy with me when I asked for her address.
‘I’ve lived at Lane-end House for 70 years, Marie! What’s wrong with you, woman?’
I don’t know why people and houses have been changing, but I wish they wouldn’t. I’m writing everything down in a special notebook now, so I remember who lives where. I’d hate people to think I was losing my marbles.
TUESDAY 5th NOVEMBER 2013
Gemma arrived early today to help me prepare the food for tonight’s bonfire party. She asked if I was okay as we worked side by side scrubbing potatoes, chopping up onions and unstringing sausages.
‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ I asked, as I removed a sausage from its skin.
‘No reason, Mum,’ she said, giving me a hug and moving the sausages to her side of the table. ‘I think we’ll leave the sausages IN their skins, shall we?’
I don’t know why I took the skin off. Perhaps I’m going a bit potty?
I was looking forward to seeing the little ones’ faces when George lit the bonfire he’d spent the past few weeks building. However, I was horrified when I realised there was a MAN on top of it who’d be burned to death if someone didn’t put the flames out.
I’m still not sure why everyone made such a fuss when I turned the hose on it.
WEDNESDAY 25th DECEMBER 2013
Here we are at Gemma’s for Christmas Day. It was my turn to do the family meal this year. I know this because I checked in my notebook. I keep all my important reminders in there. Anyway, for some reason, Gemma insisted we come to her this time.
‘Dad needs a good rest,’ she said.
I’m not sure why George would need a rest more than I would – all he does is buy the booze and put the decorations up.
I was having a lovely time until I got up from the padded dining chair to find the seat of my trousers was wet.
Gemma seemed really shaken and took me upstairs to wash and change while John ‘sorted the chair out’.
‘I’m perfectly capable of seeing to myself!’ I told her, pushing her meddling hands away. ‘It’s the children you should be worried about. One of them must have peed on there.’
‘No, Mum,’ she said. ‘They’re teens not toddlers.’
I don’t mind telling you I’m shocked, Dearest Diary. When did they suddenly become teenagers? And surely children that age should be able to control their bladders?
SUNDAY 19th JANUARY 2014
I’m not very happy at all, Dear Diary. Gemma and those children have been here a lot lately, and one of the kids definitely has a problem. I keep finding my armchair seat soaked through.
When I spoke to Gemma about it she just sighed and gave me a big pack of special knickers that she said would solve the problem. I don’t see me how changing my pants is going to stop those varmints from creeping in and piddling on my chair. She should take responsibility as a parent and do something about it.
I don’t like the new knickers. They remind me of J-cloths or those paper panties there was a craze for back in the 60s. However, it seems I don’t have a choice about wearing them because someone has been in and stolen all my old ones. I wonder if it was those kids?
SATURDAY 22nd MARCH 2014
Dear Diary, I want to go home. I’ve been banging on the doors to tell them so, but no one ever listens.
They’ve put me in some kind of nuthouse hotel, that old man who’s been squatting in my house and that woman who keeps turning up and interfering. The doctor told them to do it.
I don’t know who the old man is, but apparently he can’t cope any longer and that’s why I’ve been sent away. I don’t need a holiday. I’m fine, except for having to fight him off and that vicious woman. Why didn’t they send the old man instead of me? It sounds like he’s the one who needed to get away.
As for that doctor, I don’t know why they took any notice of him. He was so stupid I don’t know how he even managed to become a medic. He asked me all sorts of silly questions and didn’t even know what year it was!
I don’t like this boarding house at all. It’s bedlam, what with all the weeping and wailing, and that woman in the room next to mine singing all night. The smell here is dreadful - just like toilets and that cleaning stuff… disrailment, is it called? The food here is terrible and the chambermaids dress like nurses – everyone’s mad.
Yesterday, a man stood up while we were eating that gloop they call dinner, got his thing out and peed all over the table. It was awful. I wish George was here. He’d soon sort them out. He wouldn’t make me stay.
WEDNESDAY 22nd APRIL 2015
I realised something last night. That woman doing all the singing isn’t in the next room. That woman is me. I also realised something else – I’m in a home and I’ve gone doo-lally. No wonder so many strange things have been happening – my father’s affliction has reached out through time to get me, lain in ambush, like a brick on a railway line, just waiting its chance to derail me. My train is well and truly off the track now; broken, tangled, shattered. But I’ll be all right; Dad is with me. He says when the time is right he’ll take me to where we can be whole again and our thoughts will run straight and true.
FRIDAY 17th JULY 2015
My diary lies open beside me. I want to write in it, but the pen makes no mark. I see the pages are blank from way back and meaningless scribble on many of the pages before.
George and Paul are at my bedside. Crying.
Gemma lies on the bed beside me, holding me tight,
‘I wish she’d remembered us.’
Tears pour down her cheeks,
‘She’s still warm at the core.’
I watch, wish I could tell them I do remember. I’m okay; free as a bird now. Dad’s here… and the end wasn’t so bad. I’d like to tell them, but will they hear me?
END
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