Über-urban

Having lived either in cities or in large cities for nearly three decades now, I tend to forget what a transformation I've gone through. I grew up in the country and used to see horses, cows and pigs on a daily basis, although I didn’t interact with them too much, as mine weren’t a farming folk*). I used to chase hens for fun, and be chased by cockerels (also for fun, I guess). I could even talk to farmers, even if I didn’t understand them. If I focus, I can still tell a tractor from a combine-harverster. However, the truth is I’m urban now, at times even über-urban.

I was reminded of it today, while eating an über-urban sandwich (if peasants saw it, they’d struggle to work out it’s at all edible). When the urbanely overpriced sandwich was mid-way to my mouth, it suddenly struck me that, strangely, the green leaves, which the thing was stuffed with to such a degree that it was nearly bursting at its seams, looked extremely similar to someting I saw once growing in a field. This realisation unsettled me a little, so I paused the up-coming bite to hesitate for a split-second whether it’s a good idea to eat something that comes stragtht from soil.

(Then I thought: ‘What the heck! I'll take the risk', and went on).




*sorry, not funny.
**actually, on my mom's side there was a bumper crop of farmers at some point in history.

Mount Pleasant

I needed, badly, distraction from* M. I decided to get off my Cardiff-bound train at Swansea (I wanted to forget about Cardiff too). Even if distraction were to prove impossible to get, I could do some grieving there, I thought; somehow, the city seemed well suited for sadness as it had a quite distinct air of un-fulfilment about it. As if it were a place living without its other half; in fact, I believe Swansea has given up on looking for its other half. 

When I emerged from the modest, albeit elegantly-façaded, station, it was already dark. The evening was unclear and damp, so my mind immediately felt at home. I veered off High Street and brushed past some decent architecture, which normally would introduce a dose of harmony into me but this time it did next to nothing to pacify my painful confusion. I was looking at the details, proportions, materials but they couldn’t reach me. A veil of numbness descended between me and the world in place of the thrill-magnifying love-lens that was there just a few weeks earlier. I strolled on, nearly indifferent to the aesthetics of the universe; only my intellect knew the beauty I was passing; my heart remained immune to it. Soon I found myself climbing a madly steep lane.

Out of habit (and out of good philosophy), every time I stopped to regain my breath, I repeated an old mantra I say on loveless days: ‘The thrill is out there, somewhere’. I was moving up alongside a crescendo of cheap, generic terrace houses. Most were dark inside, but in a few the lights were on; I tried to see what's inside. I wondered if there was some passion or at least romance there, but I failed to see any. Everything felt half-alien. Projecting my life onto the lives of the invisible inhabitants, I imagined them pointlessly going through loveless motions of loveless lives. 'Why bother living in those houses?' I thought. 'Why bother living in Swansea? Why bother doing anything?' I stopped near the top and looked back.

The awkward tangle of the streets below, not so dissimilar to all those streets in Britain and in Poland where the recent and final developments had been taking place (well, at my end and mostly in my head at that; what had been going on in hers, only Jesus knows), looked less daunting now. The lights below succeeded in breaking through the damp mist and offered a whiff of relief. I was quite high up and the city at my feet took humbler proportions. I had an illusion that everything was growing manageable again, potentially comprehensible again; I felt bolder – seeing the bigger picture always lifts me up, a little. Unfortunately, the faint optimism didn’t last long: the Swansea on the other side of the hill dashed any hope of a new bright vision; the architecture was all over the place, so was the way it was laid out.

There was no view over the bay - not that I was likely to see more at this time of the day and in this weather anyway – or any indication which way to go, except one: another, even higher hill. I started the ascent. A tall, ugly building sprung up in front; a part of its name was 'Trinity'. A little farther I noticed another name: Mount Pleasant. I tried not to focus on what the names were attached to, but on their message.  

As I moved up, I realised something: not only did I struggle with gravity, but also with another force, an anti-force in fact: a feeling of being unsustained; all the emotions, words and thoughts I’d been the target of for over the last few months had been taken away and redirected on someone else. I kept existing only thanks to some great miracle; and if it hadn’t been for my intellect, it would be an animalistic existence. A pub appeared on the horizon, but when I got closer I decided to ignore it; it was one of those old establishments whose warm tradition had been gutted to make room for a new, cold one; there was little chance I would find any comfort there, apart from the booze.

I came to a fork in the road; I took the steeper (and I’d like to think - less taken) path. ‘How could I allow my existence to become dependent on one person?’ I scolded myself, but stopped short of branding myself a fool. A man and a small boy appeared further up the street, walking towards me. The boy, evidently loved, was trying to catch up with his dad and as he was making his small, fast steps, he was singing a pop hit, as if my problems didn't exist at all, as if they were all invented by me; but, somehow, I didn't hold it against him. When they passed me me, I turned round to enjoy the sight of a child who had what I had not. The man waited for the boy and then picked him up and rested on his shoulders. The boy went silent for a brief moment and then gasped.

The view before him, and before me, consisted of hundreds, perhaps even thousands, of small lights rolling out far into the night. We couldn’t see the bay, but in the distance a few single shimmering dots marked the edge of the Gower Peninsula. And then I became that boy for a moment and, just like him, I felt - and the feeling went through me like an enflamed arrow - that the gift is always there, that it keeps on giving, that it’s all the time at my disposal, and that all contingent thrills must be enclosed in the Necessary Thrill, that all contingent loves must be contained in the Necessary Love.

I took one last look before resuming the ascent and thinking about the woman. “Actually”, I said to myself, “any piece of **skirt will do***”.

 

 

 

*thinking about
**decent
***I was probably wrong

Democracy exposed (with a bang on her head)

“Mr Speaker...

One the peculiar and perverse things that democracy teaches its discerning observer, and an occasional participant, is to applaud politicians for breaking their word, after having wiped the floor with them earlier for making utterly irresponsible promises.

... we’ve just learnt that...

Thus, I was extremely happy that David Cameron failed to keep his word regarding the Prime Minister's Questions and haven't knocked the Punch and Judy factor out of it. In fact, he has turned out to be the best Punch I’ve seen live on TV in my whole life.

...in Scotland more people believe...

The PMQ, one must realise, is not only about fun. It’s also an important part of the political debate. Political ideas, political claims and political proposals should be able to withstand all sorts of tests, including the scrutiny of extra-smart (even if often fallacious), ruthless ridicule . And the PMQ offers that test.

....in the Loch Ness Monster....

In the weekly session of their slagging each other off, the Prime Minister and the Leader of Her Majesty's Opposition carry out an important part of a genuine review of the system: they mercilessly, aptly and justly slag off the whole democratic idea.

...than in his leadership".

P.S. Actually, even if it was just about fun, the Parliamentarian Punch & Judy may still be one of the strongest arguments in favour of British democracy I’ve ever heard. (Just by the way: funnily, most people here seem to believe that all the incoherent & ruinous political mess going on around them can be defended with that old, evidently fallacious witticism of Churchill's which made false claims about all sorts of old and superior systems, just because he happened to be a player in a new, inferior one.)

P.S. "His party’s problem is  - he exists!”

If justice be done

I obeyed the clerk, put away my newspaper and, along with everyone else, rose when their worships entered the room. The lawyers looked relaxed, too relaxed, and with the help of their polished English and Latin-infused jargon lent a certain air of respectability, and at times, eerily, even dignity, to a series of pathetic and usually repeated failures, idiocies and cruelties. The first man was guilty and knew it; each one after him even more so.

At some point their worships didn’t know straight away whether to go for justice or, well, less justice and decided to do some brain-storming about the alternative in private. The defendant, his nose bearing a manly scare, looked at me asking for love. His eyes were large and sensitive. However, the truth was he had done it again.

Their worships* returned and shared with us a few options concerning the technicalities of the sentence. It was complicated, or they had complicated it, and grew more so with every minute. From the gallery, I looked at the ‘Dieu et mon droit’, which hung above their heads, and then around the room. Suddenly I saw through everyone. And there was no one left who was just; the tell-tale signs bore witness: a stiff upper lip in place of lamentation, eloquence drowning out doom, a second-rate joke in face of Hell**. 'Simplify this parody!' I heard the Queen, or someone, say. Forget consulting probation services; don't bother testing the means; why waste time adding another hundred hours to the community service or another year to three? Let them face the music: if justice be done, off with their heads!

*Does it count when they’re not wearing wigs?, I tried to comfort my mate who feared being locked up (or, if he wanted to be precise, locking himself out).

**someone might want to add: no wigs.

Simplicity / Ease my mind

On our way from Barry, while listening (and listening, listening and listening) to A, I realised I don't know anyone* who has ever done as thorough an analysis of a failed love as that carried out by him, partly at my expense, over the last month.  We – my emotional arm has been twisted to relive and rethink it all with him - have gone through every conceivable, and in most likelihood also inconceivable, aspect of the break-down of his relationship with R., and we have revisited every possible (or impossible) observation, every argument, every conclusion a hundred – or perhaps a thousand, I’ve lost count now – times. Wake me in the middle of the night, give me a couple of key words and I’ll elaborate on them for half an hour or so. (And even if I don't cry, I'll get on the very verge).

Just before Sully (or was it Lavernock?) A. paused, possibly to contemplate in silence how to squeeze dry, analysis-wise, another ueber-nuance (I'm sure he hadn't analysed R. even half as much when they were together; I even seem to recall him admitting that). I took advantage of the extraordinary situation and put on a CD with a compilation of covers sung by a local boy . I wanted to give both of us a much needed distraction from all the sadness we'd plunged ourselves into. In no time, though, we got distracted from our distraction (I know, cheap), because - surprise, surprise – not only most of the songs were about love, but every other one, or so, was about failed love. “You know what’s just struck me? When she said… “, he re-launched his ueber-analysis.  I faked interest and kept listening to a cover of a 1970 hit, but A. failed to be moved by all the troubles two famous New Yorkers were singing about, and ploughed on: “… I'm sure someone must, just must!, have told her at some point: What?? Over something like this??" I nodded, but all I could hear was ‘...when you're weary, feeling small; when tears are in your eyes, I will dry them all.' 

I started intertwining with the lyrics a reflection on a well know truth: when love ends we engage in a long, pains-taking and painful effort to try to understand what happened, why it happened and why it wasn't avoided. When love is there, however, we just enjoy it. Have you ever heard of anyone spending hours on end on a madly detailed analysis of a love in progress? Love, though infinitely complex on the one hand, introduces a relieving straightforwardness too; not simple itself, it simplifies everything; it brushes away anything not relevant to itself; perfect love focuses only on what's conducive to keeping it perfect. (This may be the solution of the mind-shattering, universe-shaking, faith-undermining questions that get our heads on the brink of exploding - or imploding; I haven't got that far yet in my analysis. Why is there something rather than nothing? Where does God come from? How can plurality come of of oneness? In the presence of perfect love, those philosophical demons may simply melt down.)

A. went on. He talked about words, deeds and wounds. The song went on too. 'Sail on silver girl, sail on by...'. Just before we entered a tunnel, he shut up and sped up. He shouldn't have done this, as he's driving without a licence these days (which – aren't some of the tests set for love really weird! – triggered the series of events in question). We entered the tunnel at high speed. I looked at a long line of lights above us - could they be leading somewhere? Then I imagined us having an accident and suddenly I felt I could, or even would like to, get straight to the other, simple side now. No more analyses of breakups, no more investigations into broken hearts, no more staring into spaces where love is no more – all of that melted by a perfect romance. Tom Jones raised his voice: 'I'm sailing right behind; like a bridge over trouble water I will ease your mind... like a bridge over troubled water I will ease your mind...'

*apart from me.

Back to Barry

I'm about to move back to Barry for a while (I lived there for a moth or so a decade ago), which I don't mind. I do mind, however, when penpushers come with nonsensical slogans like

'Barry: the difference begins here'

(The difference, of course, begins in your heart).

The The Fallacy of the European Union in 10 Pictures (Part 1)

You don't need to be an expert in political science to know that something is seriously wrong with an organisation that can produce that kind of cover.

(Immediately, the worst brain-washing excesses of the Soviet Union and the whole thick and blunt block come to mind, don't they?)

The addition of loss

We were driving down a narrow Glamorganshire country road which ran along the Bristol Channel, but only from time to time could we catch a glimpse of the channel, the villages (Lavernock, Sully, Cog, the sing pointing to 'The Captain's Wife'... the sweetly suffocating memories...) or, far across the water, lights of Somerset; most of the time we were enclosed by an eccentrically high hedge-wall on either side. Our journey was a quintessentially British experience (I remember the first time I found myself on such a road. “Now I’ve experienced Britain fully”, I thought. “I won’t ever go any deeper than this”. And I haven’t yet). My friend changed the radio station and the voice of Emmylou in one instant took me back to the days of losing D. (I should be writing about losing M. now, but whereas tg something unique about each single loss, isn’t the essence of love-ending always one and the same?) and to a flat in south London where I spent a few months smoking endless hookahs, playing endless records, drinking endless bottles of port and Armagnac and trying to reach a plane on which the break-up of a twenty-year long relationship (and 10 out of those 20 years were happy, or not completely unhappy)  would make some sense, or at least where it wouldn’t matter whether it made any sense; or simply where I could just stop thinking of it. I can’t recall today whether it was the sweet-flavoured tobacco, the music or the Armagnac*, but I did stop thinking, or at least obsessing, about it. There were also two thoughts that helped me immensely. One: that life went on; the other one: that she and I, and our marriage, were death-bound anyway. (Then, which was probably more effective than the hookah, the music and the booze put together, I fell in love again).

However, sometimes and for various reasons, I go back to those days. One of the reasons is philosophical.  It’s a result of two straightforward observations: one is that apart from all the devastation, hurt and nearly-lethal numbness, I find what happened then, and the memories of that time, not only bitter, but bitter-sweet, or rather bitter-bitter-sweet; there seems to be something good about them, something constructive, something uplifting. The other observation is that the experience is unique and as such it seems to contribute something to my life; if this logic is correct, without those miserable, hazy days in Beckenham my life would be poorer.


These conclusions must be considered as strange and they should provoke a deeper investigation, which they did in my case.  Let’s look at them at closer range.


First of all, let’s focus on the latter one: it’s undeniable that any of our experiences is unique; whether happy or unhappy, whether pleasant or unpleasant, whether physical, mental or spiritual - each one is irreplaceable, each brings something that no other experience can, or one could argue so; each of them happened in its own unique circumstances, its own unique ambience and while we were in a unique mood; each then has a potential to bring back the memory of those circumstances and, what’s more impressive, actually re-produce the relevant ambience and mood. Imposed on later experiences, the mood-, thought- and feeling-producing possibilities of one single experience seem mind-boggling, and they often are.

If the aim of our life were to accumulate experiences (some people claim: the more experience, the more life), it could be argued that it’s in our interest to increase the number, depth and intensity of any experiences, including unhappy ones. Although on the one hand it sounds self-evident, it must strike us, or at least some of us, as a major existential fallacy: the pursuit of unhappiness goes against our deepest instincts and beliefs, even more: it goes against us. We’ll deal with this fallacy, which I claim it is, a little later. Now let’s move on to the first observation.

Where does the ‘sweetness’ of unhappy experiences may come from? Is it there at all? I claim that to a various degree, it is the case. At the root of this paradoxical perceived (at least by me) ‘sweetness’ is a certain crucial reality check, a certain discovery...

[to be continued; must run now to discover where money is] 

Latter-day wisdom

After a mutual understanding between Ali (peace be upon him) and me (let at long last riches descend upon him) that at their beginnings our respective religions were Satan-inspired*, I had a slightly unsettling (and a bit exciting, I must admit) hunch that the impending step was going to be a mutual acknowledgment, expressed to each other’s face, that in professing what we profess we too, respectively, are Satan-inspired (an acknowledgement possibly followed by a short bout of throat-slitting).

Instead, nipping in the bud my trademark instinct to go for the theological jugular, I suggested flying above all the un-truth, confusion and anger, i.e. Satan, and focusing on The Truth (Al-Haqq, 51).

 

**(Allah  The Greatest Name

Ar-Rahman 1 The All-Merciful

Ar-Rahim 2 The All-Beneficient

Al-Malik 3 The Absolute Ruler

Al-Quddus 4 The Pure One

As-Salam 5 The Source of Peace

Al-Mu’min 6 The Inspirer of Faith

Al-Muhaymin 7 The Guardian

Al-’Aziz 8 The Victorious

Al-Jabbar 9 The Compeller

Al-Mutakabbir 10 The Greatest

Al-Khaliq 11 The Creator

Al-Bari’ 12 The Maker of Order

Al-Musawwir 13 The Shaper of Beauty

Al-Ghaffar 14 The Forgiving

Al-Qahhar 15 The Subduer

Al-Wahhab 16 The Giver of All

Ar-Razzaq 17 The Sustainer

Al-Fattah 18 The Opener

Al-’Alim 19 The Knower of All

Al-Qabid 20 The Constrictor

Al-Basit 21 The Reliever

Al-Khafid 22 The Abaser

Ar-Rafi’ 23 The Exalter

Al-Mu’izz 24 The Bestower of Honors

Al-Mudhill 25 The Humiliator

As-Sami 26 The Hearer of All

Al-Basir 27 The Seer of All

Al-Hakam 28 The Judge

Al-’Adl 29 The Just

Al-Latif 30 The Subtle One

Al-Khabir 31 The All-Aware

Al-Halim 32 The Forebearing

Al-’Azim 33 The Magnificent

Al-Ghafur 34 The Forgiver and Hider of Faults

Ash-Shakur 35 The Rewarder of Thankfulness

Al-’Ali 36 The Highest

Al-Kabir 37 The Greatest

Al-Hafiz 38 The Preserver

Al-Muqit 39 The Nourisher

Al-Hasib 40 The Accounter

Al-Jalil 41 The Mighty

Al-Karim 42 The Generous

Ar-Raqib 43 The Watchful One

Al-Mujib 44 The Responder to Prayer

Al-Wasi’ 45 The All-Comprehending

Al-Hakim 46 The Perfectly Wise

Al-Wadud 47 The Loving One

Al-Majíd 48 The Majestic One

Al-Ba’ith 49 The Resurrector

Ash-Shahid 50 The Witness

Al-Haqq 51 The Truth

Al-Wakil 52 The Trustee

Al-Qawi 53 The Possessor of All Strength

Al-Matin 54 The Forceful One

Al-Wáli 55 The Governor

Al-Hamid 56 The Praised One

Al-Muhsi 57 The Appraiser

Al-Mubdi 58 The Originator

Al-Mu’id 59 The Restorer

Al-Muhyi 60 The Giver of Life

Al-Mumit 61 The Taker of Life

Al-Hayy 62 The Ever Living One

Al-Qayyum 63 The Self-Existing One

Al-Wajid 64 The Finder

Al-Májid 65 The Glorious

Al-Wahid 66 The Only One

Al-Ahad 67 The One

As-Samad 68 The Satisfier of All Needs

Al-Qadir 69 The All Powerful

Al-Muqtadir 70 The Creator of All Power

Al-Muqaddim 71 The Expediter

Al-Mu’akhkhir 72 The Delayer

Al-Awwal 73 The First

Al-Akhir 74 The Last

Az-Zahir 75 The Manifest One

Al-Batin 76 The Hidden One

Al-Walí 77 The Protecting Friend

Al-Muta’ali 78 The Supreme One

Al-Barr 79 The Doer of Good

At-Tawwab 80 The Guide to Repentance

Al-Muntaqim 81 The Avenger

Al-Afu 82 The Forgiver

Ar-Ra’uf 83 The Clement

Malik al-Mulk 84 The Owner of All

Dhul-Jalali Wal-Ikram 85 The Lord of Majesty and Bounty

Al-Muqsit 86 The Equitable One

Al-Jami 87 The Gatherer

Al-Ghani 88 The Rich One

Al-Mughni 89 The Enricher

Al-Mani’ 90 The Preventer of Harm

Ad-Darr 91 The Creator of The Harmful

An-Nafi 92 The Creator of Good

An-Nur 93 The Light

Al-Hadi 94 The Guide

Al-Badi 95 The Originator

Al-Baqi 96 The Everlasting One

Al-Warith 97 The Inheritor of All

Ar-Rashid 98 The Righteous Teacher

As-Sabur 99 The Patient One)

 

 

 

*not through any desire to inflame things, but just for the record: I, not him, am right. And by the way (and don't repeat this to Ali... or actually, do! Just don't mention me, right?): which is more outrageous and provocative: to deny the PROPHETHOOD of a prophet or the DIVINITY of God?

**Lord, the Most Merciful!, please don’t hold these brackets against me on the day of Your Judgement.

The Quill Drivers*

[Remembrance Sunday]

There are penpushers and then there are penpushers, and - as you will surely recall - I never said all of them should be hanged. In fact, the work of some of them, even though they may be a tiny, endangered bunch, is quite commendable and deserves a long-overdue pay rise. Among them there is the Royal Army Pay Corps, aka 'The Ink Slingers' and 'The Quill Drivers'. “An army runs on good food, dry feet, cheerful comrades, effective officers and regular pay (although not necessarily always in this order)”, someone once said**. And if anyone wants peace, as I do, they must appreciate those who help the army run smoothly and remain in peace-preserving war-readiness. 

I could bet your bottom bullet that each army has an ever-expanding, mindless, useless and overpaid pen-pushing division, but I would never put the Pay Corps in this category, because I believe in British generals and admirals (actually I have met a couple and formed a rather pleasant opinion of them; I must admit though, that my judgement may have been swayed by a glass or two of port – i.e. a glass or two too many) and even if I lost my bottom bullet in the first bet, I would win it back in the second one: I can bet your second bottom bullet that British generals would never allow British soldiers to go unpaid or be treated unfairly, money- and other-wise. At least not until British politicians step in. In fact I'd go as far as to say that if British politicians looked after their voters even half as well as British generals look after their soldiers, this would be a completely different place. (And, to uphold my anti-democratic credentials, at the moment I'd rather the nation be run by generals than by politicians).

*I salute you!

**and a topical booklet found in a local library repeated.

Oh Diane

“Diane*, I need your cooperation”, I said to the receptionist. “Someone wants to know how long Dr …. has been my GP**. And can I please have this in writing?”

Just as I should expect after numerous run-ins with penpushers, what seemed to me and the king as straightforward as it gets, didn't seem so from their desk. “It will have to be done by the doctor himself”, the problems started, “and there will be a charge”, they continued. “Diane*, I don't mind paying***, but I need this piece of paper now.****” “I'm sorry, I can't do it – it would be against the rules,” she replied.  “Let me check when the doctor is available”, she looked at the computer screen.  In the office room behind her two women were chatting away and laughing. Their voices suggested a topic unrelated to the health of the nation or, even worse, to the letter I was after.

I braced myself for another skirmish in the war between humankind and bureaucracy, a war I am at the forefront of. “Diane*, love*****, is it really worth bothering a GP with a trifle like that? Why can't you just take a brief glance at my file, write one sentence and print it out on your surgery's cute headed paper?”

Diane looked up from the computer. Her eyes warned me that she wouldn't fall for any 'common sense' nonsense. “This is confidential information and as such has to be authorised to the doctor before it's given to a third party.” “But Diane*”, I tried to juggle in my mind composing the rest of the sentence and fantasising about strangling her for the general benefit of humankind, “the information is about ME, and you'll give it to ME; I'm not, by any stretch of imagination******, a third party.”

Little did I know that Diane had an ace up her sleeve: “But how can we be sure what you'll do with the information? Once you have it you may give it to a third party.*******” 

For a second or two I hesitated whether to blow up immediately or after I've expressed my opinion. I went for the latter.

“Diane, why the hell are you doing this to our civilisation?? We're talking about a silly one-sentence statement about a most insignificant detail in which nobody should be interested in the first place. Now, on top of the time wasted by a bunch of useless and overpaid penpushers in one of the useless and overpaid government departments, you're wasting further time, that of my outrageously underpaid self! – and you're about to waste even more! You want to engage in this silly one-sentence business an outrageously expensive, and quite likely overpaid, GP!! His education and training cost hundreds of thousands of pounds and the knowledge and skills he has acquired are surely better spent helping the military-pharmaceutical complex grow, and who knows, maybe even curing some people in the process than writing stupid documents for some outrageously overpaid, useless penpushers. Can't you see, honey, that instead of being part of the solution, you're part of the country's problem now? Don't you know you're being paid for this idiotic conversation by outrageously overtaxed taxpayers?? Stop this nonsense right away and just do as I do: when confronted with bureaucratic imbeciles, go above theirs heads and consult directly King Common Sense. He'll give you the authority to overrule all the idiotic regulations, norms and forms the mindless, useless and overpaid forces of Pen-pushing can throw at you! Got it?? Then give me this bloody piece of bloody paper bloody now!”, I thought. 

“I see. But I'd be extremely grateful if you find some way of speeding this up”, I said. (To my eternal embarrassment I hereby own up that I failed to explode, contradicting some of my most strongly-held beliefs and seriously undermining my overall credibility.)

“I'll do my best,” she smiled.

I started walking away. Then I turned around. “Thank you, Diane**, I smiled back. "I love you********.”

*To be a bit more accurate: on noticing it on the tag, I just inaudibly whispered her beautiful name, without really uttering it. 

**General practitioner, the local name for a doctor of first contact in the local country.

***well, I didn't mind paying, nor could pay then; but I decided to omit that minor, purely technical detail.

****true.

*****made-up, just to sex things up.

******as a philosopher I knew that there may be a possibility of seeing ourselves as a third party, at least by some stretch of imagination; but, obviously, I didn't want to veer into that particular discussion just then, and not necessarily with Diane, if I had any choice.
*******true (that she said it and that I would show it to a third party).

********I didn't, but I decided to later on; and love - apart from, Schadenfreude (well, kind of) and a bunch of British idiots - will be the gist of the up-coming post scriptum.

(Trivia)

Can you stand men scratching their balls or adjusting their penis in public? (Just wondering).