If it is your life

If it is your life

I stopped smiling. I was on the Glasgow bus home and a woman was sitting next to me. I offered her the window seat but she preferred the aisle. Women have their own ways of doing stuff. It was that made me smile. I had a friend called Celia and she would have been exactly the same. She wanted to be an actress, or actor as she said. She memorized lines from classic plays; angry ones with big statements. She spoke them aloud or acted the parts. Even walking down the street. It was quite embarrassing. A pal of mine from boyhood did the same. Even with him I found it embarrassing. With Celia I pretended not to bother. But she saw that it did. If she had known the true extent she would have scorned me. No wonder. It was a hopeless brand of self-consciousness, worse than the ordinary. And arrogant too. It did not seem to be but it was. What right did I have to be self-conscious of something she was doing? That was so arrogant.

I had not thought of it in that way and it was true. Males are arrogant. I did not see myself as arrogant at all, not in the slightest, so it was like a compliment.

Even thinking about her, it was nice, she was just so jees, sexy, really, even on the bus and thinking about her, enjoying it in my own head. It was nice. But sad too, but life can be sad. Usually on long bus trips I just read or stared out the window.

Celia was so acute in her observations, very much so. People had to respect that. Especially in a woman. Women are different. There is no question about that. I had a sister, a mother and grandmother and that meant nothing. I did not know women, I did not know them at all. Celia studied people and I could see how this must be essential for anyone who wanted to become an actor. I thought she would be great at it. I respected her more than anyone, more than myself. Much more. I learned from her, even being in her presence. Not only did I appreciate her own lack of self-consciousness I began noticing it in others. Those that had it seemed satisfied with themselves. Not in a bad way. I did not see them as ‘smug’. They were content with themselves, or within themselves. Maybe it was an illusion. I saw them out and about and their lips were moving. They were not phoning, not texting. Some had earphones and actively engaged with the music, whether singing along or performing actions with their limbs. Others sang on their own account. They were not listening to anything except out their own head. Or in their own head, inside it. From inside it. Inside within it. You listened to things inside your own head, from inside.

Or did you? Did people listen inside or from inside?

Ears are outside but your hearing is inside. If we look at our heads in a practical manner we gain insights. It seems obvious and it is obvious. But so obvious people never do it.

If you were singing you were not listening. Maybe singing into yourself. Not out loud. A lot of people did that. They walked along the road singing away to themselves. Eric Semple was the worst, an old pal of mine. He sang out loud. It was like he was on stage. You would not have minded if it was walking along the street but he did it at other times too, like on the bus. People could hear him. Talk about embarrassing. That really was. I thought so anyway. He did not. Him and Celia were the same there. It was only me. I was the one that worried.

Why? Why worry about other people. It was not a pleasant trait and I wished I did not have it. People should be allowed to get on with their own lives without others butting in. Ones like me.

I thought too much about other people. I could not stop myself and did not feel good doing it. I saw Eric at the Christmas break and it was a fight. I got annoyed with him because he got annoyed with me. He said I was giving him a telling-off. It was not a telling-off. It was just that stupid singing. Maybe he did not know he was doing it. But other people were there and could hear. Why did he not sing into himself? I could not understand that. But deep down I knew why, he was getting at me. It was because I had left home to go to university. It was a mixture of jealousy and I do not know what, except things had changed. But it was not me changing them. There was no point blaming me.

He was annoyed and I did not know why. I thought he was going to walk away. We were in one of the few under-21 bars in town. He liked his beer so for him to walk away was a big thing. Although he looked older than me and probably would have got served in other places. He was fuming. It made me smile seeing him. That only made it worse, swearing at me. What the fuck are you laughing at?

I was not laughing I was only smiling. I was glad to be having a pint with him. You are just annoying me, he said.

I dont mean to.

That made it worse. Eric drank his beer down. He was a bigger drinker than me when it came to pints. I preferred bottles. Pints were too much, if you took too many; and Eric did, although he could handle it. I used to be able to. I was out the habit. People did not drink so much down south. One beer lasted for ages. Some drank wine, glasses of wine. If you were in company together you might order a bottle and you all shared it. It was just different. If me and Eric went out while I was home it would be to a pub and it would be beer. It would be nice seeing him this time but not if it was another fight. I made him angry. But he made me angry. He blamed me for stuff that was not my fault — talking posh. How come you’re talking posh? I was not talking posh. I was saying things properly, or trying to. There is a difference. If I did not say things properly people did not know what I was talking about. It was bad enough as it was. I was not being a snob, I was just sick of people not understanding me, or pretending they did not. Sometimes I thought they pretended. Celia understood when I explained it. She even noticed it. But Eric got more annoyed and then went off into his ‘so’ routine. Every time I explained something it was ‘So?’

So? So? So?

So I felt like punching him on the mouth, that was so. Surely he had passed the ‘so’ stage. He had being doing it since he was five years of age. We all did but some grew out it. He did not, at least not with me. You could say ‘so’ to everything. That was what he did. It was stupid: stupid and meaningless. Not completely. But how come he did not understand the point I was making whereas somebody who was English understood completely. And not Celia, I was not referring to her. He thought I was but I was not. I did not want to talk about her, and not about sex. He did not want me talking about her either. Although he acted like he did anyway, that was what I thought. So what, I was not going to, who cares.

Anyway, it was Rob Anderson I was talking about, the best lecturer at university. Because of his attitude to the students. He called it the ‘so question’. Rob had two children of his own and this is what they did, ‘So?’ He thought it insightful; without the ‘so question’ there would have been no Socrates. It kept you on your toes, speaking intellectually. Much of Rob’s own philosophy came from observing children. So he said anyway although children did not read Plato, which is what Celia said. Typical Celia. But she was right in a way. Celia did not do philosophy but she came out and said things that were strong, even when it was to do with Rob Anderson, it did not worry her.

The woman beside me was reading a thick paperback book, her wee light beaming down. It was a costume-drama, I saw the cover. Damsels in distress and knights in shining armour! The wee light made it more atmospheric, just that peace and quiet.

People read what they wanted. I read private-eye stories, different ones, not just Chandler, people said Chandler but I liked other ones. Rob read detective stories too. I was surprised at that but he was not and I should not have been. The philosopher Wittgenstein was a favourite of his and if I did a third-year course then I would meet with him. He was difficult. People said that. He sounded interesting because of that. But he read detective stories, Wittgenstein. A lot of philosophers did.

People were ordinary, philosophers or not. You did not read heavy stuff all the time. Not even if you were heavy. Philosophers were ‘heavy’ but that did not mean they only read ‘heavy’ books. It was the same if you were studying, you had to switch off occasionally.

Even looking out the window and the peace and quiet, that was the M6 the farther north you went. And with night-time. I loved it. People were tired and away in their own thoughts, just thinking about whatever it was — going home, that was me.

You were just very aware it was England. That was what I thought. It was so different. I liked it. I did not say that to my parents or anybody but it was true. Who wanted to be in Glasgow all the time! And for the rest of your life! No thanks. The world was big, just so so big. Celia’s brother lived in New York, or New York City, that was what she called it.

She was so absolutely different to anything. There were no other girls like her. The idea of meeting one like her in Glasgow. Unless maybe you were up the West End round the Byres Road area or else Sauchie-hall Street; some place with students, otherwise where? Nowhere.

My head went everywhere, and seeing the moon too, just everything. The thing about her, how sexy she was. You were not supposed to talk about that. Ha ha. Well it did not apply to her! Because she would have been the first, and I was the one if anybody did, knowing about it, because I did. It made you smile. Because people would never think, seeing me, they would never ever think, and yet, that was them, it was up to them.

The woman beside me too, imagine her; she would never ever think. Nobody would. I had not been naked before. I had had sex a lot of times, quite a few; of course I had but not like with Celia, just naked the two of us and her not caring, just with her breasts, just flopping, not caring. People would not know that, seeing me, never, and her pubic hair, just to see. They never ever would think it. And at university too, never. I would never tell them a thing anyway, never ever.

Sex is sex. But not for women. There were no pals anyway that I would have told. But I would tell Eric. I would. I think I would. I wanted to. Sometimes when you wanted to say something you did not get the chance. People spoke about their own stuff.

She did not want me to say anything. She did not say it but I knew. But I was not going to tell anybody.

But it made me smile. Because of the dark outside and the wee light beaming down my face was clear in its reflection and I had a smile, and it was a strange smile. Not like my smile. It was a different type of smile. I did not like it, although in some ways I did. It was Mister Hyde smiling back at Doctor Jekyll. There is an evil glint in his eye but a horrible irony as well and it is lurking there and like another story I read in Edgar Allan Poe which was just brilliant; warped sides of the one individual. Some writers were brilliant. They were like philosophers and just stayed in your mind.

Every event has a cause. For every one thing a thing happens in succession. Except the world, if you regard the world as an event but maybe not. The world is not really an event, just a thing in itself. Unless if it is God, if you believe in God then you might argue the point, God caused the world. Or if God is the cause. So the world is His effect. Take away God and that is the world, what happens to it? Gone.

These are things you would say. I loved the subject, if you would call it a subject. The great thing about philosophy is that it is actual life, it is hardly a subject at all. Some treated it as a subject and that was their downfall; they might score good marks in class but true understanding would not come from that form of study. Okay they might get good results but beyond that no.

Eric would have been good at philosophy. Harder for Celia. She went her own way and at a certain point there has to be the way, if only as a beginning. Once you begin go where you want but let us begin from that same point, if you can find it. That is the trouble, but if you do find it then it becomes the whole world. Or the whole world becomes, it is just there and all alive. It is marvellous. That was Descartes, what a hero! He was the one we were given and you just felt lucky, imagine it was Hobbes or Locke, you would just shudder.

I could not imagine Celia and Eric ever meeting. They were both aliens. She would not fit into his world and neither would he in hers. Yet they were both mine. His world was my world before leaving Glasgow. A woman like Celia could not exist in Glasgow. Perhaps she could but I could not imagine it. Or a guy like Eric Semple at university down south. I could never imagine that either. People would not understand him. It was a separate brand of humour. You saw things differently; your whole way of thinking. Almost like it was disconnected. Eric could have gone to a Scottish university, although maybe not Edinburgh, and never St Andrews. Never an English one.

It was class. I did not show my class but Eric did. This is what it was. My dad spoke about it; to him it was everything. It explained everything. He believed in Karl Marx. Rob Anderson did not disagree with my father on that. In his opinion the academics underrated Marx as a ‘thinker’. They said he was not ‘first rate’. Some were ‘first rate’. In philosophy only the ‘first rate’ mattered. But even there, you would not find him on any syllabus. Rob thought it disgraceful. He found it salient the way they ignored Marx and others from a different culture or background. Even Jean-Paul Sartre and the Germans. The academics stayed with their own people and kept others out.

But what was striking about the Glasgow bus home, right at that minute in time, and you noticed it immediately, and you could not help but notice, that everybody, every last person on the entire bus, each single solitary one was Scottish, they all had accents and were ordinary accents; none was posh. The woman next to me as well, she did not smile or even look at me but I knew. I did not find it relaxing; I do not think I did. I was the same as them but on the other hand was I? Maybe I was not. And what if there were others in a similar situation? It was like we were each one of us disconnected, each one of us, until we were on the bus home, and starting to become Scottish again, Scottish working class. My father would have said that, never to forget it, because they would never allow it.

It was a peculiar thing altogether. Once Rob Anderson came to the pub with some of us and we had a few beers. He was saying stuff and making people laugh. He said to me when no one else was listening that I should be careful, there were those who would not wish me well. He came from a town in Yorkshire and said it happened to him. He was resigned to it. He could reach a stage but not progress further, because of his background. He said he had a Yorkshire accent. You would hear it if you listened. But he was proud of Yorkshire, very much so, and enjoyed sports, especially cricket and rugby. Those were the two most popular, by far. It was hard to find even one football fan. I asked Rob which team he supported but he only said he had a soft spot for them all if they were Yorkshire, Yorkshire teams. But what if it was Sheffield United and Sheffield Wednesday? He just smiled when I said that. So I knew he did not really bother; you cannot have two sides if they are rivals; either one or none but not two.

I missed playing football. There were teams at uni, including five-a-sides, but I did not know guys who played. I could find out and was going to.

But what Rob said about the other academics was interesting. Celia did not know him but thought he must have been bitter to think that way. She was dubious. Under his influence I would be ripe for paranoia. That is what she said. But I watched other academics; they rarely spoke to students, even to say hullo. It happened to me at the end of second term, in the same lift as my sociology tutor and he did not look at me. Yet he knew fine well that I was in his tutorial group. I did not care. But it was weird. My father said nothing but he agreed with me, I know he did. Mum did not. She did not believe they were intentionally rude. Mum thought the best of people. Dad hated hearing about them. Be the best at your lessons son, then they cannot ignore you. That was what he said, then went back to his newspaper.

Maybe it was true. But I was not the best at my lessons. I soon found that out. I did not tell mum and dad. I did not tell them everything; especially dad, it was easier with mum. But when I told her things they would reach him sooner or later. The same if I told my young sister, she would tell mum and mum would tell dad. Family politics, that was how it worked in mine.

I was looking forward to going home. I had been back at Christmas but only a few days. I returned to England the day before New Year and it caused bother. Mum got upset because of it and did not come out her bedroom when I was leaving. But there was no bus on New Year’s day so it was either wait or go the day before. It was not as if I did not enjoy being there, of course I did, and seeing everybody, it was great.

My life had changed so much. Probably it would be harder to communicate now than it had been at Christmas, and Christmas had not been easy. But that was life. And my own fault for not coming home before that. Mum was right to be hurt. She was hurt. Dad was hurt too but acted as if he was not. My sister told me. But what was I supposed to do? It was difficult. I would have failed all my essays if I had not worked through the holiday period. I was not brilliant. They thought I was but I knew I was not. Some were. I was not. In school I was but not down there.

Oh but not even in school, I was not brilliant, I could just answer everything and do it all but that was our school, an ordinary school, not like theirs down south; their parents paid a fortune, more than my father earned in a year. That is true. It was him told me but it was correct what he said. I was in the low half down there whereas up home I was top or else near the top. They were completely different down south. Most of them were clever but the brilliant ones really were brilliant. That was their good luck.

I liked being there when they were all away, especially in the library and finding places tucked away, wee study corners. I flew through my essays, it was great. I did not know Celia at that time. Imagine I did and she had not gone home! if it had just been the two of us, if she had stayed at uni, jeesoh, ye think of that, except the essays, that was the silly thing, I would have missed the deadlines or else done hopeless. Just seeing her all the time, if I could. But she would not anyway. I only saw her when she wanted; sometimes not for a week. More than a week. We had not had sex for eighteen days. One week she had not been there so that does not count but the other days she was. Unless it was her period. I did not think it was. Eighteen days. I did not see her all the time. But she liked sex.

I never had sex before, not properly where you were in bed all night and you could just even go to sleep and wake up and then just well more sex, you could, it was just so so different from anything, Celia was just so different. No point talking. No point, just it was all so different.

My life had changed so much. It was true. Jeesoh. Out the window, seeing the night sky. Rugged in Scotland, over the border. The woman next to me was still reading. I wished I could read like that. Damsels in distress, I did not realize sex would be like that. I knew it was great but I did not think, just how with Celia and in my arms and all night too; you just shivered. Her skin was even different. I could touch her.

It was so true.

And my young sister too, how with her secrets; girls had secrets, and about their body, it was all secrets; how else could you say it.

Things had really changed. It could never be the same. And with my sister. Just strange, strange thinking about it, my little sister, but she was a woman and if she had a boyfriend. It was the way of the world, if you touched her, or she touched you; a woman, it was so so different. If you were dancing and how you looked, you would be looking but the woman would not look at you, because if she did; if you looked at each other and then smiled, if she smiled at you, it was just shivering, you shivered, you just got hard, it was all just sex, it was just so amazing and I had not known it before. I knew it but I did not.

I was looking forward to seeing Eric and going for a beer. He had been a good pal. He was a funny guy. He kept you going with his stupid patter. Although how could it be called stupid. It was not. If it was intentional, and it was, then it was not stupid. How could it be? He would have made a great stand-up comedian. I had not seen him for a while. I had not seen anybody for a while but I had not been home since last September, excluding Christmas; Christmas did not count. I was only there a couple of days and hardly saw a soul. He was the only one apart from family.

I would need to get out. I could not stay in the house all the time.

Probably he still sang in public. Unless he had hit the big time! Now I smiled. Although you never know. Somebody had to!

But maybe he used that as an excuse. Maybe that was why he did it, he was preparing for the day he won a major talent show!

Did he honestly believe that! Maybe he did. The stupid side was obvious. But he was not a mug, he would have seen that too, as much as anyone. But there was another side to that: Eric himself. Somebody had to win. He had as much chance as anybody. Probably more because he believed in himself. He did, really! He thought people wanted to hear him sing! Me too, he actually thought I wanted to hear him!

It was a personal quirk. Even if you told him to shut up he did not believe you, he thought you were saying it for effect. Secretly you wanted to hear him. He honestly believed that. Even when we were boys! What an ego! I had forgotten about that. His self-belief was much stronger than mine. In comparison I had an inferiority complex.

But at what point is self-belief transformed into egocentricity? If we were walking up the road, just the two of us, and he started singing I found it embarrassing. He must have thought I was a total fool. It irritated me. Eventually I told him, Oh fuck off man. I done that a few times but he still did it. So it was not to annoy me. It had nothing to do with me. He even did it when he was on his own. I watched him and I saw him perform wee actions, wee actions, and he was only there himself. It was a characteristic he shared with Celia. But at that time me and him were still at school and it was just weird. I kind of worried about him, doing something like that in public, it was beyond embarrassing.

Seriously. Eric was my best pal but it made you wonder about him. Yet some of what he did was the same as Celia. So if it was okay for her why not for him? Was that another gender issue? If so it put a different complexion on matters. It was illogical anyway. Unless it was separate logical systems. Some said that about women, that they operate differently from males in a structural sense. A guy said that in our sociology tutorial. He was destroyed. People ridiculed him. One of the girls wanted to punch him which only made him worse. He sounds likeable but he was not. He was arrogant, completely unlikeable, and not good-looking at all, but chubby, and with a chubby face. His dad was something like a Member of Parliament or town mayor. I told my mother about him. She would tell my father. I could not have told him. There were things I could not tell him and that was one. He liked me being at university in England but there were certain things he could not listen to me talking about. Usually to do with class. The idea of some-body in my tutorial group with a famous father or if he was rich. My father could not listen. I stopped talking about stuff if he was there, I mean political stuff.

Eric was like my father. I wanted to tell him stuff but he got annoyed and it was me he got annoyed with. I came out sounding bad but it was not me so much as a class thing, male working class. I did not need Celia to tell me.

I was not stepping on anybody’s shoulders. It is a cliché about people escaping from their background, how they step on the shoulders of friends and family. Eric could have gone to university himself. He was bright. Definitely. Why had he not? Perhaps his family did not push him. But they would have. I knew his parents. They were better off than mine but also they would have appreciated the chance. So why had he not gone? It was a chance in life none of our parents ever had. No matter how I might feel on a personal level I made the best of it. It would have been self-indulgent not to, and selfish.

Selfishness was all around. I saw it at university. Self-indulgence too.

But you needed money for stuff and I never had it, not really, and the bar job I had was for essentials. It was killing my parents for fees so the least I could do was be careful. Too much of anything. Stuff did not interest me anyway. And other people’s company was the same. You had to push your way in. I could not be bothered. Probably they thought I was boring. Maybe I was. Celia said I was relaxing. Probably that meant boring. They all had money. I thought they did anyway. You needed money. Most seemed to have it. But maybe they did not. People pretended and were scared to be different. I already was because I was Scottish. Some liked me because of it, others did not. It would be wrong to say I did not care. I was just glad to know Celia. And her father was in business. I did not care. Her mother even, she was a doctor. Doctors are rich.

I liked her attitude to everything, and how she was, how she thought, it was always herself and not other people’s prejudices. If it was left-wing politics or right-wing, she would want to know about the person, what like was the person. That to me was important. In Glasgow it was where you came from. People were scared to be different. My mother was like that. My father was a bit; if it was somebody that was upper class or else the royal family, he hated all that and would not listen to it or read it and if it was on the television he would switch channels or get up and leave the room, it did not matter the person. When I told Celia about him she listened and then said a funny thing, Does he whistle? My dad did, sometimes Mozart and Beethoven. Imagine classical! We were talking about old people. Her father was an old man compared to mine. Really, he was like a grandfather and over sixty years of age. Mine was forty-four and my mother forty-three. Celia was surprised. She was saying how old people talked to themselves and it was a good thing. But it was only men who sang. Men did not suffer from a foolish self-consciousness. Women did. They had to break through a barrier. Even Celia. She memorized her lines and said them aloud but she did not sing. Women did not, not in public. And they did not whistle. Men whistled. They did it on buses the way Eric sang. It was nearly as embarrassing, especially if women were there because you were a male as well and it was childish behaviour. We did not all behave the same way. Men were men but we were not all the same.

Women did not whistle. Had I ever heard one woman whistle? Never. It was a distinguishing feature. A very striking one. Here was a wee minor detail yet it separated the sexes, every bit as much as the sexual organs. Obviously not to that extent but it was a distinguishing feature. Yet I could not remember having read about it before.

Women always watched themselves. Men did not, except in a showing-off way. But women showed off too, especially about sex and their bodies. I had sex with two women here; once the first time and then Celia. Celia was just so different. She was an only child. That could mean something. It could explain her lack of self-consciousness. No need for privacy. With wee sisters you watch so she does not see you dressing or catch you peeing in the bathroom. This means you are always aware of your surroundings, and aware of yourself within them, within your surroundings. You see yourself. You need to. But Celia would have done what she liked and just, she could just have undressed without worrying because nobody would have been there to see her, just wandering around, she could have, if she wanted. That was what she did. She took me to her room and other women lived there and she wandered around only in her pants and even no bra sometimes and the women knew I was there, they knew I was in her room, so I was seeing her. Celia did not bother and then if she came back to bed and we started doing things and it was not quiet. So I admired her too, as a human being. She behaved in a proper way. Human beings should be allowed that, to be the same. It is dignity. People have it. Women have it, and Celia with big breasts flopping, because they did, and heavy, if you put your hands under and held them and just if you held them. But it was dignity, it was a woman, although you could never have been a runner, unless they were strapped down. But women were runners, they were athletes, so they must have been. It was just dignity, it was just being a woman. That is what Celia was. She thought about herself and what she was involved in, she became engrossed in it and absorbed.

So too if she was saying lines. It was the same with other people, they did not all want to be actors. Maybe they did. I doubt it. Probably they enjoyed quoting from plays, books and movies; that was that and nothing more. It could even be dialogue. Imagine doing dialogue out loud, saying different voices, asking questions and answering them, walking along the road by yourself! Some folk must have. If you saw them you would think they were having a real conversation, except it was with themself like in a movie with a psychological plot, maybe if it was a schizophrenic subject, say a guy had different personalities. Or it could be a woman; people trying to control her, and all inside her head all different personalities with all different names. It was quite scary. These personalities did not have to be fighting for supremacy. It could just be an ordinary conversation they were having. Just an ordinary one. And it could be any topic. Except the person whose head it was, the woman with the schizophrenic problem, she could not be the topic, not her herself; that was the one thing the different personalities never discussed, the only taboo topic. Imagine they all discussed the actual person whose head they were in! As soon as they done that the problem became acute, and what next? Madness? It would be a great story to read. That would be like Edgar Allan Poe or else Robert Louis Stevenson. Madness would be next. Although not necessarily, it just depended on the extent of the problem. Even if it was a problem. Maybe it was not or they had yet to discover it was a problem. That condition happens to people and they fail to realize it is happening. Until it does, right out the blue, some traumatic event; a murder usually, the person kills somebody, or one personality tries to kill another. That would be like suicide. But it would not be suicide. That is the amazing thing. It would be the opposite, so what is that, murder, although people would say suicide; they would think it was because it was the one human being. Theoretically no, it would be murder. And they would have to use poison because it would seem like it was happening to somebody else whereas if they used a knife the personalities would know immediately. Jesus Christ I am stabbing myself! Why am I doing it! Why is this happening! You would be murdering yourself except you would not be. You could imagine an actor doing it, a good actor, and all the facial changes.

I was not keen on drama before. We got it at school. To me it was the worst kind of arrogance. Ego, ego. I changed my mind because with Celia. She loved the actual plays. This is why she wanted to do it, not like the other ones. They also acted but it was just stupid; the whole thing was stupid, and nothing to do with great plays and literature. People kidded on it was. It was not serious, just amateur rubbish like you got on television. Celia was in two theatre companies; one at uni and one in the town where her parents lived. The students’ one was Shakespeare and the town one was murders or comedies — they were called comedies. I read a couple and they were diabolical stupidity.

She asked me to do it. The students’ company wanted fresh faces, especially men and if you were macho. I was not macho but it was nice she said it, quite like a compliment. I knew it was the Scottish accent, ‘rough and ready’. She wanted me to go to a practice ‘read-through’. This was one by Henrik Ibsen, the Norwegian author. His plays had great parts for women, Hedda Gabler. I quite wanted to because with her there and just being part of it. The company did practice ‘read-throughs’ by other authors apart from Shakespeare; Arthur Miller was one. Sometimes people did not turn up, especially at exam time. If I came it would be helpful. I nearly did go but then no. I could appreciate the play and it was a laugh doing it. I did the English accent and got it quite good. But why did it have to be the English accent if it was Norwegian, why not Scottish? ‘I am sorry Mrs Hedda, but I fear I must dispel an amiable illusion.’

People would smile when I said it. But why? If it is Norwegian it is Norwegian, so it should be any language.

Because I was the only Scottish person.

That was not much of an argument.

Celia did not care. It was only a read-through anyway.

But what did that mean? If it was an actual play and people were doing proper acting, would it have to be English?

The habit she had was beautiful. She put her hand on the side of my face and stared into my eyes as if looking inside me. She only cared that I said the lines when we were outside and walking down the street.

But I could not, even for fun. ‘I fear I must dispel an amiable illusion.’ I could say the lines in her room quite easily but not outside. I had to not see people’s faces. Oh but surely I could mouth it.

No, I could not. I would have got a red face. I got red faces everywhere. I always got them, just blushing all the time. In tutorials or wherever, it was terrible.

And of course I wanted to be involved because it was obvious because how one thing was how it led to sex, if it was inside or outside. I noticed how she ended up and it was wanting me, wanting sex with me. Ohh. She pinched my arm. We were going along the road and she finished her lines and she did it, maybe just saying Ohh, and then pinching me on the upper arm and turning half on to me as we walked. It made me hard, and walking along the street, I told her, how I was to walk, she laughed. That was a thing how she laughed. She did not laugh at much but me and sex, I made her laugh. She liked me because I got hard. Just thinking about her, jeesoh. Wherever, I could not sit down, or stand up, having to disguise it all the time. She laughed at that and walking along the street and her hand in my pocket, she did that just to get me and she always did, always, she did not care, just her hand.

I got jealous. That was a problem. She did not like jealous people. I did not think I was jealous and when she said I was I thought it a wee bit of a compliment but it was not a compliment. It meant I was naive and ridiculous. Because there had to be other people in her life, the world was full of people and that was freedom, she needed freedom.

It might sound daft but maybe doing philosophy worked against me. I was aware of myself too much and what I thought: what did it matter what I thought; but it did, and in the world too, how my thought mattered in the world; how it mattered to other human beings, and the one source of truth and the absolute base, that was all humanity, and I was part of it and of course Celia herself, what we two thought as separate human beings. She was so honest but if she said something and it was not what I thought I had to say it or else just not talk, better not to talk, so it was better I did not talk.

She never got angry, it was me. But her face went red and she stared right into me seeing what it was, what did I want, it was up to me.

It was up to me. That was right enough. Even if she wanted me to do something, and I knew she did: I did not have to do it.

It was me stopped it. I had not seen her for a while but it was me, my fault. She was with somebody else. I knew she would be. Some rich guy, way out of my league; Oxford or Cambridge or whatever. He would be rich, talking about mummy and daddy all the time; diddums and middums. One did speak like that. Unless she was joking. That was her, diddums and middums. Big mummies’ boys. That was what she said. She might not have been telling the truth. Are you jealous? Why are you jealous? There is nothing to be jealous about.

You could only be jealous if you were the same as somebody else. She said people were all unique and individuals so how could you be jealous, it was nonsensical.

Sometimes she was like a snob. Other times she was the most unsnobbish person you could meet. If she liked people it did not matter lower class or upper class, only if they had a certain view of the world to do with being free and relaxed or all wound up and roped into society’s social spheres. You had to rise above society. The people she admired were above it. It did not matter their background, even royalty. Individuals were unique and could do anything, and not be hidebound. Class did not enter into it, lower or higher.

What did that mean, lower or higher?

I almost laughed when she told me that. It was my father. I should have laughed. I was too respectful. I should have been more — something, different anyway, different to myself. If I wanted to be. But I did not want to be. I would have said the same as her if it was to my dad. But hearing Celia say it made me into him. Okay Celia was interested in people. But only if they were interesting, that is what I thought. Or if she liked them, it was because they were likeable. But who were they likeable for? Her. Who were they being interesting for? Her.

Some of them were pure bastards. I thought that. I did not know them but knew I would hate them.

It is working-class. Not lower-class. Not lower-class, working-class. I told her that and swore.

Why was I so angry?

I was angry just because, just because, that was why I was so angry, yes and so so angry. She did not mind me swearing. If I said ‘fuck’ and apologized she was like why apologize. Do not apologize, not if it is the way you talk.

I talk however I talk, it is up to me.

Yes, she said. And the way she said it, really, it was patronizing. I knew that. So did she. Her face flushed red. She knew she done it. She saw my face. She knew I knew. She did. She would never have cried in her whole life. Never, just looking at me so I wanted to hold her, of course I did. I wanted to hold her and just hold her and if I did it was too tight and she disliked it and disliked me doing it and I had to stop and control myself. I held her too tightly, it was too tightly, far too tightly, and hurt her. Only because I wanted her so much, that was the trouble. I had to calm down. She told me that too. That was the trouble, she was my one and only friend. I could have had more but I did not want them. Maybe I would in future, if I went back. I had not decided to go back. That was the wee germ inside me. Now that I thought it I knew it was there. I had a stack of books and two essay workings in my backpack; maybe I would take them out and dump them. Out the window. Except a bus. Who cares.

Celia said it to me about calming down. Not to do with her but in general, I became too angry and emotional. But I felt angry and anger is emotional. There was only one academic I could talk to in the entire place and that was Rob Anderson. Every other one was an elitist shit. The whole place was elitist. He was even elitist. He was talking to me and I did not know why he was talking to me; asking about football why was he asking about football what did it matter about football, he did not care about it. It was for me, for my benefit. There were these Scottish working-class things and people said them to me. Which one do you support, meaning Rangers or Celtic. I hate the two of them. They just looked at you, they did not know what you were talking about. Somebody like me, you had to be one or the other, just stereotypes all the time.

It was incredible how elitist it was. People did not know how bad it was. Most students were elitist. Black as well as white, and Asians, foreigners, everybody. I found it shocking. The entire bunch. Celia was the only one I could relate to. Not because she was a woman. What did it matter, women or men, it was just how they treated you. I did not have an idealized view of women. She said I did. I did not think so. It was competition, I was not in competition. Anyway, not with her.

But for her. I could not compete for her. I did not want to.

I did not know about this world. I had my place in it. It did not matter what I did. It would have been great to go away someplace, take a year out, if I could work a bar somewhere like in Australia or New Zealand. If I just finished the year, I had to finish the year which meant going back after the break. Probably I would, just study hard and finish the essays. Who cares. My reflection in the window reminded me of a movie. None in particular.

Here was a young guy travelling on a bus, from one large city to another, a longer than usual trip and the bus did not have a toilet. The driver drove into services along the motorway, and also dropped off passengers, picked other ones up. The last stop in England was always good. People got off, the ones that smoked smoked. It was always freezing cold. It was! That was funny. I was always freezing, and shivering, glad to get back in the bus.

What if I did not! Departing forever. He departed the bus. The young man departed the bus. What if I just got off again, and did not come back?

There was nowhere to go. No money to spare. I had a part-time job and needed every penny to help my parents. University was dear.

I preferred long journeys. I did not want to get to places. What if your journey lasted forever? The young man was seeing his face in the window and smiling but then it was not, it was evil and terrified and horrible, a face in the dark shadows of the window.

It would be a French movie, not American. But it could be American, depending on the director. But French was the more likely, or East European, or Southeast Asian. That fitted more, if it was under the yoke of a foreign power. I wished I knew more about politics. I was going to take a class but then did not. People thought they knew about politics but they did not, only about parliament. If I was with Celia and her friends they were cautious because of me. But I did not care. They could say what they liked. Anyway, I did not know about the Scottish Nationalists. My parents were socialists. My dad especially but mum too. They knew about politics. Older people did.

But other stuff was important. How one thought about things was important. That was my opinion. My dad spoke about working-class struggles and it was not like from a book, or students talking in the union bar but even with him, if he had known some philosophy, I think it would have helped him.

Why did people not know philosophy? If they did it would be good.

Old people saw politics in action. My last time on this bus was returning to uni after the Christmas break. An old man sat beside me and that was what he talked about; battles with the police, getting battered by them. My dad talked about it too. But this old man was way older than dad, he was elderly; going to stay with his daughter in Kent. You could not get farther south. He smiled when he said it. He meant it was farthest away from Scotland. If he had had his time over that is what he would have done, got as far away from Scotland as he could. He said that to me. I just smiled but he meant it. He was interested in me talking. What did I have to say? But I did not have anything to say. Except personal stuff and I did not want to say about that. It was not anybody’s business, him or anybody else. I had had a fight with Eric Semple before getting on the bus. He came to say cheerio then he said about Hogmanay too, the same as my mother, imagine not staying for Hogmanay. My goodness that was all I needed was him. Really, I was sick of it, and mum staying in the bedroom, that was the last thing I needed was Eric. Even my dad, he was just looking at me: what like it was my fault it was not my fault. That was unfair.

Elderly people want these conversations with you. I found that with them, as if they are close friends. It is a nice characteristic. They take things for granted and do not care about minor details. Like bodies, knees. His knee kept banging into mine and even lying against it. How did you react to that? I did not know except just relax, what did it matter, even if the person was gay, you just had to not worry about stuff. He did not care, probably did not even notice. Maybe old people lose a sense of touch. Imagine I had banged my knee into the woman in the seat beside me? She would have slapped my face. Maybe not. Your bodies have to touch when you sit together. Bodies are bodies but do not make a fetish of them. That was Celia; fetish. She had relationships with women too and these were ambiguous, they really were. One time in the union bar she was lying with her head in another woman’s lap. She was. What did that mean? Not sex surely. But if ambiguous was the word then surely that is what it meant. If a thing is ambiguous there is a sexual connotation. What other word could it be? The elderly man’s knee was not ambiguous, not for one minute, he was just a good old guy. I thought he was, he did not care about bodies.

These relationships Celia had could not be sexual. She had the same with men, intense relationships. She had them with everybody. Why could she not say hullo to people! Surely that was enough? You do not have to have conversations with them all, asking after everybody’s parents and brothers and sisters, who cares about all that, not for everybody, everybody in the whole world it is just impossible, so why even try, it just kills you.

That was old people. Why were they always so interested? It could be irritating.

I felt that about Celia, without being critical. I got angry at myself too. She said these things, stupid things, and I should not have taken them seriously. It was my fault. Everybody is working class. She said it to me. We all have to work.

Imagine my dad hearing that. Just silly stuff. She must have thought that about me, that I was silly.

Maybe I was. I asked her and she did that thing, looking into my eyes. For the ‘real me’. Maybe that is what she was looking for. It was just silly. What is a human being?

Okay she did not have to like me but she slept with me. Why? Was it because I was Scottish? Scottish working class?

Did she like me?

There was a way of looking at Scotland from English people. I caught it from Rob Anderson. He was cautious when he said things; he watched to see my response. That was funny. What did he think!

I did not know. Not Celia either. I know she did not ‘love’ me. That big word. I know she did not.

Because.

I knew it.

I asked her about liking me and she could not say it. She was honest. She would never lie.

Maybe we were finished forever. It was my fault. I would have been better not speaking. I did not speak. Sometimes I did. Sometimes I did anything, whatever I wanted, and if I did not go back, maybe I would never go back. Really, in a way I did not want to.

The rain pouring down. It was noisy. Beating off the window. Smacking off the window. I looked like a wee person, my reflection, a wee worried face. I smiled to see it, and was glad. Then the woman beside me shifted on her seat to see out. That is heavy, she said, my God. You always know when you cross the border. It is always raining.

I smiled. I maybe said ‘yes’.

It was interesting too how women’s secrets, you know all your life about women but really you know nothing. This woman did not know about me and would think I knew nothing but it was not true.

I could even think things! Seeing her, I could! I did not. But I could have, even her age, she was like what age — I do not know. Near to mum.

That was Eric, he was just any woman, that was a joke, he was just like any woman at all and talking about it all the time, usually he was, sex, just all the time. Except now Celia. Maybe he was jealous. I thought he was. Things had changed. I had changed.

The woman closed the book and settled back in her seat, probably closing her eyes. I did not look to see in case she was awake. She had been reading for hours! If you could read text books for hours you would be a genius. Sometimes if it was philosophy it took hours for one sentence; everytime I opened the book I had to go back to the same place.

One thing though, I was starving. I had not thought about food until now. There is something in our subconscious world. Something said by the woman sparked it off, or was it myself, how I responded to her? Something in me. It was hours since I ate. I wondered if she had brought food with her, maybe sandwiches; people brought sandwiches for long bus journeys. Usually I forgot and just bought a bar of chocolate. Perhaps if she had sandwiches she would offer me one!

Why did I even think of that? Because she was a woman. It was sexist. The woman takes care of the food.

But women do. Not all women. Celia did fancy stuff sometimes, not often, hardly at all. She went for hours without eating; if I had waited for her I would have starved to death. Anything I made she ate; cheese on toast, anything, scrambled eggs and beans, pilchards or sardines, fried onions and veggie sausages, rolls and potato crisps: anything at all, I had to do it because she would not, a sausage sandwich even. So much so you wondered if she was actually lazy. Why did she not cook? Yet she ate anything! She gave you the idea she was fussy but she was not. She had a big appetite but pretended not to have. She did not have to pretend. I did not care. Even I liked her appetite. Only I did not notice it at first. If I bought food when we were out she just laughed but she ate it and if it was fish and chips walking home from the movies, she loved it. Just the whole thing. But I loved it more because it was sexy. I thought it was. Sex and food. People say that and you get movies about it; I saw a great Japanese one with Celia. Another one too and it was erotic, I did not think it would be, I did not think of Japanese people having erotic movies. I thought it was the ‘degenerate West’. I was not a movie buff but she was. But it was good being with her there and usually it was quiet when we went. She liked me stroking her. One time after it we returned to her place and people were there and all talking together. They all seemed to know each other except me but it was like they knew who I was. But they did not talk to me and I thought they excluded me. And Celia said something and it was like she excluded me too. Maybe I misheard. I do not even know what it was and have forgotten about it almost completely, it was just a wee comment, just something whatever it was and it was to do with ‘people from the north’. Yet when she made it her hand was on my wrist and was stroking. That was a funny thing to do. How could she do that at the same time? What did that make me to her? I was just like a body. That was the dichotomy. You got it in philosophy about mind and body but this was out the sociology books where people were treated as bodies without a mind. She was taking me to her room anyway and we were trying to escape, that was what I thought. I did not know why we waited in that company or why we joined it in the first place. She must have liked them. That was her. It was up to her, it was her place and her friends. I was a stranger. I was a foreigner, a visitor from another planet, an alien, maybe I was invisible. Sometimes I was but not to her, and it was to her, I did not care about them, saying that or whatever they did, it was her, her doing it and at the same time stroking my wrist, she was, just stroking me, and it was just jeesoh if she wanted sex, the way she was stroking, people would have seen her, the way she was doing it to me. It was following from me, how I had stroked her, that was why she was doing it, she loved me stroking her and there in the cinema lying into me, she loved me doing it and just it was like hypnotizing and if she did it to me jeesoh it was just so — really it was amazing. There was not anything to say it was sex, really and what was there to say I just felt sometimes I was lost. I did not expect any woman to enjoy sex, not like the way a man does, it was a way the woman had of getting the man. If she set her sights on somebody that was how she done it, she used her body. We got seats away from people and did it to each other.

But she really did enjoy it. She said she really did, she laughed at me.

Maybe it was an acting thing. People say what they think. You just do not get liars, not like in the everyday world: that was what she said. I did not believe her. Actors were people and people were people, either they were liars, or they were not liars; and some were both. That applied to most people. Everybody, sometimes they lie and sometimes they tell the truth.

I read the play she showed me, just heavy and dark but to her it was the greatest. She was the first woman I knew who just wanted to have it, and like how I did, if we were sitting someplace like the tube or a bus or even in a supermarket or going along the street and she would touch me and what she wanted to do, just whispering jeesoh it made you shiver and if she touched me sometimes not even knowing it just touching me or brushing against me, her actual hand. She held it in her hand and just looked at my face; she did that. It was like a specimen. She did not know how I would react because she was a female and did not know about males, so if she touched it, seeing what I would do. Faint! That is what! She was seeing my face for the reaction. She was doing psychology and biology and it was like a biological finding, she said it for fun, if you squeeze him there what changes will occur in his facial movements, that was it, how will the male react.

But really I think it was girlish. I could see my sister doing that, and giggling. I thought of Celia as a woman but she was weeks younger than me. Really she was a girl. Was I good-looking? Maybe I was. Once my aunt called me a handsome boy. That was great. My mum scolded her for it. We do not want him swell-headed. But that would not have made me swell-headed, your auntie. I used to think I might be handsome, but then saw that I was not, not in comparison to other guys. They had better looks, or more popular ones. People would call them handsome without much thought whereas not me, if they called me anything, it would not be that but just you hoped they would look twice.

And I worried about stuff. Not that but other things, and if I was gay, sometimes I thought that. I did not like being at the same urinal and if guys washed their hands beside me I was just self-conscious all the time and did not know what they were doing and then if I blushed, just blushing all the time. It was just a nightmare. Celia called me a worrier. She was dead right. I worried all the time about stuff. A lot of it was nonsensical, absolute stupidity, just diabolical nonsense. Why did I worry about stupid crap! But I did, and looking for signs about everything. If you say that it means you are that. If you think that then it is a sign about really you are this. I was glad doing philosophy. I felt it was like ‘oh calm down, calm down’: that was philosophy. Rob Anderson saying about Socrates. Now, would you say that this was the case? Yes. And you would say further that this is the case? Yes. And would you also say that this too is the case? Yes. Then you are fine absolutely and must not worry, cannot worry, not about that, not about any of it.

I used to think I was happy-go-lucky but I was not at all happy-go-lucky.

But I had not thought I was a worrier until Celia said it. I was. Obviously. It was not a good thing to be. Worriers were geeky kind of guys. I never thought I was geeky. Maybe I was.

But she would never have gone out with me.

It was all just stupid. So what, if I was a geek.

Why trust her judgement? She was not always right. In relation to me I used to think she was but I was wrong. The trouble with me was I put her on a pedestal and you should never do that with any human being. My dad said that. He had been let down too many times, especially with union officials and people, politicians. It was something to watch for. They start off good guys then become right-wing bastards, selling out to the bosses, cowardly shits and money-grubbers, just careerists. It was like academics, how Rob spoke about them.

But it was not her judgement. She did not know every thing. I knew she did not. The idea was ridiculous. It was me, my fault. I thought that stuff. Nonsensical nonsense. Because I lacked experience. I was a naive idiot. That is the truth. It was just Celia, she had her own ideas, she went her own way. She did. That was a thing about her, it was a strong thing, she just made you smile, that was her. She was just I do not know except you were smiling, she made me smile because too of what she did, even thinking she knew everything. I was very very glad, very very glad, smiling to myself not even thinking about it, so I could smile, I could smile and I did, alone and in my own head, and it was an answer to her, so I was smiling and it was good I was smiling. I did not care, even about the future, if I got beyond it, I would, because it was the future, and how could you get beyond the future, it was impossible; the future becomes the present and the present is the past, the tortoise and the hare. I was the tortoise. I did not care, the tortoise is never beat and that was how I felt.

And the woman beside me, she was sleeping. That was trust. She trusted me.

I did not sleep. If only I could! I sat awake for hours. Unless sex, if it was after sex, I was always asleep until then I awoke, but I was ready, that was how I woke up, and if she turned into me it was just like hard again, it just made you shiver.

Out the window I recognized the skyline. So that was us, Glasgow in ten minutes.

The rain was not so bad now. It might even have gone off by the time we arrived in the bus station. It had to. I was not sure how to get home except by walking. I did not have enough for a taxi. Buses went from somewhere through the night but you waited for ages and you got trouble, especially on your own. Really, you were quite vulnerable. I felt that. I had not been home for a while. Probably it was just silly. Walking was okay if you went the main route. I thought that. Maybe I could have called my parents but that was a hopeless thing to do. My dad would have picked me up but I did not want him to. Anyway, I wanted to surprise them. They knew I was coming but not the actual day. I was going to do something like ring the bell and hide behind the wall. Boo!

But I was looking forward to seeing them. They would be the same. I appreciated my parents because of this. Things change. They did not. Other things in the world, relationships. I was coming home but where had I come from? It was strange. I felt very very strange. Not like at Christmas it was just a wee break, hurry home and hurry back. Not this time. Who was I coming to see anyway. Nobody. Parents and sister. Eric was a pal but at the same time, maybe I would not see him. There were other pals. Maybe I would see them. Maybe not. And who had I left behind. Nobody. It did not matter. It was my fault anyway. She did want to see me. She said she did. She said that to me. Although I did not believe her. Why should I? I was only one, one male. She had others. She had others. How could she have others? She did. But how could she have sex with other men if it was supposed to be me, if I was supposed to be her — not boyfriend, boyfriend was silly, if I had said the word to her, she would have thought it ridiculous and so very naive, and it would have been.

Maybe she was not having sex with them, any of them. Imagine I asked her. I could not.

I knew I was not special. I did not care. People said life was too short: did they even know what it was? It was like some of them never lived.

The bus was late into the station. I sat on while the other passengers got off. There was a queue for luggage. When I stepped down I saw my backpack, the driver had dumped it out and it was on a wet spot. Thanks very much. I lifted it and got it on and started walking, stepping my feet down hard because of tiredness and a kind of cramp.

Rain. Surely not. Yes. Although sometimes close in to a building you got drops falling. That was Glasgow, just walking along the street and you felt spots. It was like somebody was doing it on purpose, maybe out a window they saw you passing and sprinkled water down on your head. You could not believe they would do it, not to a stranger. Surely people would not throw water at strangers! Yes, they like a laugh. Even good people. Although how could they be good if they did bad things. Because they are people; people are people.

A strange thing about Celia was how she had a special name for herself to do with destiny and the stars. She got it from someplace and changed herself to it. She did not tell me what it was but it was how she saw herself. Something special lay ahead of her. It was there and she could reach out. She believed that. And for me too. I did not believe it. Well I did, but not for all people. She thought it was all people but how could it be, it was just stupid saying that. Maybe for her, not for everybody. Not me either, although maybe it could be. But not others, not ones I knew, like my parents and my sister. My family was not special except if something I did because it was me. If you asked them probably they would have said it was me, I was going to do something. But I did not think so. Only because I was at university but everybody was if they were middle class so did that mean they were all special? It was stupid thinking that. I was not special either, not extra special. I was not. I was just me, it was my life, and my life was ordinary, just nothing special at all. I knew that. Because I watched other ones and saw them. Maybe I would be a writer. I would like to be a writer because you could just be free and do what you wanted.

It was my life. Celia believed in other ones like in other religions people had all different lives, some better than others; it depended what you did in each; the better you did in one life the better the next would be. If you did bad things you became worse progressively, until you were not even a human being, perhaps you were a slug. Rob Anderson spoke about an ancient belief that was similar. Maybe it was the Egyptian epoch. There was good stuff to study next year. I quite fancied it, logic and stuff that took you to science, like physics, like how Aristotle was a scientist, that was what I thought brilliant, and I did not care.

Rain now definitely. A drizzle. The longer it went the heavier it would get. That was my luck, and I needed a piss. I did. That was stupid. I should have gone in the bus station. I just did not want to. And I thought it would make me walk quicker, if I did not, I would walk faster.

I had never been lucky with buses.

Our house was miles away and you could not get buses easily. Not in the evening never mind through the night. People took taxis or walked.

I had been trudging for a half an hour.

Life was unfair. It sounded childish saying it. Even the weather. It was as if the fates decreed it. And it was you. So you were the centre of the universe!

Celia believed that except it applied to everybody. We were all the centre of the universe. How did she work that out! It was almost beautiful but in a silly way. I challenged her on it. If it was a point to do with philosophy surely it was incoherent because if you think about Copernicus. She said it was a proper philosophical argument. But it was not, it was from religion and religion was naive. Most of it was or else just political like dad said, people getting power.

It was heavier rain than a drizzle. Had it been like this a while? Maybe. I was away thinking about things.

It happened to me. I could be walking someplace and forget where I was. I was so into my thoughts. I was not unique. Everybody is so none at all. Therefore why do we need the word? In the religions Celia respected all people were unique. But how could that be? Surely it meant the opposite of unique? Otherwise what does unique mean? It becomes worthless. ‘Unique’. What do we mean by ‘unique’?

That was Rob: ‘what do we mean?’ Everything was ‘what do we mean?’ I liked that. He was a real philosopher. He said he was not but he was. The way he worked out stuff put the other academics to shame. That was my opinion and I was not the only one.

Not Celia. If she had known more she would have had more respect. She thought she knew about philosophy but really she did not. I smiled at the things she said. Secretly she thought she was the true philosopher. She did! Maybe she was. Except in one sense, the one sense.

Even thinking about weather, what an odd concept. Changeability. Rain on your head. Imagine rain on your head. I stopped walking and looked upwards. You think of the weather and you think of God. Rain exists so must our Heavenly Father. How childish can you get. Religion is a childish thing.

Not quite childish. What? It did seem hard to believe. There is nothing wrong with ‘hard to believe’. More like immature. People are entitled to find it so. And no wonder. Miracles! The worst aspect of ‘miracles’ was how it gave you the one individual. Miracles did not exist for everybody. That is what made it so childish. Catholics went to Lourdes and got cured of incurable diseases. Only them. God only did it for them. Oh it is a miracle for you and you alone! Not the chosen people but the chosen person. It was not conceited, it was nonsensical nonsense.

Absurd was the word. How could people think God would do it for them and them alone, it was just so childish. Childishly boastful. Oh I am cured. I had an incurable disease but God cured me. It is a miracle and He has performed it for me alone!

Why not everyone in the world who had the same disease? As though God would distinguish the one individual. Why? Because you prayed! That was so conceited. God listens to one person’s prayers. Surely everybody who had the disease would pray for a cure? Unless they were not Christians. But others would have the same; an equivalent. Muslims would have an equivalent, and Jews, and other religions.

I am cured I am cursed. You only put in an ‘s’.

The backpack was quite heavy and I kept having to shrug it up my shoulders. It was because I had brought so much home with me. A subconscious manoeuvre in case I did not return. Yet I brought the essays with me so I was as indecisive as usual. In a comedy programme on television the character shook his fist at the sky! I am warning you God, just dont you mess with me. Rain, sleet or snow. Dont you send that to torment me! Just who do you think you are?

I went online and saw the original script, and the original line was ‘Who the hell do You think You are!’ But the television station would not keep it in. The producer or whoever said they had to take it out. Because it was talking to God. Even ‘fuck’ would have been preferable. Not so much preferable, but acceptable, they would have allowed it, the BBC.

But ‘hell’! How could you refer to God as in ‘Who the hell do You think You are?’ It was too much for them, as if it would have been too much for God.

The very idea of God worrying about something like that, it was stupid. And also conceited, just so arrogant and in a male sense too, very very male, I could see that, and Jean-Paul Sartre: Rob recommended him. He was very difficult but worth it.

But this rain; and needing a piss I did need a piss, really, I did. Why had I not gone, so stupid, when I had the chance. A little thing but out of little things.

Thinking about sex. That was you, you got paid back with a punishment. Needing a pee was a punishment for thinking about sex. The explanation was straightforward. If you started going hard then soft then hard then soft no wonder you needed a piss. It was not a punishment. It was just natural, your body and bladder in a critical condition.

No point getting annoyed. Or depressed. More like depressed. The way stuff happens to one individual. Who else does it happen to!

Nobody.

Not quite true. Things do happen to other people. Me too. Some that happened recently were incredible. This was one more, one more I had to handle. I would handle.

Drizzle was not rain, it was like a sprinkling thing God threw down to help out the vegetables and plant-life, to give animals a drink.

Why was I talking about God all the time, given I was an atheist — agnostic at the very least.

Animals were out twenty-four hours a day, they did not have houses to go to and shops or cafés and even if there were shops and cafés they had no dough, they were completely rooked and could not pay for anything. That was me. Not quite rooked but nearly. Imagine being completely rooked! Not a sou, a penny or a cent. Nothing. What was fair about that? That was just so unfair. That was how unfair life was. No wonder people wondered. Some had fortunes, others had nothing. You did not have to be a communist to see that. I was not a communist and I could see it. Others did not. Celia only looked when I said it. Her family was not rich in her own estimation but actually they were loaded. Her mother was a doctor and her father was in business. Imagine saying that to my father: ‘Honestly dad, her family is really not rich at all.’ He would burst out laughing. What about mum, mum would just gawk, but she would smile too.

It was a different world. Down there people were rich. You did not know they were rich except eventually you came to realize it. An older student in Celia’s tutorial group was an aristocrat or else maybe a cousin to one. Can you be a cousin to an aristocrat and not be one yourself? She and Celia were friends. When the aristocrat visited they had lunch in a local bar. Celia went too, just to see. He was tall and skinny and hardly spoke but he smiled at people and was not standoffish. He worked in ‘the City’ which meant ‘stocks and shares and the movement of capital’.

Strange to think how this morning I was there and now I was here. Since it was after midnight it was not today but yesterday.

My parents did not have a big house but I still had a room and could coorie in for a few days; nobody to bother me; I could get on with the essays and just take it easy. I was quite looking forward to it. Maybe even I would stay in and not go out, not even bother seeing Eric or anybody for a beer. I quite sometimes liked essays.

At least I could relax.

Jees I was bursting and would have to find a place soon or else.

In my recollection this part of the city was hopeless. Even if there was a club bouncers were on the door, and they did not let people use the toilets; you had to buy something and be a customer otherwise ‘eff off’. It was too late for bars. And the problem too was over-21. Bouncers picked me out. But it was illegal, so it was not their fault; only annoying if they let other people through and they were the same age. It happened with Celia all the time. It was females, they got away with it. Bouncers just let them in. Then if you did it outside and got caught. It was a real problem. But that was it and across the street was a lane. I walked over and along.

People did not like this area. Even rapes against males. Males raping males. There had been an outbreak of that. Not just young males. One had been in his forties. Imagine a guy of forty being raped! What did that mean? Who ever would do that? That had to be a monster.

I did not like the look of this lane. Some lighting but not much, so dark and shadowy, but that was good for the police.

The usual bins and old rubbish stuff. People just dumped things. You were scared to look down at where you were walking. Shit was the best of it. Then a spot that was better and I was able to unsling the backpack, just taking the opportunity, and what a relief to balance it on the ground a minute. You do not realize how heavy it is until you take it off and lurch a couple of strides. The straps would have left imprints on my shoulders.

Nearer into the wall jees I was bursting. My boots crunching on glass, then another noise. I heard another noise. A real noise, sounding like a woman and she was moaning. That is what it sounded like: ‘oh no oh no oh no, no, no, no, oh no oh no.’ Muffled and not too close. I waited a moment but it came again. Not a scream but moaning. I finished the piss and stepped aside, facing in that direction, staying still and listening hard. By this time my eyes were accustomed to the dark. A shape appeared and it was a man walking, heading this way along the centre of the lane; not too fast, coming along towards me. I started walking, acting normally, just keeping going, not hesitating and not too slow either, so not intimidated by him. But not to intimidate him either. Just not anything. He was approaching now he really was and he really had seen me. A thick-set man, older, oh fuck really heavy-looking too like a mafia gangster or something you could imagine him, and on he came. I would not confront him. How could I? Not here anyhow. Did I even know for sure it was him? I did not. He might just have been a guy, just out strolling. Maybe he had seen something suspicious or if he heard her moaning. Maybe that was it and he just went up the lane to find out and here he was. On he walked down the centre of the lane, the crunching noise of his feet on the ground. Then he had passed. I wanted to look round to see him, to make sure he was not doing something behind my back. The way he had passed was like he had not even seen me. That was the way he acted, like he had not even noticed me. Even I was irrelevant. Maybe he thought that. Some older guys are like that, really arrogant the way they dismiss you. I kept on, walking in the opposite direction. I had to, that was what I thought. What else could I have done? It would have seemed completely strange. I could not look back. I would not tempt anything, although what could have happened? Nothing. No sound except my own. I would have heard, if somebody had been sneaking up. I would not have backed down. I had been in some bad situations in the past. I would not have backed down. I was not timid and nobody would have accused me of it, and not a coward, but not foolhardy and not silly brave. That was just stupid and helped no one. I was counting as I went, all to fifteen, and nothing, no woman, nothing. Maybe it was my ears. Ears play tricks. It was in all the books, your ears. Maybe they had. I was alert for anything yet nothing was there, all along the lane there was nothing. It was just dark.

Unless something had happened to shut her up. Ahead now was the end of the lane. On either side were weeds and a stack of rubbish bags. It was a place where bodies were found, you saw it all the time; the guy sneaking along with his girlfriend, looking for a safe place for sex and suddenly there is a foot and it is a leg twisted in the undergrowth. Call the police. Coldblooded murder. That was television. But such things did happen. Maybe not much but definitely some of the time, they did. Most murders were in the home and the murderers that did it were known to the victim. It was not strangers you had to worry about it was the next of kin, the person that stood to inherit, if you were rich or even if it was insurance and if you were just an ordinary person and oh my God almighty the backpack, what kind of a fool I was such a fool, back along immediately, but just a fool, just fast walking. It had gone. Maybe not. I checked roundabout and everywhere, everywhere and everywhere all along, the edge of the building, I could not believe what kind of a fool. I was a very very stupid guy, very very stupid, just naive and so stupid and just a total naive idiot. Could ever I have been so daft! Never. Never ever. Never in my whole life.

Sometimes if you were dead, only if you were dead. People said that. I thought it myself.

Objects do not move by themselves, they do not walk, backpacks do not walk.

I was not a headless chicken. My essays and everything else, books from the library.

Anyway, I could calm down and just look, look for things, anything, calmly. Sometimes they get put to the side, if somebody sees it, a lost article, if somebody finds it, they put it at the side of the road, or like a glove or a scarf, they hang it on a railing so the person who has lost it can find it, so they retrace their steps and then they see the lost article.

I hunted around. Horrible bastard, dirty evil, just a horrible, horrible horrible. He would have been long gone. Probably someplace checking the contents, sorting through it all, maybe dumping stuff along the way, because it was just clothes and a lot of them were unwashed, and just old tee-shirts and stuff. That is what he would think. But some were good; especially the tee-shirts. It was not all crap, though maybe that was how he would see it, crooked coward. He would not bother about the books, or anything, essay notes, just dump it, they were not of value. There was nothing of value. What did he expect to find a bag of money! thousands of pound notes stuffed into plastic bags! People watch too much television, all these detective programmes. They go about seeing themselves involved in mystery dramas, the earphones in and the music playing, their music, people choose their own music, they do not choose the best songs, the ones that they like the very best, they choose the ones they see as soundtracks to their own sweaty lives. Pathetic. You saw them walking along the street, and even their voices, you heard their voices.

Unless it was for my benefit. If the woman was in it with the man and that was why she moaned like she had. Because that woman moaned I swear to God she really did. Really, she did. If so it was the very last time, never ever would I ever fall for such a thing again if ever it was a woman and she was in trouble, it would never ever happen again, that was me now, just finished. Imagine a woman and she did that moaning so people would be tricked.

I had stuff at home but it was for emergencies only; basics, old stuff. Even socks. My parents would loan me money, just give me it. If I asked. I would not ask. I would just sell something or else the pawnshop. They would laugh. Mum would be glad it was nothing worse. I would not tell them.

Except my essays and the books, library books, and where would I get them again.

I was at the top of the lane, and stopped. It was the second time I had reached here. I turned to stare back along, silence all the way, just nothing. I had to retrace my steps again. I did not want to, not again. But I had to. Although nothing would be there. My backpack was gone and the guy that took it, and the woman, if ever there was a woman, or just my ears playing tricks.

What else, but I just had to, just go back along the lane, that was all I could do because what if I saw it, it might be waiting for me right at the very end, I might see its shape, just sitting there waiting for me. How could I have missed it! How ever could I have missed it? It would be the strangest strangest experience ever and I would just get it up onto my shoulders and rush fast to get home, oh jeesoh, jeesoh, I so wanted home.