Dutch Bitterballen

Have you ever landed up at the right place but on the wrong day and time? This occasionally happens to a jobbing actor particularly if he's working on a production where the line producer and scene scheduler couldn't find their arseholes with a GPS.

I have found myself in this predicament four or five times in my illustrious career. Three of these events occurred while I was filming with Jackie Chan in his self-financed movie called "Who am I" at the turn of the millennium.

Jackie is a man of means by no means and he throws his highly talented self into all aspects of the production. Camera, lighting, props, wardrobe and make-up are at all times under his watchful eye. As he said to me shortly after joining the cast as the leading villain, "In 'oolywood production, producer he tell me what to do. In my production, I tell 'lem!".

And that he certainly did. Shooting schedules were changed constantly, locations, were shuffled like a pack of cards. In the sixty days that I shot with him in Rotterdam, I never knew what, when, or where I was wanted till Mr Chan had decided.

One morning eating a delightful breakfast in the Rotterdam Hilton, Susie Wong, a junior production assistant scooted to to my table,  "Ha Ceas , today we shoot on you, but only lata, the scene where you watch Jackie from stleet doorway."

"Scene number?" I asked

“Ha scene not litten, Jackie he lite it. I give you later."

I knew I was in for a long Hurry-up-and-wait session.

Ms Wong told me to be ready for pick-up in the hotel lobby in thirty minutes. I went up to my to my room and prepared for all eventualities,  camping chair and table, small cadac gas burner, expresso maker, cup, plate, ingredients, book, soduko, and crossword.

 An hour later I was ensconced on the pavement at a busy centre of the town's intersection. Ms Wong departed, "We is be seeing you lata."

After making myself a delightful expresso and getting into the first book of Asimov's triolgy Foundation, I found myself surrounded by three armed members of the Dutch constabulary . Unfazed I pulled my script out of the side pocket of my camping chair. "I'm filming in Jackie Chan movie and I've been told to stay here."

"Ah, Jackie Chan, we also," replied the tallest of them, "We will be controlling the traffic.

"Have you any idea when?"

"No, we at 10 o'clock here. We told to wait. Control she tell us."

"Can't they give you an update an ETA?". I thought I was being very clever throwing in the algolirim, but the reply I got showed that their English was not too advanced.

"You can eat across the road, about 11 o'clock she come. Very good bitterballen, she make. The gouda and spinach, she sehr gut!"

Bitter Balls are a unique Dutch invention for using up the left overs of previous meals. They are either served as a crumbed log or ball with some mild mustard on the side. This delectable snack is a must if ever you're in Holland.

They are made using the leftover of previous meals, usually contain cheese, all this is wrapped in mashed potato and cover with bread crumbs then deep fried and server with a mild mustard or sauerkraut.

My in built clock told me I'd have to wait about an hour till the magical bittenballen lady arrived, so I excused  myself from my newly made friends and dived back into my Asimov.

As I was beginning to understand the nuances of Asimov's 3 rules of robotics an enticing aroma filled the air, the distinctive smell of fried potatoes and melting cheese. Mrs Bitterballs had arrived and was busy erecting the side canopy on her converted VW camper van.

My friends from the costabulary were already across the intersection and were busy chatting  up a well endowed young lady as she shook her bitterballen discsrding them of the last droplets of cooking oil.

As I arrived she scooped the bitterballen, six of them,  onto a large paper plate that already had a mountain of cole-slaw testing its flexible form. The largest policeman delicately took the plate and deposited it on one of the three portable tables next to the caravan.

"Here Dirkie." Said the voluptuous cook, handing three plastic forks to the young constable who couldn't take his eyes off her bouncing bossom.

"Hurry up!" Yelled  his mates. Dirkie spun around, dropped the three forks, tripped himself up as he turned and stumbled towards his compatriots.

"And what would you like?" Asked the bossom, "they told me you were English, " she continued.

I could fully appreciate Diirkie's dilema. My eyes too were transfixed on the largest mamary glands I had ever seen. "You should try the spinach and feta and the bacon and gouda".

My eyes finally made contact  with hers as she repeated the bacon and gouda option. Somehow I managed to utter the affirmative reply. "Ja." I croaked through my dry throat. "five minutes," she said continuing, "take a seat, I bring it. With cole-slaw?"

I croaked another Ja and joined the seated constabulary.

"She carries them well, does Connie, she goes to the same gym as the boss, no wonder he's always late for role-call." Said Dirkie as he swallowed his last bite of bitterballen.

My mouth was really dry and I knew that it would be parched shut when Connie delivered my balls. I stood up, excused myself and darted back across the road to my HQ.

Two minutes later I was seated and plonked my 2 litre chateau-cardbord of dry red and 4 paper cups on the table. " Help yourselves, we won't be filming today."

I was waiting for the standard British cop's reply of, "Not while we're on duty,"  but was pleasantly surprised as the largest one, who I'd sussed out was called Willie, leant across the table and poured himself a cup of the finest Spanish Don Carlos red. He managed to turn off the plastic valve before Connie arrived with my bitterballen. Had he not I fear my Don Carlos would've flooded across the table.

Her mammeries decended to our seated eye level and four pairs of eyes were locked in Greek Chorus union, till she turned and returned to her caravan, which now had a queue of over a dozen males who wanted their daily bitterballen.

I side track to let you know that the bitterballen were superb and I was so impressed that I ordered another two each for myself and companions. I sent Dirkie to do this as I didn't want to suffer another Namib desert in my mouth.

It was close on three o'clock when Connie had closed her shutters and drove off into the Rotterdam afternoon traffic, which was quite heavy, but she was guided off the pavement by three slightly inebriated polcemen. I witness all this while sitting back in my camping chair, brewing myself an expresso coffee.

Dirkie and his mates, Willie and Herman, were standing in the designated smoking area ten metres away from the nearest supermarket's entrance. The no smoking regulations in Holland are very stringent, there is no smoking in any building or enclosed space. Individual companies have also tried to stop their employees smoking and put a no smoking area outside their main entrances.

 Walking along any pavement you are constantly coming across a yellow striped section, you can take one footstep off the yellow lines and your feet are suddenly surrounded by dog-ends, stompies and half finished cigarettes. Dirkie and his mates told me that at night the discarded dog-ends are scooped up by the druggies, the homeless drug addicts, who wander the streets in search of their next fix.

The sun was beginning to set silhouetting the high rise skyline, when Willie appeared hovering over my shoulder," You was right, no film today, we've been recalled to the station. We finish at six. And you? What you do?"

I was about to answer as my Lady Di's Mercedes cruised to a stop. "Ah Lon, we forget you, no?" Said Susie Wong  from the passenger seat, "Ah no, we no forglet you, Jackie she say silly. We do scene next week."

My new friendly constabulary helped me decamp and load my belongings into the Merc's boot.

"See you next week chaps, same time, same place." And off we cruised into the city's sun set.

It was three weeks before I regrouped with Dirkie, Willie and Herman. We shot the scene about ten in the morning and we were wrapped well before Connie's arrival.

Both myself and the three policemen were free for the rest of the day. Dirkie ran off to nearest supermarket to get an ample supply  of alcoholic beverages while the three of us ordered a full assortment of all the bitterballen Connie had on the day's menu. As she closed up she told us she was off to a “straat part” in one of the city’s outer suburbs and invited us to come along.

Within seconds we were in back kitchen section of her camper while Connie weaved through the back streets of the inner city. The constables told me we were going a the southern suburb,which was were most of the poorest immigrants settled, particularly those from the Nederlandse Antillen, the Dutch Antilles, particularly the island of Surinam. 

They were typically Caribbean, into their drugs, mainly cannabis, their reggae music, and Voodoo ceremonies which often left dismembered corpses floating in the canals, providing nourishment for the carp and eels.

I glanced at my three compatriots who still in their uniforms and quickly envisaged the four of us surrounded by an angry mob of weapon wielding Caribbeans who were stoned our of their tiny minds. I quickly asked if they had their Civies.

After a bit of Connie-assisted translation, she said she could lend them some jeans, trousers and T-shirts. She told them to search through a large plastic container packed in the cleaning cupboard.

They pulled out the container finding it full of numerous articles of men's clothing. I thought of asking Connie how she came by such a wide assortment of men's apparel. I thought better of it, as I remembered my mother's extra-curricula activities in the Old Poole pub in the latter years of the second world war.

Let sleeping penises lie, I thought as I imagined the many males of all shapes, hues and sizes, sprawled across the greasy floor grappling with Connie's over-sized mammaries.

I was pulled out of my fantasy as Connie brought the caravan to a jarring halt. "Aus!" She yelled as I and my now under-cover policemen disembarked.

They'd asked her if she would look after their uniforms. "In the plastic box, ja?"

Dirkie said one of their mates was on patrol that night for the "straat pary", and when he arrived he'd get the uniforms into the patrol car.

The festivities were in full swing, the hashish laden air shimmered in the setting sun. I wandered in the direction of the pulsating reggae music coming from a constructed stage in the middle of the large open square in which Connie had parked.

The troupe of eight musicians performing were all Caribbean apart from the lead singer, a white blonde dread-locked, quite beautiful, girl who must have been in her late-teens.

I sidled over to an pop-up bar, ordered a beer and plonked myself on one of the available stools. They played on for what seemed like a hour, but as I  was only on my second Heineken it must have only been half an hour, when they took a break. A DJ took over keeping the vibe alive. My plan was working, the lead singer was wandering  across to water her vocal chords.

 My instinct was on the ball. As she asked the barman for a Heineken I jumped in and deposited a glass and a Heineken in front of her.

"Cess Poole at your service," I said trying to make a courteous yet not abrasive introduction. 

"Quite an impressive voice," I continued.

 "Jennifer, Jenny for short, Fowler," she said in the broadest Scoucer's accent I'd heard.

"Not related to Robbie?"

She laughed, "You support them?"

"Since the days of Bill Shankly right  through to Keegan and Dalgleish." I said as we clinked glasses, "To never walking alone."

"So what brings you here?"

"I'm shooting in the Jackie Chan movie. Got another 2 weeks then back home."

"Where's that?"

"Johannesburg, South Africa."

"Quite a traveler. The Pool, Africa, and Holland."

"Yep, but not Liverpool, I was born and brought up in Blackpool, supported them in the days of Stanley Mathews, Jimmy Armfield, and onto Alan Ball, but he left for Everton in 1966, that's when I switched my allegiance to Liverpool, to spite him."

"So how did you end up here? Holland's Surinam?"

Got invited by Connie, the bitterballen lady, she's over there." I said pointing across the square.

"I know. Would you believe I share a flat with her. Her nickname is Helium."

"Helium?" I replied with a quizzical smile.

It took me a second or two before I cottoned on, "Her boobs, balloons, right?"

"Yep, she saving up to have them reduced."

"Well if the collection she's got of men's clothing stashed away in her van is anything to go by, she won't be waiting long."

"She makes more from her bitterballen than she does on the side."

"Good luck to her, they're superb," I added, "bitterballen before Jenny could grasp my unintentional double-entrendre.

“Got to go and do our second set,” said Jenny, “Are you going to stay?”

“Dunno,” I replied.

“I’m not into one night stands.” She said as she turned her back to  return to the stage.

“Neither am I,”I replied.

She smiled and walked off.

Quandry, quandary, I was in.

Should I. shouldn’t I? To stay or not to stay that was the question.

 I was about to answer myself when a heavy hand landed on my shoulder. It was Dirkie, now dressed again in his police uniform, “You want a lift back into town, to the Hilton?”

“Yep.” I said. My grey matter told me I’d spent long enough being in the right or wrong place, on the right or wrong day, at the wrong or right time. I followed Dirkie back to his police car with its flashing light.

An hour later I was dosing off to sleep wondering if in the morrow dear old Jackie would know what when and where he was going to shoot at the right time on the wrong day but in the right place?

Only time will tell.

POEMS for a change

Well a change is a good as a change, and so Sir Cess has given you some poetry to read, for those who have read his early childhood stories will recognise  some of the sights caught in the poems re: his mother . Grandpa and Grandmother. Hope you enjoy.

Altzheimers

 (for my Ma)

In a frozen room of locked in time.

A careful mind of long years toil,

Sits in an armchair, walls completely bare.

Fittings, furniture speak the only lines

She waited all her life to hear.

Whispers of phantoms crawl through hollow walls

Tales to her listening ears

In the street below

A child screams a playful taunt to his mate -

Her ears , a hidden bait.

Sparrows herald in a summer dusk -

Her ears, forbidden lust.

The TV gorges fact and fiction to the hoardes

Her ears

Memories stored beneath floor-boards.

The Tranquil Storm

The tranquil storm lies hidden in us all

It’s eyes open from a dream encrusted sleep

Light falls the recesses of our shuttered lids

Stepping stones of bodies fall across its path

Over the river flows washing

Nothing waits for this stormy tempest

Once awoken no breakwater holds it back

No leaden vault can seal its harsh intent

No pit of our soul will it grace

The tranquil storm lies hidden in us all.

Sleeping or awake

It lives on its own

Biding time

The tranquil storm lies hidden in us all

Breaking glasses thrown at window panes

Smashing chairs of antique wood

Cursing loudly at friends in disguise

Wallowing pity and wishing it would go

To finish what it started so long ago

The tranquil storm lies hidden in us all

A blade of sharp-edged grass

Cuts finely through the lawn

While textured clouds foretell the doom

As apple blossoms perfumes sweet

And acrid vapour stale lover’s come

The tranquil storm lies hidden in us all.

Given time it’ll have its way

That tranquil storm will be released

No speck of dust will

Hide from the holocaust!

Hell no chance

When the tranquil storm takes leave

And stops

Lying hidden in us all.

Mother , son, daughter, father, wife and spouse

The tranquil storm lies hidden in us all.

Twenty-One Commandments

1.    Broken images caught in time that should be given to somebody else.
2. Acted times in a Glass Megnagerie.
3. Visions seen when they should not.
4.   Women I have known.
5.  I spit scorn and derision.
6.    They laugh and say it will pass.
7. The smell of cats invade the room
8.   Dead dogs yap at midnight’s call.
9. Everyone calls to hear a joke I can not tell,
10.    Try and understand the good book says.
11.    It’s difficult.
12. Thank god it’s past.
13.   It’s unlucky for some.
14.  The future will bring what’s locked in store.
15. The whiteness of my tomb escapes.
16. The sodden and trodden earth.
17.   Spies have seen my hard drives and will see the truth.
18.  They should! It’s their job!
19.   Thou shalt not.
20. Thou shalt.
21.   I always have.

Water Child

(Caught in Rain)

Shrimp heads lay scattered

Upon the pebbled beach.

Wind blew Sand swirling

Through my hair

Spray mounting beach-front steps

Childhood memories caught in rain.

Used Jonnies – the rubber kind –

Floating on the surf.

Swollen now with sea-salt

Water filled, buoyant like balloons

They navigate carbuncled pier-struts.

Childhood memories caught in rain.

Lollipops and donkey rides.

Coco the clown with elephants as well,

Candy floss and toffee apple stalks,

Scattered flotsam, holiday maker’s junk,

Litter swirling on the empty prom.

Childhood memories caught in rain.

Grandpa dead – skeleton he lay –

Grandma mad – mop in hand –

Pigeons cooing, seed they want.

Garden watered for the veggies to grow,

Tomatoes trussed – fertilised as well –

Childhood memories caught in rain,

  

Mother holding the wrath of God,

Sister crying, lost, forlorn,

Brother stupid – Eric was his name –

Bath-tub full –rising steam –

Naked lady – tits in bloom.

Childhood memories caught in rain

Back door locked – bolted too –

Barred from house and home.

Pants wet and backside sore,

Naughty boy – you did wrong –

Punishment taken from teacher’s hand

Childhood memories caught in rain.

Rain, rain in a pool

Water in a tub,

Sea in and out

Childhood memories caught in

Rain.

Accidents do happen.

My first major accident occurred at the tender age of seven. It happened at home in the garden.

My grandfather was a compulsive gardener and grew a vast variety of vegetables for home use; any over-abundance was quickly retailed after the Second World War on the flourishing black market in exchange for the exotic things in life like fresh home-made butter, sugar that came from the local army camp, bananas and the occasional pineapple.

He had built a greenhouse in which he grew the most delicious tomatoes, and to this day I have not tasted a tomato with such a superb taste as Pops’. He maintained that the taste was enhanced by his constant watering with his secret pigeon-shit concoction brewed in an old ten gallon diesel drum next to the compost heap at the bottom of the garden.

We also had three apples trees which received the same medication during the flowering and early fruit forming period. These apples too were absolutely delicious and at harvest time we had a queue of neighbours lining up to buy them.

I have to take some credit for both the apples and the tomatoes as every Saturday morning I was ordered to get down on my hands and knees and scrape up the pigeon-shit from the pigeon-loft floor and breeding shelves. It was a grimy and arduous task and I hated it. But with hindsight I have to congratulate myself producing the best tasting apples and tomatoes on the Fylde coast.

The Fylde Coast is a coastal plain in western Lancashire. It’s roughly a 13-mile square-shaped peninsula, bounded by Morecambe Bay to the north, the river Ribble estuary to the south, the Irish Sea to the west, and the Bowland hills to the east. The eastern boundary is approximately the location of the M6 motorway, constructed in the mid sixties.

It is a flat, alluvial plain, parts were once dug for peat, and it is the western part of an area formerly known as Amounderness. The name 'Fylde' is of Scandinavian origin, meaning "field".
With all this in its favour the region became a vegetable man’s paradise with is rich sandy mixed clay loam soil. We lived in Cleveleys a small town to the north of Blackpool and south of the fishing port of Fleetwood.

It was spring but I had been bed ridden for three days with a terrible dose of flu. On that third day I donned an old dressing gown of Pop’s and went to the vegetable patch in the back garden. 
Just in front of the pigeon loft was the veggie patch, I could see that Pop had already got two rows of spring baby potatoes in as the rows were highly ridged. I guessed that the next row would be his climbing runner beans as he had half built his cane trestle for them to climb. How could I help? I noticed that the blossom buds were just beginning to open on the apple trees adjacent to the pigeon loft. He’d not done his round tree soil loosening.

Ah ah, I could do that. This job entailed the use of the pitch fork. The ground around at the base of the trees had to be turned over and loosened creating a circular trough around the tree in which I would pour the pigeon-shite mixture.

I darted off to the tool shed and brought out the pitch fork. I didn’t bother changing out of the dressing gown and slippers as I sussed out that I would be able to hear, my mother’s lover boy’s at the time, car pull up to drop her off after she finished rehearsals.

On hearing it, I could dart back to my room, which at the time was the large downstairs front room, which had been converted in a self contained flat-let for my mother and me. I’d throw myself into my bed and pretend I’d been a good boy and spent the whole day in bed as I’d been instructed.

This was not to be. On my third downward plunge of the pitch fork my right foot was on the receiving end of the motion!

I uttered a scream that would have made Russel Crowe proud had he used it when he heard of the death of his wife in the movie Gladiators.

The moment of acute pain coupled with the shock of disbelief at my stupidity subsided quickly. Doctor Andews our local GP leapt to the forefront of juvenile grey matter, and he’s only four houses away on the corner of York Ave.

To this day I do not know how I managed it, or what drove me to hop on my right leg, clutching the pitch fork embedded through my slipper and left foot, down the drive-way through the gate along the street and into Dr Andrews’ surgery.

The waiting room was full but gasps from the waiting patients alerted old Molly Suttcliffe, the doctor’s assistant, that the figure of a child with a pitched fork impaled in his foot required immediate attention. An enterprising young waiting patient picked me up in his arms, “Where do you want him?” he asked.

“In Doctor’s accident room.” Replied Molly opening a door.

I was laid down on an examination bed and the next words I heard were, “So Pooley boy, what’ve have you done this time?”

Doctor Andrews was in his late fifties with a craggy lined face and he constantly smiled exposing his brown nicotine teeth acquired from his 60 a day Craven A. He peered at my foot. 

“Well, well that’s remarkable,” he said as he looked at the metal prong that was about three inches through my foot. At the same time old Molly who was now holding the pitch-fork with one hand grabbed an Asprin and with the other, gave it to me and said, “Swallow that!”

“Missed everything! Remarkable!” exclaimed Doctor Andrews. “Let’s get it out.”

“Right between the metatarsals, remarkable.” he continued as he deftly withdrew the pitch-fork with both nicotine sets, upper and lower teeth, exposed.

I let loose a second Russel Crowe scream.

“Alright alright, calm down Pooley, I’m going to give you a local.” He said as he filled a large syringe with a translucent liquid, “You won’t feel a thing.”

And sure enough I didn’t. 

Within a minute of the injection I felt as if I no longer had a left foot.

Bizarrely this is almost the same way a fellow thespian forty years later explained how he felt as I axed off the tip of his middle finger of his left hand in a production of the Scottish play aptly named “Mac-Bed”, as it had a giant hydraulically powered bed, which was meant to roll up and down a ramped stage as its centre piece.

This production was in the early eighties and the enlightened Israeli director proclaimed that Mr Shakespeare’s Scottish Play was all about the sexual relationship between Macbeth and his villainous coercive wife. For this reason a giant very slow moving bed working on an hydraulic powered system, was assembled in front of a large back-drop of scaffolding and all the scenes between the two protagonists were played on the bed.

In the latter part of the play when the fighting starts between Macbeth and Macduff the mattress was removed and the base with the scaffolding became the setting for their fight. This meant we clashed blows precariously balanced on the scaffolding making dramatic leaps onto the bed-base. 
It was during a final spurt as Macduff swung towards my head that I parried his blow and swept my sword down aiming for his arm. Unfortunately Michael, playing Macduff was at that time meant to grab hold of a horizontal scaffolding bar and swing with Tarzan-like dexterity onto the bed. A loss of spit second timing and my sword caught his hand still on the scaffolding.

Michael a true Thespian landed on the bed, let out a huge roar and charged at me pushing me off the stage were he was to deliver the fatal blow. All to the rehearsed plan!

The iron bed began its cued trundle down stage giving me time to let out my dying scream off stage.

 Michael  whispered sotto-voce in the wings, “You fucking Asre-hole!”

He grabbed my fake plastic head dripping blood from an assistant stage manager and sauntered back on stage for the final scene.

I met Michael in his dressing room after the curtain call and it was immediately assessed that a trip to the local hospital was in order to re-attach the dangling nail of the middle finger of his left hand, which had only been saved from a trip on the hydraulic bed by the fact that Michael had been wearing some very robust leather gloves.

It was a Tuesday night so the casualty department was virtually empty and not bursting at the seams with its weekend victims of alcoholic poisoning.

Michael was quickly examined by a junior intern on duty who told us to get to the x-ray facilities and get the hand x-rayed. 

This done we returned to casualty to be greeted y the smiling face of a doctor we both knew. Dr Kushlic the husband of a local theatrical diva who we both knew.

Dr Kushlic and the intern looked at the x-ray.

“Nothing broken, luckily just caught the finger nail” said Dr Kushlic, “But I’m not into fingers as I’m a gynecologist,” he continued with a broad smile on his face.

Michael and I both laughed catching Dr Kushlic ‘s double-entendre.

“You’re going to lose the nail.” He said as he instructed the intern to clean and dress the wound.
The rest of the night and well into the early hours of the morning Michael and I consumed of bottle of a fine malt whiskey. We slept most of the following day and performed in the evening.

After the performance when asked how he was Michael gave exactly the same answer that I gave to my mother when she returned from rehearsals.

“I’m fine.”

The show must go on even  though "Accidents do Happen'.

A tear is shed

The death of a close family member is always a harrowing and traumatic experience.

My close family, until I married and had offspring of my own, consisted solely of my mother and myself, but for eight years of my early life I had also had my grandparents, affectionately called Nan and Pop.

My mother taught me not to rely on anybody’s assistance and fend for myself. She was also very happy that as I got into my early teens I had decided to follow in her footsteps and tread the boards. 

In my mother’s latter and middle aged years she continued to run the boarding house that she had been left by Nan and Pop.

With the passing of years the demand for fan dancers had been swamped by the growing demand for topless pole dancers at the discos and strip joints that had sprung up in Blackpool and across the world. So the running of the boarding house provided her with a stable income from the summer guests, the occasional long term tenant, and it also gave her a capital asset.

I did try at various resting periods to visit the old home town and my mother. But these visits were few and far between due to a constant lack of funds, especially during the years that I was trying to raise a family of my own.

 I did however manage a few unexpected visits, like on my return from the Edinburgh festival, when I arrived with a face that looked like an enlarged blow-up beach ball.

I had a sore throat during the final days of the production and been prescribed some penicillin by a young Scottish doctor. But I suddenly had an allergic reaction to the drug. So a quick visit to the local general practitioner in Edinburgh where we were performing, a jab in the rear end of anti-histamine, the penicillin, and  an overnight train ride to Preston, where I was met by an old school friend with a car, and the problem was solved.

Later in life; the mid-seventies I received a garbled message from an old age care centre in Kirkham, a small town in the Fylde near Blackpool. The message on my answering machine, in pure Lancastrian, was a simple, “Cum as soon as ya can !”

My mother had been in residence there since she had sold the boarding house to a property developer at an exorbitant price. They planned to demolish the old house and turn it into a seven story complex, with two luxury flats on each level. This depressed the hell out of me as all my childhood memories of life in the attic, the summer months in the garden sheds, and Pop’s veggie garden and pigeon loft would be gone.

She had admitted herself as she suspected she was descending into the same ailment that Nan had suffered. Today it’s called Alzheimer’s, back in Nan’s era it was called age-old-senility. Or as the locals said, “Aye she’s going a bit daft.”

A regular not so daft routine of Nan’s was to mop the downstairs corridor which stretched the full length of the house. 

At nine o’clock sharp she filled her metal bucket to the brim and would continue till four in the afternoon breaking only for a cup of tea and her favourite biscuits, Jaffa cakes. These were a crunchy biscuit base covered with an orange flavoured jam and then coated in chocolate. They were only offered to special guests and I wasn’t allowed to touch them unless I was offered one. Nan would polish off a whole packet in a day and my mother told her, “Them things are going to kill ya.”

I was never sure how much Nan took in or whether she understood what we were saying to her, but she pottered on her own sweet way, smiling and whistling a Perry Como tune. She enjoyed cooking and her offerings from the kitchen were eventful to say the least.

On one return visit in the early-seventies she decided to cook me an evening meal. She had remembered that I loved braised lamb’s liver with onions, laying in mashed potato and crispy bacon on top. My favourite pudding in those days of rationing just after the war had been mashed banana with home made custard. Bananas were a rationed luxury item so it felt as if one was enjoying an exotic tropical fruit.

I was sitting at the table in the downstairs lounge when Nan’s voice rang out, “Cum get it Chuck!” As I entered the kitchen the smell set my gastric juices in eager anticipation of a glorious feast, but when I looked at the plate my heart sank with utter dismay.

Yes, there was the liver and onions piled high on creamy mashed potatoes and even the crispy bacon garnish was there, but this majestic dish was surrounded by mashed banana and custard.

Nan said, “Saves on t’ dishes, less washing up.”

I thanked her and made the excuse of going to the loo. I crept out of the house to the local chippy and to see if an old school chum fancied a pint of best Boddingtons Bitter.

So, a couple of years later, when I’d managed to borrow the money and make the trip to see my mother I was very worried as to state I’d find her in. If she’d reached the custard and liver syndrome, I knew I was in for a harrowing time.

The care centre was called Serenity House, I mused that Senility House would be a better name. I thought this as I walked up the long driveway and caught a glimpse of some of the inmates.

Wheelchairs and motorized walkers were in evidence and an old couple holding hands on a bench staring at the sky. My mind raced and I thought of our general disrespect for the elderly, hoping that when I departed it would be a rush job, like getting killed by a truck careering down the road while I was in a state of inebriation.

As soon as I entered a hawk-like lady swooped down on me and announced she was the senior warden and I should follow her to her office.

“Tek a seat,” she said.

I’ve always been amazed at the Lancastrian accent. The number of times I’ve been invited to indulge in petty larceny. I had a seat, and sat down, wondering if she’d be offended if when I left I took the chair with me?

“What canna do you for?”

I though of answering theft, but thought better of it and replied, “I’m here to see my mother, Mrs Poole, you sent a message.

“Oh aye, that’s right we did. She not too good you know. Seeing things and hearing voices int’ walls.”

“That’s my mother, been doing that all her life, she calls them, her angels and they bring her good luck. She first heard them the night before Ken Dodd and her groups of dancers were invited to the Royal Variety show at the Palladium in London.”

“So she doinit for a long time?”

“All her life, as far as I know.”

“Ah think yu’d better speak t’ doctor Mr Poole. He’s second door ont’ left upstairs.  A’l goin tell ya Ma y’ here.”

With that she jumped up and opened the door, “Stairs is just round t’corner.” as she pointed her spindly fingers that looked like they’d been used as “finger-stand-ins” for Hugh Jackman in the X movies.

I knocked on the doctor’s door and heard what I thought was an answer to come in. I entered only to be immediately told to get out and wait till my number appeared on sign above the door.

I traipsed back down stairs and went to the reception.

A gleeful smiling young lady greeted me with the standard Lancastrian, “What canna do y’ for?”

“A number. To see the doctor who I’d worked out was the resident psychiatrist , Dr Padiachee from the name on his door. 

“’Ave y’ got an appointment?”

“No the senior warden said I should speak to him in relation to my mother Mrs Poole.”

“Oh, why didn’t y’ say int’ first place?  Mrs Poole y’ say?”

“That’s right, with an “e” at the end.”

“Just be a mo’.”

She punched into her keyboard what seemed like Homer’s odyssey judging on the time she took, and said, “Tek a seat, y’number’ll be up in a minute.”

I heard a printer and two minutes later she called be back, handing me a small slip of paper with the number three printed on it.

I climbed the stairs and again faced the doctor’s door. Above the flashing number three. I knocked and entered.

“What kept you?” enquired Dr Padiachee.

“I had to get a number remember.”

“Oh yes, dam stupid system if you ask me. What’s the problem? Have I seen you before? You look too young to be a patient here.”

“I’m not. I want to talk about my mother, Mrs Queenie Poole. I believe you’ve been seeing her.”

“Yes, the fan dancer?”

“When she was a youngster, yes.”

Dr Padiachee went to his filing cabinet and pulled out a blue file. “Got them colour coded. Yes, yes, paranoid schizophrenia, usual symptoms, delusions, hearing voices, seeing things.” As he read his file, “pretty conclusive, don’t you think?”

“You’re the doctor, not me.”I replied, “What are you doing with her?”

“Ah, yes, standard medication, just a mild sedative.”

“You know she’s been hearing voices and seeing things all her life?”

“No.” he said in a state of shock. “I wasn’t informed of that. We found it vey difficult to trace any of her medical history. She tends to wander in her sessions with me. I’ve been finding it difficult to separate the facts from delusions. In fact the address we’ve got for you is a prime example see”, as he handed me a sheet of paper from the file.

I glanced at it. It read “The Forest, Johannesburg, South Africa.”

I laughed. At the time I was living in a suburb of Johannesburg called Forest Town.

It was no wonder that the Doctor’s monthly reports had not been reaching me, but at least they had the home telephone number right.

“Well, from what you’ve told me, this puts a different complexion on the whole diagnosis. Seeing things and hearing voices all her life; you say?”

“Yes, but I’ve always thought they were just flights of her imagination, they were usually about her work, whether she get more, was she getting fat, how long were fan dancers going to be needed, they should shut down the strip joints; that sort of thing.”

“Nothing about people walking through walls?” asked the doctor.

I laughed as I remember her watching with me my favourite TV show of my youth, the BBC’s Dr Who. It was the episode of the first change of actors, William Hartnell to Patrick Troughton. 

In those days computer graphics were a thing of the future, but cross-fading through two identical looking sets with a different actor in each set was in the game in 1966.

“How’d they do that?” my mother asked.

“I dun’t know,” I replied.

“It’s like he walked through the wall.” This was her explanation. 

I told Dr Padiachee the story, but he didn’t see either the connection or the comedy. At that moment his phone rang. It was the senior warden advising me that I should get to my mother’s room as she was up and about. I apologized to the doctor and told him I’d try and return after I visited my mother.

“It’ll have to be tomorrow,” he said, “I’m off home now.”

“Ok” I said as I left the rooms of who I thought was a snotty English educated Indian or Pakistani immigrant, who knew he was onto a good thing working for this private establishment who had a lot of rich old-age residents.

“Hi there Ma,” as I entered her room.

Her head swung round, eyes glued to a blank wall to greet me. She extended her bony almost completely flesh ridden arms and a smile engulfed her crinkled face, “Cessy my boy,” croaked from her dry mouth. I handed her a glassed of iced water.

“Thank you,” as she took a sip. “You still in the forest?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“I keep sending letters y’ know, but they come back marked address unknown.”

“I’ll write it down for you and the warden.”

“Ooh don’t do that! Don’t give them anything! They come at night, through the walls, you know, steal your pension book, look!”

She said this whilst she leant forward and lifted the corner of her mattress and pulled out a press-zipped plastic bag.

“Tek it all, all of it, I’m glad you came, it’s been worrying me.”

I looked at the bag. It must have at least a thousand Pounds along with her tea stained pension book.”

“No I can’t Ma. You’ll need it.”

Smiling she said, “Not after tonight.”

And how right she was.

That late evening I few back overnight to Johannesburg.

I landed at 9am local time and had just downed a home-made-expresso , when the phone rang.

I picked it up. I immediately recognized the senior warder’s voice, “Mr Poole?”

“Ja” I said back in my SA mode.

“Ya Ma, she went last night, in her sleep. It were peaceful. We’ve got her will and instructions re burial. When will you be coming?”

I put down the receiver as a tear rolled down my cheek.

A Hip-Replacement Appology

Sir Cess has to issue an appoloy to all his new viewers over the past month, especially those in Japan, Russia, and Canada, and all his numerous followers.

His decrepid physical state has seen him in hospital yet again. This time for a hip replacement on on his amutated right leg foot, which was done last year.

In spite of all these, hackings, choppings and metal replacements, he found time last month to have three days filming work in a local SA soapie, where he appeared as a villainous Czech gangster who kidnapped the leading juve lady, her husband, her mother in-law and another leading juve male.

It was all shot in Zulu, which he didn't understand but with his considerable experience, he managed to complete the assignment, and was then duly shot three times and mysteriously exited the soapie.

But he has been told by his agent, Mr Boo-King-Clarke" that he still has another few scenes to shoot and will be called-back. When this is in the hands of the producers, and the writers.

His considerable previous experience in the art of soapies as far back as the BBC's "Dixon of Dock Green" in the early nineteen-seventies, he envisages that he will be seen in a hospital bed, a prop to which now he has considerable personal experience on which to draw.

His character, Knobus, will utter the earth shattering line, "You can't keep a Czech Bear with warrents for arrest even in his home country, down for long."

This will fit in with a crimminal case that is at present running in the SA courts, and we all know how soapies like to keep abreast of local news stories!

This short post will be followed very shortly by a new one about "Accidents" which is hiding away in his hard and greying matter drives.

So all he asks is: Please all you now 7147 gobal readers/viewers, keep reading and please make comments on the stories. Thank you.