<>In here, everyone in here is so bloody kind. Worst of all is their damned empathetic smiling, so smug, so well-meaning, I can’t stand it. Worse than worst, they all smell of alcohol wipes. Come to think of it, over the past few weeks, since the “heart thing”, people smile at me a lot; in shops, offices, in the street, even when the occasion calls for seriousness and ritualised testosterone fuelled chest thumping. It invariably works like this: they notice the wheelchair first, then my stooped shoulders, the pained expression and gritted teeth, then my bashful eye is caught and almost immediately a reddish flush begins to spread from the neck along the jawbone to the cheeks and into their ears. The face scrunches up like that of a new-born baby and beginning with a quivering chin there spreads across the entire facial landscape a tight-lipped-eyes-half-closed smile with a nut-wrinkly nose at the centre. Then, as a final embarrassment, comes the dance. The waddle dance; arms straight, palms turned outwards, legs unbending, the body rocking from side to side, shoulders pressed back over-emphasising the pretense of giving me the widest berth possible, something along the lines of a security guard keeping crowds at bay from a superstar, only in my case a superstar with what they believe is an unspeakable and highly contagious disease. Ah, here comes Graham. He’s the Orthopaedic Surgeon who’s been plaguing me. Tending towards rotundity, he has floppy hair, trousers way too tight around the calves and no belt. How does that work? Trousers have belt loops for a reason regardless of need! And, he beams like a chimpanzee, all the time. More of a lop-sided grin from a mouth that’s simultaneously trying to shout around a corner. On top of that, to make himself more attractive to girls, boys, don’t care, mostly to himself I think, he stretches his eyes wide, just a fraction, so his eyes catch the light and glint. Which of course they do but far from the desired effect, he more closely resembles some scary coke addict. He ordered some tests as soon as I arrived on the ward and presumably he’s rushed straight from the lab to deliver the results himself. How kind. Loitering at my bedside, nose buried in my medical notes, grunting and heaving like some bourdoir madam scrutinising her clients’ credentials, furiously flicking the pages, he finally turns to face me and his smile is impossibly wide and white only this time, by contrast, his eyes are dark and shadowy and I know the results aren’t good. It’s a complicated affair, this empathetic smiling, it conveys many commingled messages: pleasure, pity, gratefulness, guilt, humility, pride and censorship. But the overriding characteristic is a hunger to be seen to understand the human condition and to recognise the difference from “the norm” forced upon me. In calm, precise and un-glinty manner, Graham tells me I have degenerative bone disease. But I must consider myself one of the lucky ones because he wouldn’t have been able to make the diagnosis so readily if my ribs hadn’t broken without apparent reason. So, two irreparable diseases in one body. Marvellous.
> Pictures: #1 The Tears of a Clown: digitally remastered by Rod McRiven > Websites: Gene Pitney Marc Almond Mythology of Clowns > Listen: Gene Pitney and Marc Almond – Something’s gotten hold of my heart
It is hoped TickTockOne will be published and released before TickTockTwo, but in these times of paradox, paradigms and paraplumptitums, it may not be expedient to do so. TickTockTwo will be published by Barre Meunier Publishing in the autumn of 2019 and fills in the gaps left by TickTockOne. Other works by Rod McRiven: Swell