Persons

This is a piece of fiction. I love noticing the odd and curious things about people. Here's a little example:

So far, I'd met a few odd characters on my door-to-door research survey on television viewing in the neighbourhood;  all different characters, in keeping with the dictionary definition I'd read earlier that day. Apparently the word person comes from the Latin word for mask, and refers to playing a part, acting on the stage of life, so to speak.

And that reminds me that I had an aunt who played the role of a 'touchy' person. It was interesting going shopping with her. No matter what shop or place we were passing, if it took her fancy in she'd walk and begin touching things. Fruit, vegetables, furniture, kitchen utensils, but fabrics especially. An extra-sensory faculty seemed to switch on to automatic when touching these. She'd positively purr if the fabric passed a certain in-built test, and her voice would take on a stuffy pommie accent which I think she thought sounded like an announcer on the BBC. "Oh yes," she'd murmur, half to herself and half to anyone else in the vicinity. "Quality material, this." It did no harm as far as I could see; it was in fact a kind of therapy for her. And then we've move on. She couldn't buy though, she could only dream.

It was at home that her touchiness got out of kilter. Especially if she hadn't been 'round to see us for a few weeks. Then she'd put on her mask and shift into touch mode again. I can still remember at the age of eight, when most lads prefer touching things that can be eaten rather than fussy, well-meaning aunts who bosom-hugged so that you could hardly breathe. It would start with, "Come here then our Dennis, and let me look at you. My, haven't you grown!" My hair would be stroked as she murmured, "Oh yes, lovely hair. It's just like your Uncle Geroge's, you know." Then she'd plant sloppy kisses over my entire face before taking hold of my hands. "And lovely hands. Piano playing hands those, you know." Oh no they're not, I'd groan to myself. My younger sister had pounded the ivories and it had been murder, for us all, from the start. Nature came to our aid, thankfully, as a sore throat and rash took her over for a week, and after she'd recovered she'd lost all interest in things musical, and peace returned.

Later, I had been musing on the fact that Shakespeare came after the dictionary definition of person, when I switched my thoughts to the person I'd spoken to whilst conducting my research survey on television viewing, two doors down. "I'm not a television person," she'd said quietly, her look implying that I ought to recognise she'd been elevated to a higher social and intellectual status because of that. She seemd a rather pathetic creature, thin of figure and gaunt of face as she spoke. She was unwilling to pass on any of the information the survey sought, but she did give me a frosty smile from behind the desk in her small office as I left. If Shakespeare was right, that we are all players on the stage of life, she'd landed a lousy part I thought, and I felt sorry for her.

Dennis Crompton © 1997

Inclinations

My time in the British army and RNZAF (Royal New Zealand Air Force) meant that I mixed with all sorts and conditions of men, and as they are part of our common humanity I've written this item in an attempt to record some of these gay and joyful observations.

The residence at Hursley on the road heading north to Winchester, was just what I'd wanted. Nice location. Excellent condition and the accommodation flat on the end meant I could have someone there for company. My lawyer friend would help me organise all that. I gave a twirl round the rooms I was so pleased with myself. At last I could settle down and follow my own inclinations. (What a gorgeous word that is!)

That night I retired with a feeling of satisfaction and excitement. After I'd unpacked my wardrobe, I planned to explore my new surroundings with a trip along the motorway to my old stamping ground at Winchester. So, with a word of thanks on my lips to my dear non-judgemental, understanding, Aunt Phoebe, I nestled down to sleep in my luxurious new bed.

About mid-morning the following day, I surveyed the badly rumpled state of my wardrobe and could have cried. Well, I did cry. After all the care I'd taken packing. Those brutes of carriers must have thrown my three portmanteaus into their van with as much thought as they took to dress themselves. Really. It made me so cross. I'd tipped them well enough too. There was nothing for it, I took time off for a gin and tonic and rang my friend Hugh. He's a real pet. Just hearing his voice did wonders in calming my nerves.

I followed his advice, pressed and hung everything and by the time that was done, it was too late to think of Winchester. Instead, I took a stroll and ended up sipping a crème de menthe in Tony's, a boutique in the centre of Hursley. The place was crowded with old ecclesiasticals. There was no getting away from my immediate past it seemed. To be honest, I didn't want to. It had been a mistake in a way. Seven cloistered years is quite a slice out of anyone's life. And at thirty-five I was not that old. But I was wiser and had learned a great deal about fabrics and design.

I thought another blessing on dear Aunt Phoebe and decided to splash out on the latest in Swedish sewing machines. The lounge needed new curtains but I'd start with the crushed silk I'd just purchased. I couldn't resist the feel of it nor the assistant with the softest blue eyes as he murmured: 'Do you have the inclination to try this, sir?'

I'll be popping ‘round again of course; they do carry the most delightful range of materials.

Two days later, as I sat wondering what I might do by way of design, a line from Shakespeare's Hamlet came to mind:

Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy but not expressed in fancy; rich, not gaudy, for the apparel oft proclaims the man.

Willy was so right. It gave me an idea and an hour or so later, I'd completed the first evening garment that made me famous in the rag trade. It really was stunning.

A vote of thanks to Aunt Phoebe's generosity remembering me in her will. My shop opened in Hurley's main street in time for the influx of summer visitors to several abbeys in the vicinity. Private sales surprised us all. The first, held at the Royal Hussars Museum proved profitable. I could hardly drag myself away, all those lovely men in their splendid uniforms. Orders followed from the Hampshire Regiment Barracks. There was nothing ordinary about the soldiers I helped into and out of the range of materials I offered there.

I had to return several days later to take orders from staff and seniors at several colleges in the vicinity as well. There was no stopping things from then on. My label: 'Abbot's Fancy' took off like you wouldn't believe. I mean, drag queens and famous people I can't possibly name, adore the idea of wearing my design based on a monk's habit. My old abbot at Winchester and other abbots throughout Hampshire and further afield complaining as they did on TV and in the press, increased my turnover 200%. Though most of them popped in at the back door later, as it were.

The young assistant with those soft blue eyes who'd helped me select the mauve crushed silk, has come in with me. He's a classy dresser and looks so sweet in mauve. I have a reminder of his first words to me inscribed inside the ring he gave me: ‘Inclination’. It's such a nice word.

Oh, by the way, should you wish to follow your own inclination, you'll find me on the internet and in the yellow pages. My new shops go under the name: ‘Habits: nice but nocturnal’.

'Bye for now.

Dennis Crompton © 1999
(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)

Learning

When was the last time you saw a dead cat? The last one I saw I'd dragged out from underneath our house where it had crawled to die. Did curiosity kill it? If it did, then it means that cats ask questions. I believe they must, though many are not around long enough to get answers, and those that are say nothing. They need their nine lives and then some, as they inspect the tyre-tread of articulated trucks, inch along slender branches for a morsel of meat mixed with feathers and bones, slip into bed beside their roly-poly caregiver, or steal just the one biscuit of the Rottweiler newly installed next door.

Curiosity has led us humans to ask questions from the very beginning. It probably began when neurones inside the brain formed the question, “Hello! What's this nice soft thing just in front of my mouth?” Then the next thought, “Oh goody! There's another one on this side.” You know what the neurones came up with next? Yes. “I wonder what they taste like?” And egged on by warm fuzzies, lips found nipple, tongue tasted, throat swallowed and tummy warmed. Experience aided momentum. “I wonder what they're called?” probably came next, followed by, “And who do they belong to?”

Now comes the first twist in the convoluted story of us humans. The tiny face crumples into a scowl. Fists clench. Gums gnash. Little legs kick as thoughts form: I saw them first. They're mine now. Just let anybody try to take them away. I'll howl the house down and mess things up both front and back.
(This was long before silicon appeared on the scene. It became serious then, making it difficult for junior to sort the true from the false. The scar must have been a give away.)

By this time the neurones had set themselves on a course of question followed by decision that would last a lifetime. Experts vary as to just when our teenage scream-age begins. No one is certain when a male first thought, I wonder what she looks like when she removes...? Those thoughts have a built in repeater and can operate at any time and place. I'm assured these also occur in the female of our species too. Fair enough. I have it on good authority that questioning began with them: “Would you like an apple? Yes! Lovely, isn't it!”

There's a price to pay, of course. No gain without pain. A teacher once said to me, “You wouldn't put you finger into the fire just because you saw your friend doing it, would you?” I agreed with her then, but I was a fool. I may not have put my finger in a fire but I did test that the paint was wet, I used that word in front of Dad too, just the once, and later on, mixed my drinks as well. I've lived and learned since then.

For all of that, curiosity has led humans along the exciting path of exploration fed by what I call 'starters', something to arouse the curiosity. Some are visible, some are not. We're in the realm of the concrete and abstract now. We sail in vessels of steel; fly in heavier than air machines and even travel in a bullet train (a bit of a boast but fast anyway). Stonehenge is visible to man, as are the pyramids and other great monuments along with the scars of man's folly. Wales has its slag heaps, Russia it's Chernobyl; Hiroshima its Dome.

Time and circumstance sometimes have to merge before other things can be learned or seen. A few years ago I came across photographs of the earth's surface showing clear evidence of its disturbance both by man and nature. Someone's tracks across a field. The outline of where a building had once stood. Signs that a river had previously run that way, and so on.

A friend of mine, a teacher, was over-worked and seldom received recognition. Better trained teachers were given better pupils. He was given difficult pupils with learning and behaviour problems. My friend didn't, couldn't complain. He needed the job, had a family to support, a mortgage to pay and he did like teaching. The scars of the pupils were obvious but there were too many to receive the attention they needed. Eventually, my friend had a heart-attack. The few days he spent in hospital he learned that his heart showed evidence of scarring. You've been under strain for some time, he was told. It shows. Of course he'd been aware of the tension and strain but unaware of his scars. They were invisible. Not even those closest to him knew.

It's probably the same for many we pass in the street, work alongside, play sport with or know as our friends. They'll have scars and those who have experienced such things themselves will understand. It almost seems to be part of our learning. Shakespeare wrote: He jests at scars that never felt a wound, then followed it with: But soft! what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun. An interesting contrast, wouldn't you say?

Dennis Crompton © 1998
(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)