Elizabeth

          This morning I had to go to Oxford Magistrates Court to deal with a crazy man. My clerks think this is all very funny. This man was something else. He had parked outside a church in a restricted car park. A little old lady came out and told him he had to move but he wasn’t having it. He claimed he went to church there every Sunday and had a right to park there. The little old lady (vicar’s wife) insisted he leave. He started yelling and swearing at her in the street and several people called the police.

            I took him through this account in conference before I went into court. I wanted to know why we were fighting a trial. I wondered what possible defence he could have.

            “So you admit you swore at the lady then?” I said, once he’d told the story.

            “Yes, but I had permission.”

            “I see. Whose permission did you have?”

            “The trains.”

            “What? The… trains?”

            “Yes, trains. They aren’t the way they used to be. I like the old 70s BR carriages best myself.”

            “Right. Er…”

            “They’re going to bring out a carriage in that old style soon, for a one off trip across the country.” He smiled. “I hope I can be on it!”

            “I hope so too. Now, about the old lady.”

            “Don’t ask me about her. I’m reporting her to Elizabeth.”

            “Who?”

            “Elizabeth.”

            “Who’s that?”

            “Elizabeth, man.”

            “Yes, but how can she help, why would you report the vicar’s wife to her?”

            “She’s the Queen, man. Don’t you youngsters know anything anymore?”

            “Right. Er…” I paused, unsure how to deal with the matter. “George, do you know where you are right now?”

            “Yes, I’m in one of Elizabeth’s courts.”

            “That’s right. Do you understand why?”

            “Yes. I’m going to have my chance to report that woman to Elizabeth.”

            “No, George. Elizabeth isn’t here, and you’re on trial for verbally abusing the little old lady.”

            He caught my eye suddenly, “She’ll listen,” he said. “Sometimes I see things in the dark.”

            “What? I didn’t quite catch that last bit.”

            “I see things. I see them best when my eyes are closed. I see them on the underside of my eyelids.”

            “What sort of things George? No! Wait. I don’t think I want to know. Just let me explain. You’ve told me you admit abusing the old lady, so you have to plead guilty.”

            “It doesn’t matter. I’ll see things. I’ll explain. I’ll see Elizabeth and explain. She knows. She can see things too.”

 

            We went into court after another ten minutes of this and were heard by a male District Judge. The situation came fully to light after about five minutes and he did not take kindly to it, apparently placing the blame for my client’s insanity on me. It became all the worse when my client started addressing him as ‘Elizabeth’ even after several increasingly severe warnings.

            He was found guilty and ordered to attend the nearest mental health centre for a full assessment.

 

*

 

            I sometimes wonder if insanity might be blissful oblivion.

            I fear it might rather be a permanent bad trip.

            But who can really choose? It’s not as though we have any choice. It could happen to any one of us, whether we live conventionally or not.