Make Your Confession, Sinner!

          “Jean-Jacques Rousseau saw a great divide between humanity and nature,” said Sharona, our tour guide, as we were on the boat going to the Ile Rousseau in Geneva. “He felt that society corrupted men. Man’s natural state was good only when surrounded by nature and unspoilt by the trappings of civilization. So it was that Jean-Jacques spent his time on this island – to get away from everyone.”

            “What a bloody hypocrite,” Ed said.

            “Why?” I asked.

            “Because we’ve heard of him!”

            “But perhaps he might not have been responsible for the publication of his words.”

            “Well he must’ve spoken them to someone, or else we wouldn’t know them at all. And what is speaking but communication – the very cornerstone of the society he so despises! Still, insofar as he stands for freedom of man from social expectation I’m with him.”

           

*

 

            The island itself was very pleasant. It was indeed a haven of sorts and we spent an hour or two just relaxing and looking out over the water. We discussed our plans and thought about the next adventure, now that we’d built the balustrade. Ed pointed out that Sharona had been listening to music for a while and she confirmed it.

            “Regina Spektor! Wait, let me bring up a random song.”

            The song turned out to be ‘Lacrimosa’. We listened to it carefully.

            “Isn’t that Latin?” I asked. Most of it had been sung in English but there was a random Latin verse at the end. “Hold on,” I said, “let me listen again.”

            I grabbed a pen and scrap paper and wrote out a rough translation as I listened:

 

Tearful are those days

In which the accused man rises,

Judged,

From the glowing embers.

Here therefore, because, God,

In the Lord, Holy Jesus,

Peace is given to him.

 

            Plainly not wholly accurate but it’s years since my Latin A-Level now. Sharona was amazed. I could see a whole new level of admiration in her eyes.

            “What a waste of bloody time!” Ed said. “I’ve never understood dead languages, just seems an excuse for all you poncy public school boys to claim unjustified superiority over the rest of us.”

            “Thanks, Ed. Anyway… I happen to think it’s pretty sweet that this pop song has Latin in it, and moreover, it seems like a sign to me. This is your adventure Ed, and I believe the fates are directing you to make your confession before God, lest you find yourself judged and condemned to the flames.”

            “What are you on about mate? You don’t even believe in that crap.”

            “I don’t really know what to believe, but that’s beside the point. This is your challenge: to confess your sins.”

One of Us

          Yesterday we booked our tickets to begin the weekend trip to Uist, the little island off Scotland. The trip begins in earnest in a few minutes. We’re catching the sleeper train overnight out of Euston up to Glasgow. I thought I should briefly update you before I left.

            This evening I arrived home to find a note from Sharona.

            ‘Gone to meet Nicole. See you at the station later. Maybe you should spend some time with Ed…’

            Very subtle. Well, I decided to take her hint and so Ed and I packed out bags then headed out to the local. I must admit, I hadn’t noticed but it’s been such a long time since Ed and I just went out for a drink alone. Once we began talking I realised how much I’d been missing his real conversation. All of these adventures and silliness made light of much around us, and I couldn’t help but feel he was prone to showing off whenever Sharona was in earshot.

            Instead of all that nonsense we swiftly found ourselves embroiled in a debate about the morality of law. Ed was convinced that it was wrong for anyone to foist their ‘rules of morality’ on anybody else.

“I propose a Utopia,” he said, “in which people are free to move from one society to another, whenever they choose. Once part of that society the individual’s moral value vectors would be aggregated with those of the rest of that society to form an overall set of laws that represented the moral standpoints of those within it.”

“Yes,” I said, following his meaning.

“If the individual felt that the resulting laws were unacceptable he could simply leave that society and go in search of one with moral codes more similar to his own. Thus a murderer could choose to live in a society where murder was permitted. This, of course, would leave him vulnerable to the same treatment, but that would be his choice.”

            “But for such a system to work, there would necessarily have to be no competition between the different societies for resources,” I observed. “For if there were competition then some societies would naturally be eradicated in no time at all, since our current laws are designed to promote our society, rather than ourselves, and so our society is successful: civilisation and progress are possible. A society without these rules would immediately collapse, economically at the very least, and would be swallowed up by other competitive societies. The said individual would ultimately be forced into making a choice between destitution and freedom on the one hand, or prosperity and social constraint on the other.”

            “In other words,” said Ed, “the individual would be one of us.”

Perpetual Proliferation

          At work this morning I had to laugh off my hangover. I was getting through cases, what more do they want?

            I met Robin for lunch today and discussed dry legal cases. He’s suddenly become so incredibly dull to me. I can’t really explain it. I suppose in some ways he even reminds me slightly of Annabell, living and breathing work. This perpetual proliferation of legal anecdotes, spliced with occasional grumbles about government gambits, is truly taxing on the soul.

            At some stage I should give up these adventures, and probably Ed too, if I’ve any sense, but I hope to God I never become as boring as Robin. As boring as I used to be, I suspect.

PMA

“A man has free choice to the extent that he is rational.”

 – St. Thomas Aquinas

 

          This morning I walked into the kitchen. Ed was sitting eating a bowl of cereal. He looked up at me, impish as ever.

            “Ed, I have a small confession.”

            “What’s that then Tom? You really are a girl?”

            “I accidentally shagged Scheherazade.”

            Ed splurted cereal all over the table and started laughing uncontrollably.

            “Ed, this is serious.”

            Ed carried on laughing.

            “Ed… honestly. We’ve spoken about you taking things more seriously.”

            “Yeah, but Tom, you’re telling me you fucking slipped over on a banana skin and landed, stiff dick first, in PMA.”

            “What’s PMA, Ed?

            “Poor-Man’s-Annabell. And you know what PMA sounds like…”

            “Don’t fucking call her that Ed.”

            “Why the hell not? It’s true.”

            “Because it’s disrespectful, Ed, and because she’s in the room behind me.”

            “But you don’t say it’s not true. Don’t blame me when you call it an accident!” Scheherazade walked into the room wearing one of my shirts.

            “What accident?” She asked.

            “Tom very nearly slipped over and landed in a mess,” observed Ed.

            Scheherazade, oblivious, looked at me and said, “Be more careful sweetie.”

            I very nearly punched them both.

 

*

 

            Later, as I packed for the trip, I thought about it all. The sad thing was that I actually genuinely quite liked Scheherazade. I just couldn’t go out with a girl seen by others as PMA.

Can't You Be Serious?

          I met Robin for lunch today and told him all about the wedding crasher plan.

            “How amusing,” he said, when I was done, “but it’s all rather silly isn’t it? I mean, shouldn’t you be knuckling down to work now?”

            “Eh?” I said, rather nonplussed.

            “Come on Tom, you’re not yourself these days. Where’s the hard working man I knew who’d put the drive to succeed above all else. You were playing the game perfectly before you got all these non-conventional ideas into your head. You have to pull yourself back together and stop living this silly fantasy life.”

            “What’s your problem Robin? I don’t need all this negativity.”

            “‘Negativity’? I’m sorry Tom, but you begin to sound like a Scientologist. What’s Ed getting you into?”

            At that moment I received another text message from Fiona. She wanted to go out on another date. I decided to ignore it. The timing was good though. The tension broke and Robin tactfully changed subject. We sat through the rest of lunch with reasonable civility. Nonetheless, his words had affected me.

 

*

 

            This evening I sat down with Ed to have dinner.

            “Ed,” I began, “I want to have a serious chat with you for a moment.”

            He laughed.

            “I’m serious, Ed.”

            “I know, that’s what’s so funny.”

            “But you don’t even know what it’s about.”

            “Okay, okay,” he said, calming down, but preserving a sardonic smile.

            “Where are we going with all this stuff? Don’t you think we ought to think about the future a little more carefully?” Ed had begun laughing again. “Honestly Ed, pull yourself together. I’m talking about both of us now, even you have to consider the future at some point. What’s going to happen to you when this hedonistic life of yours is no longer sustainable?”

            Ed was by now uncontrollable.

            “What’s your fucking problem, Ed, can’t you ever be serious about anything, for even a moment?”

I Write Sins, Not Tragedies

          I woke up very confused this morning. Ed and I were both up early, somehow disaffected and unable to remain lying about in bed. I told him all about my date last night. It sounds a disaster, I know, but on the other hand… she’s got the money, the class and the credentials to make a respectable partner.

            “That’s all very well, Tom, but the whole thing’s just not quite right is it? It’s no different to the Annabell debacle really, is it? Right stats; wrong heart. Honestly, Tom, there’s more to you than these girls can perceive. You need someone deeper.”

            “You can’t compare Fiona to Annabell!” I said, outraged.

            “What’s the root of the offence you take Tom?” he said. I paused, surprised at the question. He had a point though. I was offended because Fiona could never be half the girl Annabell was, and therein lay the solution to any question I might have had. I could never be with Fiona in that knowledge.

            “I see.” I said. “Well, you’re right. I can’t see her again. But her step-dad can make or break my career. What can I do?”

            “Block and delete, Tom, block and delete. And once you’re done with that, try internet dating, might be good for a laugh.”

 

*

 

            A few hours later we were still sitting lazily about. Ed’s not very good at this and was becoming visibly itchy with inactivity.

            “Right,” he said, “that’s it. I’m not taking no for an answer. We’re going on another adventure.”

            “We’ve talked about this Ed.”

            “No, I’ve suggested it and you’ve whined like a fucking girl.”

            “I’ve given perfectly valid reas…”

            “Shut the fuck up. Now listen: if you ever hope to get anything out of life you’re going to have to let go of all these meaningless boundaries you set yourself. We’ll do it by your rules, but do it we shall. Fiona is the final straw. Do you really want to move to the country and become middle aged years before your time? Live a little, Evans.”

            He brooked no further protest and in the indolent haze of Saturday morning the lure of the adventures became suddenly too strong. I felt myself giving in but protested once more.

            “Bollocks, Evans,” he replied, “we’re all mortal you know. You’ll die, with not a worthwhile memory to your name.”

            “Ah, but consider this Ed: what’s the statistical increase in probability of dying young on one of your adventures?”

            “The higher the better,” he replied. I sighed.

            We had been listening to my itunes playlist and at this moment a song began: ‘Here we Go Again’, by Paramore. Ed listened to the lyrics and grinned at me. I was horrified that fate should dare give me orders. I don’t believe in fate.

            “It’s part of the order of the universe mate,” said Ed. “It’s like the streak theory: if 10s and 2s come out over and over again on the flop, then you know you have to play the 10-2 in your hand on the next go. It may be insupportable in probability theory, but it’s the right move.”

            “Fine. I’m in.”

            “That’s my man!”

            “Alright. So: where were we?”

            “Let’s see… Your last adventure was Turkey, obviously. And mine…”

            “…was Jane.”

            “Hmmm. Yes.”

            “Right,” I said, “your next adventure will be determined by the lyrics of Jane, by the Barenaked Ladies.”

            “And yours will be the next song on your playlist.”

            We waited in anticipation reminiscent of our first day at the greasy spoon.

            The next song started.

            “Dude, what the fuck is this?” asked Ed.

            “It’s the Subdudes, dude.”

            “Sweeeeet!”

            The song, Papa Dukie & The Mud People, went as follows:

 

Hippie girls

Taking off their clothes,

Swimming in the river,

Painting beads,

Making rainbows and singing.

 

            “It’s lucky it’s such a beautiful day,” said Ed.

            “Oh dear.”

 

*

 

            An hour later Ed and I were over at the Regent’s Canal.

            “There are no naked hippie girls, Ed.”

            “Indeed there are not, Evans.”

            “How disappointing.”

            “Not at all, mate, it simply falls to you to become the hippie girls. Off you go.”

            I raised my eyebrow. This was just a silly idea. I suggested the pub, namely the one directly next to us and Ed allowed the idea. However, two pints later we were back on the banks of the canal and this time he would not take no for an answer.

A crazy moment came over me. I stripped to my boxers and jumped in as people walked and cycled past. Caught in the moment I threw water up in the air and tried to make rainbows. I tried to sing; the only song I could think of was Singing in the Rain, so I sang that. A selection of pub goers had come to the edge of the canal to watch the scene. I waved to them and jumped out from the side of the canal again, diving into the middle.

Disaster struck. My boxers came off during the dive. I could see them floating away. In a panic I began to swim after them. The crowd was laughing. Eventually I caught my boxers up and swiftly put them on. I was beginning to doubt the funny side of things. I returned to the pub only to discover that Ed had hidden the rest of my clothes. The pub goers were in stitches but I’ll admit I was becoming a little angry. The situation was badly undignified.

“It’s only a joke, mate,” said Ed, as he eventually gave my clothes back.

“If you say.”

“Come on, I’ll buy you a pint.”

I looked dubiously at the pub.

“Alright. A different pub. Come on.” He slapped me on the back and laughed a friendly, intimate laugh. It made me crack a smile.

“Go on then,” I said, laughing too. “Hey!” I said, to a punk-girl passer-by. She wore tight black jeans and white plimsolls with a chequered pink design. “What’s your favourite song?”

She sneered at me and paused. She appeared to be deciding whether I was worth the effort. Eventually she spoke. “I write sins, not tragedies.”

“Oh yes,” I said, “very droll.”

Camels and Mules

          A typical insight into the last day of a criminal trial, a junior barrister’s perspective:

            08:30 – Have a conference early in the morning to discuss the case. Point out some clever points that your leader can make in his closing speech.

            10:30 – Listen to the Judge recount every boring detail of the entire case thus far. Struggle to stay awake.

            12:30 – Listen to various barristers making earnest speeches apparently from the heart.

            12:48 – Listen to your leader use all of your own brilliant points.

            13:25 – Listen to your leader take the credit for all of your own brilliant points over lunch with the others. Sit in respectful silence.

            14:00 – Incredulously watch the jury acquit some of the Defendants but not others, apparently at random.

            15:24 – Sit in the robing room watching all the barristers count up their various spread bet earnings. They each bet on various different outcomes and events throughout the trial and settle at the end.

            16:02 – Get to the pub and watch all these grown men get drunk on self-satisfaction and wilful ignorance of reality or meaning.

            17:56 – Listen to your leader practically offer a dowry of camels and mules if you’ll take his step daughter.

 

            The worst thing is. I’m no better, deep inside. I feel myself hurtling towards these people on a runaway train of social conformity.

Melancholy Ed

          “How was your day today Tom?” Ed asked as I walked in this evening. I paused and gaped at him. “Seriously?” he added.

            “Er… it was fine thanks.”

            “Great! Why don’t you sit down and I’ll grab us a beer.”

            “Sure.” I was concerned. Ed wasn’t being cheeky, as usual, sneakily being friendly for some ulterior purpose. Rather, there was something a little melancholy in him. I felt rather uncomfortable.

            “What’s it like?” he asked when we’d sat down, “what’s it like knowing where you stand every day? Having respect from those around you and doing a good, solid job?”

            I frowned at him, suspicious. Yet he was serious. “It’s satisfying,” I answered. “It feels good to build a secure future and know that one day I’ll be able to buy a house and support a family in a decent manner.”

            “You’re doing pretty well, aren’t you mate?”

            I didn’t know what to say.

            “I just… thought I should say it,” he said, “I know I haven’t done, but there it is: I’m impressed, you’re really making it in life.”

            “What’s the matter Ed?”

            “Nothing, honestly. I’m just feeling a little stagnated or something right now. Maybe I’ll move to Canada.”

            I frowned again. Again I saw he was serious. I could see him processing the idea in his mind. I’m not sure how I feel about it. I’d certainly miss him, and I’d have to find a place of my own, but at least his crazy distractions would be gone from my life and I’d be able to make progress in earnest.

            Overall, though, I don’t want him to go. I’m glad, even a little flattered, that he’s finally recognised my achievements. This is only reasonable, it’s what I deserve, yet I find it a little unsettling coming from Ed.

Would a Can of Wood Can You or Would it Only Can Wood?

“Freedom to act as we wish is not only compatible with determinism but requires it: we need things to behave predictably to have any chance of realising the simplest intention.” – Norman Bacrac

 

          I woke up at 8.00am this morning just to get to Sunday lunch at Timothy’s house. He lives out in Salisbury at the weekend. Maybe one day I’ll be able to have one property in the country and one in the town…

            In the end I arrived early before any of the other guests and had to sit through a rather awkward four way conversation where Timothy’s wife and step daughter asked me all sorts of obvious and ordinary questions. I used to feel perfectly at ease in these situations but now inappropriate images of the past few months keep jumping into my head at all the wrong moments and cause me to stutter or look vacantly drugged up.

            At an appropriate break Timothy’s wife gave him a Significant Look and they departed, leaving me alone with Fiona, her daughter. Fiona was pretty in an upper class cliché sort of way. She had straight perfectly conditioned blonde hair cut into a choppy layered style. I’d guess she was about 22, and this was important. She looked to be the type of girl that could keep a tidy enough figure at that age, but I fear that even now there’ll be a couple of love handles available.

            She asked me about sport, a simple pretext to introduce her love of riding. It turns out she makes a living by riding, teaching riding and tutoring some local posh children in a few GCSE subjects. Amazingly she also has a flat in London, in Baron’s Court ‘for when I simply have to do a spot of shopping!’

            Despite some obviously shallow qualities Fiona turned out to be a fairly interesting conversationalist. I asked her about her life and whether she happened to be satisfied with her lot.

            “The wonderful thing about my life, Tom, is that I can change it at any point. Nothing keeps me tied down. I can give up tutoring or riding any time. I can live in London or Salisbury. With my degree from Cambridge I can walk into any job anywhere anytime, no problem; I’m free.”

            “But are you? Would you do any of these things?”

            “Does it matter? It only matters that I can.”

            Timothy and his wife returned with a number of new guests at this point. The formalities were disposed of and Timothy came to join us with a senior barrister I didn’t know. He seemed to think it important we meet. The barrister in question gave Fiona and me an appraising look.

            “What were you two discussing when we came in, it looked absorbing.”

            “We were just talking about Fiona’s flat in London,” I said.

            “Actually,” Fiona averred, “Tom was asking me to play dice with my life.”

            “Really?” the barrister said.

            “Yes. Let me ask you: would you walk back out of the door and go to Scotland for the week?”

            “Well of course not.”

            Fiona turned back to me, “isn’t that the point?” she asked.

            “Perhaps,” I answered. I turned to the barrister and asked, “would it bother you if I told you that you were forbidden from, or incapable of, going to Scotland right now?”

            “Certainly not. Why would it bother me?”

            “Alright, suppose I said you weren’t allowed to leave this house until dinner had concluded and our gracious host, Timothy, permitted you to? Suppose, further, that I forbade you from saying anything remarkable, offensive, disruptive, controversial or simply unusual for the next few hours. Doesn’t it bother you in the least?”

            “No. I plan to operate within those parameters in any case.”

            “I think it would bother me,” I said. “I’m not sure.”

            The rest of lunch proceeded unremarkably. I got a grip and behaved myself. Timothy stopped me on my way out.

            “I hope you enjoyed yourself Tom, thanks very much for coming.”

            “No problem, yeah, it was great.”

            “I know Fiona will have appreciated your company,” he said, then paused. “She doesn’t usually have young company at these things,” he added.

            “Yes, I can imagine.”

            Pause.

            “Did you two get along?”

            “Just fine, thank you.”

            “Yes. I see. Are you… that is… well, don’t let me keep you! Thanks again!”

Civilised Evolved Society

          “Let’s go Evans!” Ed said, striding into the living room wearing some highly irreligious t-shirt.

            “Where?”

            “The next adventure! I’m all set.” He paused and surveyed the scene around me. I had surrounded myself with pieces of paper from the case. I was trying to organise them into some sort of sensible order so I could collate them into different chronological folders.

            “As you might perceive, I’m a little busy.”

            “Story of the last couple of weeks mate. You’re no fun anymore.”

            “Fun doesn’t pay bills…”

            “…apparently.”

            “It doesn’t.”

            “You’re just getting paid to become one of society’s zombies. This is no way to live,” he spread his arms, gesticulating at all my papers.

            “Actually, being a barrister is one of the freest professions one can have. I’m always doing different things with different people in different places.”

            “And yet when you’re in your own home, where you should be able to do anything, all you can do is organise pieces of paper.”

            “We all have to earn a living.”

            “Yes, but how long before every weekend becomes an exercise in paper swimming? How long before there’s nothing more at all? For God's sake man, it's a bank holiday weekend!”

            “It won’t happen.”

            Ed gave up and went out. He had made me think though. Can I be so sure it won’t happen? But so what if it does? This is what people do in life: they work, earn money and procreate. It’s civilised evolved society. At some stage we’ve all got to grow up, we can’t be free spirits forever.

Admissions

            “So, I forgot to ask, what happened to you on Friday night then Tom?” Ed had finally emerged from bed. I’d been up for a while finishing some of my work in the living room.

            “I had a mountain of work to get through.”

            “Really? So you didn’t abandon me for some girl then?”

            “How did you…”

            “You did! Haha, and I was only guessing. Who is she?”

            “Okay, I’ll admit, I was with Scheherazade, but not like that.”

            “You admit it do you?”

            “Well… yes.”

            “What’s to admit? What are you worried about?”

            “It’s not that I’m worried. It’s just…”

            “Poor man’s Annabell.”

            “Yes! I mean… not exactly.”

            “Stop being a prick and tap that ass.”

 

*

 

            This afternoon Ed got bored and came to me with demands that we restart the adventuring.

            “Sorry Ed. I’ve just got too much on at the moment.” I replied.

            “That’s a lame excuse.”

            “It’s not an excuse, it’s the truth. We can’t all go off on random jaunts all the time.”

            “You mean you won’t. You can; we’ve all got free will.”

            “Fine. I won’t. It’s all an illusion anyway…”

Finally a Decent Filthy Lady Experience

“God is not willing to do everything, and thus take away our free will and that share of glory which belongs to us.” – Niccolo Machiavelli.

 

          My mum called again this morning, at 8.00am. She still thinks everyone goes to church every Sunday morning.

            She has finally accepted that I’m not with Annabell and I can’t win her back. She is unimpressed.

            “Where’ve you been for the last week then?”

            “I told you, mum, I went to Turkey.”

            “Oh yes. I bet you did. Dirty place. Just like you to take off for a place like that when everything important and decent carries on back here without you. It’s no wonder she left you.”

            “Thanks mum.”

            “And that’s another thing! While you’ve been swanning about amongst those filthy people you’ve only pushed her further away.”

            “She doesn’t even know I went there.”

            “No! And I bet you want to keep it that way! She’d hardly trust you again if she found out would she? Imagine going to such a place when there’s decent honest respectable work to be had back here. Don’t think your old parents will always be able to pay for you in life!”

            “I won’t.”

         &